by Freida Marie Crump
Greetin’s from the Ridge.
I wish they’d quit delivering Fran Wooley’s newspaper. If the morning’s news sets her off, she grabs the phone and I’m doomed to a twenty-minute conversation that invariably interrupts my morning chores.
"Freida, did you see it? She’s leaving him!"
"Who’s leaving who, Fran?"
"Barbie. Forty-three years and she’s leaving Ken."
"You’re not talking to me about dolls at seven in the