Appalachian Irishman

25th Anniversary Myrtle Beach Vacation!

2011-08-23T08:36:00.000-05:00

Ah! Beach! Twenty-five years ago newly married Mr. and Mrs. Appalachian Irishman spent their honeymoon at Myrtle Beach. Many things, in that resort city and in life, have changed. They beauty of the ocean, the reassuring repetition of the waves and tides, and Mr. and Mrs. Appalachian Irishman's love for each other have not. Despite all the changes, of the last ten years or so in particular, Mrs. Appalachian Irishman's unconditional love suns Mr. Appalachian Irishman's heart and reassures him in waves.

Enjoy the photos!

August Dacha Time

2011-08-04T13:14:00.000-05:00

Ah, August dacha time in Russia! When Mrs. Appalachian Irishman and I lived in Russia, August was the month when it seemed as if half the population of Moscow fled the city to enjoy a month at their summer dachas. The time was spent relaxing, socializing, enjoying the countryside, and tending the potatoes, cabbage, beets, and other crops that would sustain the family during the winter. The electric train rides between Moscow and Klin were often standing room only, as travelers came and went with gardening supplies or harvested crops. The aroma of fresh soil, harvested crops, and, yes, human sweat filled the wagons. We had opportunities to “go to dacha” with friends or to vacation, going to St. Petersburg, Turkey, and Ireland.

Americans need to slow down, stop, and take “dacha time” more often. We rush from task to task, work too many hours, endure too much stress, and lose our life balance in the process. A year, five years, a decade go by, and, looking back, we wonder how we came to the point in life where we are now. We bury ourselves in the darkness of our lives, failing to realize that the light is all around us.

The Appalachian Irishman has wandered through a decade of darkness – searching for understanding, purpose, motivation, and meaning, having faced a faith and career challenge – since his godly mother suffered a yearlong illness and passed, so traumatically and so early in her life, immediately after he and his devoted wife returned from Russia. A recent series of events has enlightened the Appalachian Irishman, causing him to renew, refresh, and refocus his life. It is his “dacha time.”

My dear, precious, and lovely Mrs. Appalachian Irishman has patiently endured and stood by her man’s side, even when he did not want her to do so. Her unconditional love brought her husband back from the brink. Words cannot express the depth of love, respect, and appreciation that I have for her. Thank you, my dear, for your patient longsuffering. Our renewal enlightens my renewal. The clouds have parted, and the future is filled with sunshine.

The Appalachian Irishman will take his “dacha time” now. He will find his center and pursue it, in meaningful focus and direction. God’s grace is there, as it has always been. He has just been waiting on me to find it again. Hum, where do we go from here? I drop the reins and look forward to his guidance.

Tribute to Papaw Wood

2011-03-14T20:55:00.000-05:00

My Papaw Wood, my mother's father, passed away on this day, March 14, back in 1983. I'll never forget leaving Morristown-Hamblen Hospital, after sitting the night shift with him, thinking that Papaw was going to make it. Mom called me later to say that he had passed.

Papaw was a farmer, in his earlier years, in Indiana, where Mom was born. Later, he worked for Prater's Furniture, as a furniture mover, in Morristown, Tennessee. In his retirement, he worked part-time at a gas station, in Bean Station, Tennessee.

He and Granny had one of those all-too-rare marriages, in which Papaw courted Granny all his life. They always had that spark! Even in their later years together, Papaw would sneak up behind Granny, reach behind her ear, and say, "I stole some sugar!" Granny would pretend to be annoyed, but then she'd smile and say, "Oh, Aby!"

Papaw was married once, before he met Granny. The first marriage didn’t work out. Some time after the divorce, as he enjoyed telling it, he saw Granny walking down Main Street, in Morristown, and said, "There's the girl I'm going to marry!"

I used to spend a week during the summer with Granny and Papaw. I saw how they genuinely loved each other. Papaw taught me how to whittle, carve wood, tie rope, work in the garden, etc. He loved to tickle me until I couldn't breath! His mother's maiden name was Bare, and he'd give me a "big ol' Bare Hug," he'd call it. Papaw loved to pull little pranks on Granny and other folks. I got some of my sense of humor from him.

