y wife, Jill Easton, came storming into my office last January, mad as a wet bobcat, muttering words she didn’t learn in Sunday school. Jill is a gracious, happy, wonderful woman, and I’m both lucky and proud to be her husband. But when she gets her hackles up, she’s a freshly poked hornet’s nest. I’d been reading by the fire, minding my own business, so I didn’t think it was anything I’d done. Still, I know
