It was 6:00 and time for Mom’s dinner and the news had been providing non-stop coverage of the latest terrorist attack in Nice, France.

“Who are the French mad at?” Mom asked when I walked into the living room with her meal.

“What do you mean?  Why do you think the French are mad at anyone?” I asked, setting her iced tea down on the end table and placing her Beef Stroganoff dinner on her lap tray.

“I heard it on the news.  They’re not being nice and they’re wrecking a bunch of cars on the street,” she replied, pointing towards the TV with her fork.  “I just figured they were mad at someone.”

“No Mom,” I sighed.  “The French aren’t mad at anyone.  It was in Nice and it was a truck driven by a crazy… “

“Well maybe the cars were German,” she inserted.

“German?  Cars?  What are you…?”

“The ones that the French were wrecking.”

“Mom, it was a terrorist, not… “

“You know they’ve never liked the Germans.  Especially after that time.”

“Time?  Are you talking about World War II?  Do you mean that time?”

“Probably.  Or maybe the other time.  Anyway, they don’t like the Germans much so maybe they were wrecking German cars.”

I shook my head in resignation and turned to go.  “Yup, you’re probably right,” I said over my shoulder.  “They were targeting Volkswagens because they’re still pissed off about the war.  Makes perfect sense.”

“I thought so too,” she replied through a mouthful of noodles and brown mystery gravy.



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