by Freida Marie Crump
Greetings from the Ridge.
Mom wouldn’t let us go near Abe Lyle’s house. He was the town grouch and his salty language would singe the hair on the back of your neck.
Abe was probably the most creative cusser I’d ever heard. He could string a list of words together that had never been joined before and to youngsters’ ears they seemed almost like some sort