by Freida Marie Crump
Greetings from the Ridge.
I felt as if I were on a trip – maybe I was. Herb and I were out shopping when he stopped dead in tracks.
“Freida, it’s all changed.”
“Look around. We’re the only Americans in this aisle – and the next one. Even the signs are in two languages. What’s goin’ on? I feel like Rip Van Winkle.”