For birthdays and holidays, we would either go to Granny and Papaw's, in Bean Station, or they would come to Rogersville. Well, they always came to Rogersville for Christmas Eve and spent the night. I used to love to listen to Papaw "tell his stories," about when he was younger. I just wish I could remember them all! I guess I received my appreciation for good conversation from him.

At the viewing, before the receiving of friends, Granny looked at Papaw’s body, lying in the coffin, and said, “He loved me so good.”

Papaw, thank you for being so good to me! You were the best Papaw I could have ever had!

A Tribute to Bart (80th House Mt. Hike)

2011-03-13T20:48:00.000-05:00

My cousin Bart died last night, unexpectedly, too early in life, after a sudden illness. My youngest brother called me this morning to tell me. Bart was the only son of my uncle Roy and aunt Maxie. Uncle Roy was one of Dad’s brothers. Uncle Roy and aunt Maxie passed away years ago. Bart lived with uncle Bill, Dad’s oldest brother, and aunt Bobbie, until they both passed. A cousin took care of him for a few years. For about the last three years, cousin Bart lived in a nursing home in Morristown, Tennessee.

Bart was physically and mentally disabled, due to an early childhood illness. His right leg and arm were drawn, but he could walk fairly well with a shuffle. He didn’t seem to mind his limitations. Bart didn’t really think he had limitations, for he loved life, family, and friends. He was sharp-minded in his own way. Bart knew every state capital, and he loved to quiz you on it. If I didn’t get one right, Bart would smack his hands, laugh, and correct me. He could remember things from the past that many folks might forget.

Bart loved to cut up and joke. He was the life of many a family gathering. He loved to watch the old TV shows, Andy Griffith, Bonanza, and the like. He enjoyed calling people Barney, Goober, Floyd, Hoss, etc. I’d say to him, for instance, “Bart, you ol’ Gomer-lookin’ thing, you!” He would just shake his good fist, call me Barney or something, and laugh. We had a lot of fun with Bart. He was a rich soul.

After Mom died, Dad kept Bart at times, often for a few days, when my cousin, who plays in an Irish band, had to travel or do something else. Dad often took Bart down to the Burger Bar, a local Mom and Pop restaurant, where the “old folks,” and sometimes the young ones too, hang out. Bart always livened up the place. Bart was good therapy for Dad, and Dad was good therapy for Bart. I went up most every Sunday to see Dad, and I was glad to see Bart when he was there. The only problem was that Bart liked to sneak cookies! “Bart, did you get those cookies?” He would walk down the hall, look around, and just grin.

I took my 80th hike up House Mountain this afternoon, in honor and memory of my “ol’ cuz” Bart. He is in a far better place, and I could imagine him looking down from much higher above and seeing the view that I saw from the ridge.

While Mom went through her yearlong illness, which led to her passing, over ten years ago now, she dreamed that she saw cousin Bart in heaven, not disabled, whole in body and mind. Well, Bart, you ol’ cuz, you, I would like to see you where you are now! Tell Mom and Dad hello for me, and tell them I’ll be seeing them again one day!

Bart, these photos are for you, you ‘ol cuz! I will miss you!

Norris Dam Park 2/26/11

2011-02-27T16:38:00.000-05:00

The Appalachian Irishman enjoyed another solo hike in Norris Dam Park yesterday, when the weather was sunny and crisp – unlike today’s rain, which left him bored, as a “women’s basketball widower,” unable to get into the woods.

The first two photos show the solitary trail that I selected. I didn’t meet a soul. My reliable ’95 Nissan pickup, with almost 160 thousand miles on him, was the only vehicle in sight. (As a side note, I met a most interesting Bulgarian gentleman on a House Mountain hike in early January. He and I hike together occasionally now. Of course, I enjoy hiking alone, at times, to clear my mind, but I am always eager to meet interesting people to join my little Appalachian Irishman hiking club!)

