by Freida Marie Crump
Greetings from the Ridge.
My grandfather never climbed on his tractor with a wrinkled handkerchief. I can still see my grandmother standing over her ironing board, carefully steaming the creases into each piece of red cloth, edges straight and with that delicious aroma that only a grandma and a steam iron can produce. Sometimes grandpa’s sharp creases were my work since handkerchiefs were the only item