As always Uncle Hank and Clare invited us over for a wonderful dinner (salmon of all things: Clare's trying to knock a few off Uncle Hank. "Not for long!", he says). Uncle Hank said that Ma's bighorn sheep had been sitting in his garage forever; Patti and I looked at each other and knew immediately what to do with him. We christened him "Barrett the Bighorn", and put him in the back of our rented van (upgraded from compact). (A note for the uninformed: with her father (Pop) being an avid hunter, my mother, Charlotte Barrett Folsom Saunders, was a deadeye shot and did a little hunting herself in her younger days. She greased the bighorn sheep, when her sister Eleanor wasn't quite quick enough off the trigger, on a trip to Alberta in 1945.)