The next eight photos show the beauty of the upper reservoir. The water was clean and blue, and the sky was a clear, blue. In one photo, you can see the dam to the south.

The next two photos are of the dam itself. Norris Dam Park and the nearby Norris Watershed offer an abundance of trails for backwoods camping, hiking, horseback riding, and biking. A couple of campgrounds and a cabin area are available. Of course, fishing and boating opportunities abound. Yes, I know, I sound like a commercial!

Ah, now, let’s get to the last photo, and the point that the trail emphasized in my mind – a point that I already knew. The Marine Railway Loop trail started out well, with the great views of the lake above. After trekking a while, however, the trail became boring. So, in typical free spirit, adventurer style, the Appalachian Irishman set out to make his own trail! Exploring around, I crossed over two trails and decided to follow one. That trail led me to within about 100 yards north of my truck.

Life lesson: When you are bored or frustrated with one path, get off that trail and blaze a new one! You will come out about where you thought you would! Nature is a good teacher, or reminder, if you listen.

New Year's Eve Shooting!

2011-01-01T15:09:00.000-05:00

The Appalachian Irishman was involved in a shooting on New Year’s Eve, up in his native Hawkins County! Wait! Don’t start gathering that bail money!

He and his youngest brother finally got together to release a little stress, by killing a few hanging targets. Here are the “taking down the bad guy” poses of my brother and me.

We started by firing a few rounds with Dad’s old 32-caliber pistol. We need to do a little work on the weapon, to restore it to proper condition, but it still shoots! Next, we shot my brother’s 9mm handgun. This photo shows my hits, from about 15 yards away. The black tape marks where I fired Dad’s pistol. The holes mark the 9mm impacts. Not too bad for my first time firing a 9mm, huh?

The fun started when we switched to the 12-gauge shotgun! I hadn’t fired a shotgun in many years, but it came back to me instantly. Here’s the results!

I needed some stress and frustration relief! Thanks, brother! We’ll do this again soon!

Ten Years Ago Today

2010-12-27T22:06:00.000-05:00

Ten years ago today, at 5:15 PM, Mom went to be with Jesus. She was the best mother that I could have ever had. Taken at only 68 years old, Mom could still be alive today, touching the lives of family and friends in her unique way. Mom’s absence has been felt strongly these past ten years.

Mom, I miss you, but I know that you are in a far better place. Tell everyone, Granny, Papaw, Uncle Bobbie, Dad, and so many others, that I will see them someday. Life goes on here, until we are all reunited there.

I love you, Mom, bunches and bunches!

See Happy Birthday, Mom.

House Mountain #75

2010-12-26T21:35:00.000-05:00

Hike number 75! The Appalachian Irishman is three-fourths of the way toward requesting that House Mountain be renamed after him!

The date is Sunday, December 26, 2010. I love it when a good snow falls on the weekend! Temperature – mid to upper 20’s. Attire – long sleeve T-shirt, sweatshirt, long sleeve shirt, flannel insulated shirt, old patched up blue jeans, rugged hiking boots, quart canteen, trusty camera, old baseball cap. Heck, no! I didn’t wear gloves! It wasn’t cold enough!

The first three photos are taken along the west trail, near the west bluff. I’ve passed this tree trunk that grew out of this rock formation many times. That tree, once alive, now dead, teaches me defiance and survival against the odds!

The next three shots are from the west bluff. A strong, cold wind was blowing snow in from the north. I put my top layer back on and stayed a while. The camera doesn’t capture the view that the eye will always remember! Yes, that’s Leak Rock! Yes, I did! Of course, as I headed east along the ridge, I had to write (with my finger) “Appalachian Irishman” in the snow on a large, smooth rock! Advertising is everything!

The first of these next two is a communications building that is located about half way along the ridge. Could someone give me a job running the equipment? The next shot is what is left of an old two-seater outhouse, which has been hit with buckshot several times over the years. It leans near the base of where the old fire tower used to stand. Remember, the purpose of a two-seater outhouse is so you can encourage each other!

