I’ve philosophically eaten crow a few times. Once, on a dare, I ate the real thing.
In late summer 1955 I was 12, the magic age by Dad’s decree for me to go hunting without adult supervision. A buddy and I thought we’d pull a Daniel Boone and spend a day in the timber, living off what we could find.
We prepared — just in case, don’t you know — with a clutch of heart-healthy chocolate bars.
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