by Freida Marie Crump
Greetings from the Ridge.
"Harold, what’s this?" Our postmaster is just about the friendliest guy in town and is not beyond playing a practical joke.
"It’s an official notice, Freida. I need you to identify yourself."
"Okay, I’m me. Now give me my mail."
"Gotta do better than that, old girl."
"Harold, I’ve known you for fifteen years. I’ve watched your hair go gray in this