These next three photos are taken along the ridge toward the east bluff and at the east bluff. The snow draped the mountain and the trees in brilliant white. The cold north wind blew snow from the laden trees onto the ground – and down my back. The old oak tree has stood proudly many years.

The final four shots are from the two north bluffs. One, where the flag stands, is just east and higher than the other. I have not taken before a shot of the small cave opening, near the lower northern bluff. Looks like a good place to take shelter!

Hum! The Appalachian Irishman wishes he could hike, camp, photograph, and write for a living! Thank you, House Mountain. I needed some exercise and some time to think alone. I’ll see you again, but for tomorrow, it’s back to the old grindstone.

House Mountain #74

2010-12-26T21:26:00.000-05:00

Russians count the seasons from the beginning of the month. For instance, winter begins on December 1st. Since the Appalachian Irishman is part Russian in heart, he adopts that practice also. Algore and his global warming crowd must be, pardon the pun, cooling their heels, since this winter has started out colder than usual.

December 5th marked the first flurries of the winter. Falling on a Sunday, the Appalachian Irishman wasn’t chained to his work desk (as he was during the wonderful snow that fell, later, on Monday, the 13th – and what a Monday the 13th that was, but I digress!) What did he do, on the 5th? Of course, he headed for his mountain, House Mountain, for the 74th time!

This first photo is from the west bluff, looking southwest. Notice the highlights in the clouds. Of course, the Appalachian Irishman had to take his traditional leak off the rock toward Knoxville! Should I name the rock Leak Rock?

The next two photos are taken along the ridge heading west. Does the rock formation look like a dragon’s head? Looks like a good place to camp to me!

The last four photos are from the north bluff. I practiced my close up photography on a red leafy thorn and on some wild blueberries. Yes, they were ripe and delicious—the blueberries, not the thorns!

Devil's Nose Tradition

2010-11-28T19:48:00.000-05:00

My grade school and high school friend Bill had an uncle Walter who lived and owned land at the southwest base of Devil’s Nose, in my beloved, native Hawkins County. Bill, his brother, my brother Clark, another friend Randy, and I went “up the Nose” from “uncle Walter’s” land back in those days a few times.

Some things change. Some remain. “Uncle Walter” is gone, but a descendant still lives in his old home place. Now, at least my youngest brother, Doug, and I “hike the Nose” the Friday or Saturday after Thanksgiving every year, as a tradition, since Mom’s passing in December 2000. I have kept records for 2001 forward. To make up for not going after Thanksgiving 2001, Doug, his wife, and our next to youngest brother, Arthur, hiked in February 2002. Since then, at least Doug and I have hiked every year, except 2003 and 2008. Well, I hiked alone in 2007.

Devil’s Nose stands alone, rising about 2,300 feet, with a ridge running west to east, south of the Clinch Mountain range. Years ago, I heard two origins for the name. Viewing the mountain from the east, it looks like a craggy nose coming out of the ground. Another option is that a man, long ago, went into the mountain and never came out. When asked, “Where did he go?” Someone replied, “The devil knows.”

Regardless of how named, Devil’s Nose calls, at least once a year, and my brother and I must answer. I enjoy the woods and the solitude. The east bluff unfolds a spectacular view of the valley below. Hiking in the woods clears my mind, heals my soul, and rejuvenates my body. Looking down from above, my mind expands and the minute issues of daily life take perspective. A man needs to answer the call.

The first two photos are taken from the south side of the Nose. Can you see the hawk in the close up of the east bluff?

The next two photos are from the southwest side that we go up to get to the west side of the ridge. Make your own trail most of the way. At one point, climb over the rocks, pulling and crawling your way up! Do you see the icicles? The valley temperature was in the upper 30’s in the morning; the ridge was colder!

This photo is facing east, near the east bluff, along the ridge. We’re almost there! You can follow an animal trail part of the way, but you must find your own way mostly. Isn’t that true in life too?

