While technically a suburb of New Orleans, Old Jefferson was really a small town when I was growing up.
When I was 18, I worked at the local K&B. We all had name tags that would say B.Blah (except y’know my real name). I had a customer come in one day and ask “Blah? Are you kin to Gabbity Blah?” I responded, “Yes, that’s my father.” The customer, an elderly man, said, “Your father?! That old coot. Can’t believe he has a daughter your age.” I replied, “oh wait, you mean my grandfather who is also named Gabbity Blah.”
The man hadn’t seen my grandfather in 50 years and didn’t know my Dad existed; he was 10 years younger than his only sister. But he knew the neighborhood, knew by my looks and name who I was.