by Freida Marie Crump
Greetings from the Ridge.
It was maybe 10 years ago. Herb and I were headed out to see some old acquaintances in Columbia. We’d gone only a couple of miles when the grousing began.
“We don’t have to stay long, do we?”
“Herb, we’ve just got started. Stop griping. Besides, they’re your friends, not mine.”
“I hope they got rid of that dog. The thing stunk