There was a discount store my Mom went to and I would play outside near a back service door that said “PRIVATE”.
I was convinced that an Army guy lived there. I had my salute ready for when he came out.
But he never did.
My younger brother used to think that this big car company was named after, and run by an army general.
My father used to tell us stories about a painter named Michelangelo. He had no money, so he would eat his dinner and then paint a fish on the plate and send it back to the kitchen as not being the way he like it. The kitchen staff would be so amazed that they would not charge him for the dinner. Or he would paint a fly on the plate and call the waiter over. There must have been others—can’t remember them all.
One day the teacher asked in my sister’s class, “Does anyone know who Michelangelo is?” My sister raised her hand: “He’s a friend of my father.”