When people ask how my wife, Sandy, and I met, I tell them the following story: I was afoot in Ridgway one night, and while taking a shortcut through an alley in the dark, I stumbled over something. It turned out to be Sandy. She had herself a near empty bottle of Ol’ Loudmouth in a brown paper bag. She was lying in the snow without a coat and was slobbering drunk. I asked where she lived, but she was drunker than Cooter Brown and couldn’t produce dialogue with much coherency. All I could de...