On the northern edge of the bowl was a good-sized farmhouse, nearly as big as the Chapel and all in red brick with creepers crawling up and around the...windows. It even had a tiled roof, indicating that this farmer had been particularly prosperous, especially for a farm this far into the forest, but judging by the state of the building, the residents had long gone.The storms and tremors had not been kind; the roof had collapsed in at the western end, the dozen windows Smythe could see were all. All those ants down there under the street can have it, I thought.I pictured myself ladling out "Rage Stew" to hordes of ants at some sort of anger soup kitchen. And just like that, I was laughing maniacally at the thought, and all of the anger was gone.So wit is a foil for anger ... who knew?This reminded me that I had planned on spending more of the weekend rehearsing for my next encounter with Mike Miller. So for the next two hours, I cruised up and down the streets of Rolling Hills,. More

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