Plink. “Yup.” She doesn’t suffer fools lightly. Plank. “Uh Huh!” Nor half hearted drives to the hoop. Plunk. “Who’s your Mama?” And heaven help the neighborhood boy who wanders into a backyard skeet shoot without his A-game. He’ll leave well fed, but also bewildered, red-faced and ashamed. Her sons – strapping athletic types –, Read More