. umm ... how did you..." Josh stuttered, momentarily flustered at the man's correct guess. The man pulled Josh towards the window and pointed outside."There's a path back of the garage that will lead you down the bank to my dock and fishing boat. Take the boat and get you and this pretty young lady over to safety. Work your way downstream about a mile south of town. After the far shore bends away, make for the small island. When you reach the island, head for the east shore of the river and beach my boat in the little inlet by the railroad. Pull it up beside the little creek near the railroad. Got the directions?" Um ... mile downstream on this side, make for the island and put your boat in the inlet beyond it near the railroad?" Josh stammered."Exactly," the old man answered. "Now, you need to step outside young man, and bust down my front door while I go find some rope." Uh ... what?" Josh stuttered."Bust down my door," the old man said. "Young lady, lock the door when your friend. As busy as we were, however, we really couldn't afford not to take the time off work. To put it simply, if my wife hadn't chosen to make this trip, we were headed for divorce court.Maybe we were headed there anyway, but I'd be damned if I was going to let 20 years together -- 19 as husband and wife, with three kids, to boot -- slip away without a fight.How did it come to this? How did two people who were once crazy in love end up one step away from divorce?Therein lies the story ... or at least the backdrop for the story.My full given name is James Boswell Foster, but I have always answered to Jimbo. I'm not sure how that happened; maybe one of my younger siblings tagged me with it as a corruption of my first and middle names.The only people who call me James are my wife and my mother, and it's ironic that my formal first name has become a pet name for my wife.I come from a big, rambunctious Catholic family from a smallish town in the Mid-South. My dad was a pharmacist for a national.
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