by Freida Marie Crump
Greetings from the Ridge.
If the lady wasn’t nearly eighty years old, we might have come to blows. She looked at me down her remarkably pointed nose, wrapped her mink tighter around her expensively wrinkled neck, and then stormed off back to her cabin.
We were standing on the deck of a cruise ship, watching God’s most magnificent handiwork glide by in Glacier Bay, Alaska. I