As I walked along the narrow, tree-lined, lovely-even-if-in-disrepair road that leads to our little house in our own particular corner of a town I’ll call Paradise, I saw the bully next door approaching me. He isn’t a scowling little boy or even teenager, but the scowling grown man who rents the house and barn next door. “Scowling Bob” rode slowly toward me on his red motorcycle. Read more >






