The next three photos are at the east bluff. A persimmon tree was still ripe, and we enjoyed its fruit. Just don’t eat before it’s ripe! I made a small fire from damp leaves, pine needles, and twigs. Of course, the Appalachian Irishman had to strip down to his T-shirt in the cool weather!

The final two photos look toward the southern valley below the mountain. What views! The camera does not capture well the view that the mind retains!

You know, if the weather allows, I might just need to see who will “hike up the Nose” with me around Christmas this year!

Four Hikes in Four Days!

2010-11-14T17:51:00.000-05:00

The Appalachian Irishman was on the verge of insanity! He was overworked and over stressed. He needed a week off. Instead, he took two days, Thursday and Friday, October 28 and 29. He had a plan. Destress. Unwind. Free his mind. Let nature, the woods, the ridgelines, work their healing. Four days off, counting the weekend, equaled four hikes in four different locations!

On Thursday, the Appalachian Irishman hiked his nearby, and beloved, House Mountain, for the 72nd time overall and for the eighth time this year. Some years ago, on the north bluff, a true patriot planted an American flag. Enjoy the views!

On Friday, I chose Panther Creek State Park, in Hamblen County. Regrettably, I had not hiked in the park before. I don’t know why. One trail led down to Cherokee Lake. Another followed an inlet. Walk along with me. Yes, I found a cactus in the woods!

The Saturday hike was at Norris Dam Park, north of Knoxvegas. This was my fifth hike there this year. I didn’t have many good photo opportunities, but I found the backcountry campsite, for future reference. The gravesite marks the presence of those who called the area home many years ago. My mind dwelt on how those folks must have lived back then. (I should have been born 160 years before I was!) I made my own trail along a ridge near the campsite and stealthily photographed the boat through the trees. The foundations of two structures indicate where a Civilian Conservation Corps camp was located in the 1930’s.

Well, on Sunday, Mrs. Appalachian Irishman braved the wilderness with me, on a hike in Cumberland Gap State Park. Last year, we visited the park around our birthdays, but we didn’t hike. We trekked along a trail that led past an old Civil War fortification. Signs of the earthwork lines are still present. A large hole, not photographed, marks where powder storage caught fire and exploded many years ago. I stood on the spot where the guvermint bureaucrats say three states meet. Again, I didn’t choose many photo opportunities. The shot of yours truly is on a knob near the cross roads of the Wilderness Road and the Daniel Boone trail. The large rock is called Indian Rock. Yes, I had to climb on it!

The time in the woods, over four days, restored my soul, rested my mind, and energized my body. It is my calling to hike, explore, camp, photograph, and write. Does anyone need an enthusiastic trail/camping guide and nature photographer/writer? May the dream become a reality for the Appalachian Irishman!

House Mountain Sunset 10/16/10

2010-10-24T11:50:00.001-05:00

Sunset views from the Appalachian Irishman’s mountain, House Mountain, on October 16, 2010! Sit with me for a while on the bluff and enjoy!

The Appalachian Irishman certainly enjoyed the thrill and challenge of hiking down the mountain in the dark. His only light was from the half moon!

Well Machine & Water Truck Legacy

2010-06-26T17:21:00.000-05:00

The cab was all that was left to Dad’s 1958 International well machine, on February 21, 2010, when I took these photos, up at the home place in Hawkins County. Just the cab and frame remained from Dad’s 1951 Ford, with a 1970 501 engine, that he used to haul diesel fuel and water, in two big tanks, for the well machine. My youngest brother and a neighbor, of many years, from across the road, had already salvaged most of the vehicles. The photos show all that was left to salvage the next day.

Due to my work schedule, and when my brother and the neighbor could salvage, I never had an opportunity to help them, which still bothers me. The money from salvaging the well machine and water truck will be used to pay off the property tax each year on the home place, as long as the money lasts. On February 24, 2010, I took a much-needed half day off from work, to drive up to pay the property tax, in typical family fashion, four days before the deadline, with some of the money from salvage.

