“Hey Vidalia, how come I start to cry every time I smell ya?”
“Very funny,” she’d say, barely hiding her hurt and embarrassment.
One day she meets a new boy in school. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Vidalia.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
What’s yours?”
“It’s Glen . . . well, Glenfiddich . . . like the scotch. My daddy likes scotch. Your daddy must like onions.”
She smiled shyly. “My friends all call me Vi.”