Ellen Ellen Oxen Free

One summer, when I was 8 or 9 years old, a girl was visiting her grandmother just up the street from my house in Western Pennsylvania.  Her name was Ellen.  Her grandmother’s last name might have been Ruskin.  The only things I remember about Ellen are coloring in coloring books on her grandmother’s sun-porch, her sandy-colored hair, and ice-cream or popsicle stains on her T-shirt.  Ellen’s that is.

Ellen: if you remember this and if you care to admit having a bow-legged, pointy-headed playmate down the street, please leave a comment.  I have no agenda in doing this little experiment other than seeing whether the world is as small as they say.  If you, Ellen, granddaughter of kindly Mrs. Ruskin of Clen-Moore Boulevard, happen to Google yourself now and again, you have a moderate chance of finding this little nugget.

Faithful readers of The 100 Billionth Person: if Ellen ever discovers this and comments, you and the rest of the internet will be the first to know.  It will probably be because she searched for “bow-legged pointy-headed kid.”

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