Dad drilled water wells for 46 years in and around Hawkins County. See Tribute to Dad. He did well enough to get buy, putting a roof over our heads, but he never did as well as he wanted. On March 26, 2004, Dad told me that, back in 1966, when he bought the drill, he would have bought a 1964 model, but the bank would not lend him enough money. He traded in his old cable drill, with which he started drilling in 1953, for $6,000, and bought the 1958 machine for $28,000. The bank would not lend him the $40,000 he needed for the 1964 model. As the machine aged, it broke down more often. As Dad aged, he could not work as hard. Lifting heavy drill rod and well casing, pulling pumps by hand, etc. took their toll. I helped Dad a lot, especially when school was out in the summer. It was muddy, dirty, hard work, hot in the summer, cold in the winter. The well machine seemed to break down more often in the winter, when it was harder for Dad to work, due to the weather. Sometimes, when the weather and business was good in the summer, the machine would break down, just at the wrong time. Still yet, Dad got by well enough.

I removed the base of the well machine’s air horn, after I took the photos, as a keepsake. It is all that is left of the two large machines. The piece sets proudly on an end table, as a reminder of what once was. The well machine and water truck legacy continues.

More House Mountain Snow!

2010-01-31T18:52:00.000-05:00

Yes! We had a real snow for a change! The Appalachian Irishman measured four inches in his yard, in the early afternoon before his hike yesterday. The freezing rain of late morning may have diminished the total. Is there hope for global cooling?

Two snows in one month (albeit, the first, on January 9 was light) bring back childhood memories of several good snows each winter.

Enjoy the views, this time mostly of mountain streams and trails. A cloud covered House Mountain, with heavy snow falling, which prevented any scenic shots from the bluffs.

Snow Day?

2010-01-31T18:40:00.000-05:00

Life is not fair! The Appalachian Irishman worked too hard and too many hours last week, even working last Sunday afternoon, all to get ready for the ever-loving, annual state (socialist bureaucrat) QA survey. (Now, the surveyors are friendly enough, mind you, but the survey can be grueling still yet.) He needed a snow day off. Did he get it? No. Heck, no! Mrs. Appalachian Irishman, however, who works in the socialist edukashun system, was off on a snow day Friday! That was the sixth vacation, pardon me, snow day this month!

Well, I would not have minded, for we must keep the little kiddies safe, but there was no snow! I asked Mrs. Appalachian Irishman to take the following photo from the deck -- since she was home and I was working -- as proof.

The snow did not start until about 3:00 PM, as light flurries. All the counties in the area, except my beloved Hawkins County, took a full snow day, however. (Hawkins County officials had the genital fortitude to hold school until noon, at least.)

What does this say about our society? It says that Americans have become timid, lazy, and easily frightened! Did the socialist edukators just want a long weekend? That’s laziness. Were they afraid that little Johnny might be hit by a snowflake, just as the final bell rang? That’s cowardice!

You know. Actually, it might be the lawyers. What if little Johnny slipped on a snowflake, hit the ground, and bumped his little head? The parents might sue the school system!

Wake up America! Toughen up! Do not be controlled by trumped up mass hysteria! If not, we might become snowed under by another nation. Has anyone heard of the Roman Empire?

House Mountain Snow!

2010-01-10T20:37:00.000-05:00

We have winter around here, and sometimes it falls on a weekend! Could those global warming fanatics be right? The Appalachian Irishman longs for the cold, snowy winters of his youth, when, getting out of school for days, friends and I would ride sleds, slide on frozen ponds, hike, and even camp in the snow!

We have had about a week of winter around here, with a generous estimate of a whole two inches of snow and below freezing highs. The usual havoc reigned: unnecessary school closings, raids on grocery stores, vehicles in ditches, accidents, radio road condition reports (from “brave” souls who drove in it), etc.

