by Freida Marie Crump
Greetin’s from the Ridge.
I can barely remember the two mules. When you’re growin’ up and you spend a couple thousand hours sittin’ at your grandparents knees listenin’ to story after story, the line between what you heard and what you actually saw gets all fuzzed over. But think I remember the mules.
And I remember that Grandpa called the old one "Bay." After seventy years