“Don’t call her Molly,” the tour guide admonished our group before we were even allowed off the front porch.
She was never called Molly. Maybe Maggie, as a stretch, when she was little. But never Molly. She preferred Margaret. Our rather tense docent actually carried the equivalent of a cussing jar: forcing herself to put a nickel in every time she misspoke and said Molly.
So began our tour of Denver’s famous – and allegedly haunted – Molly Brown house. Oops. I just wrote Molly. I owe myself a nickel.