by Freida Marie Crump
Greetings from the Ridge.
I know I graduated. I have the diploma. But I’ll be darned if I can remember a single other thing about that hot night long, long ago, in a gymnasium far, far away. One thing: the gowns were cotton and not the swish-ily comfortable plastic gowns of today. I can vaguely remember shaking the principal’s hand just before I made a dash