Yesterday, the Appalachian Irishman took his sixty-fifth hike, for three hours, on his beloved House Mountain. It was 25 degrees in the valley. How cold on the mountain? Who knows? The water in my canteen started to freeze. The snow started falling heavily on the ridge, with the wind blowing and temperature dropping. On the north bluff, the updraft blew the snow upward. On the trail down, I slipped, for the first time ever hiking up there, on an ice patch, landing on my butt and tapping the back of my head against a rock. I hiked out the last part in the dark, with no light. What fun! I wish we had more than one week of winter here. I need to go ice fishing!

At any rate, for your viewing pleasure, here are a few photos from yesterday. I wish someone would give me a job hiking, taking photos, and writing about my ventures! The first one, of course, is sheer self-promotion!

House Mountain & Devil's Nose

2009-12-12T21:44:00.001-05:00

Hiking is the Appalachian Irishman’s escape from the trappings of work and modern society. Living a harder but simpler life in the wilderness of Appalachia 150 to 200 years ago appeals to the imagination.

The following are photos from recent hikes on House Mountain in Knox County, where the Appalachian Irishman is forced, be economic necessity, to live at the moment, and Devil’s Nose, in the Appalachian Irishman’s native and beloved Hawkins County. Enjoy the views.

These are from House Mountain, looking southeast then northwest, from two bluffs. For other entries on House Mountain, read My Mountain, House Mountain Winterland, and Best-Dressed Hiker.

These are of Devil’s Nose. First, see the mountain, from the south. Next, see the views, looking south, from the eastern bluff. For another entry on Devil’s Nose, read Devil's Nose Mountain, Hawkins County.

How to Pronounce "Appalachian" - Revisited

2009-12-12T21:00:00.001-05:00

Well, Yuletide, holiday, and, dare I say, Christmas greetings, dear readers. My inaugural article How to Pronounce "Appalachian" continues to generate controversy. The following is my reply to the latest two posts. Follow the link to read their comments. Enjoy!

SarahJane, thank you for dropping by! I visited your blog. Keep up the good work!

With due courtesy, ask those socialist-minded, Big Brother-oriented, guvermit edukaters up there to check any good dictionary, with phonetic pronunciation. They will find that “Appalachian” may be pronounced two ways. Keep pronouncing it as you were raised! Don’t let them fit you into their mold! Stand you ground, sister! Individualism trumps socialist conformity! Oh, I forgot. The Department of Edukashun stopped teaching phonics years ago. Maybe that’s the problem!

Additionally, to Ryan McGarvey, how did I miss posting a reply to your foul ball back in January? I did enjoy the baseball pun.

First, allow me to educate you. Appalachians (not your improperly used possessive “Appalachian’s”) are not sheltered. We are aware of the rest of the world. We just know that our lifestyle is better. Also, check your phonetic dictionary, as stated above, to learn that “Appalachian” may be pronounced two ways. Y’all up north pronounce it your way. We ‘uns down here will pronounce it our way. Further, since when are English words spelled like they are pronounced? How do you say, for instance, “through,” “knife,” or “pneumonia?”

As I continue my effort to educate, I didn’t know that Maryland was neutral during World War II, and I didn’t know that the Confederacy fought during World War II. Amazing! What type of history were you taught by those guvermint edukaters up there?

Finally, you do have two redeeming qualities. You call yourself a Fells Point Irishman. Good job! Second, you state that you are not a liberal. If so, I wish you well, as you fight the masses of liberal lemmings in your area.

Happy Birthday, Mom

2009-11-24T21:50:00.004-05:00

You would have been seventy-seven years old today, but you were taken from us, so unexpectedly, just two days after Christmas of 2000. You were the hub that turned the family wheel. How would our lives have been different, better, if you had not been taken?

You were the most genuine Christian that I have known. Thank you for your influence for the years that you were with us. You raised four boys, sacrificing yourself in so many ways. You cared for your mother, after Papaw passed, for so many years. You took care of your granddaughters, when they were in need. You helped anyone in any way that you could. You taught Sunday School for thirty-one years. The years that you co-taught the youth division were so influential on me.

You endured so much without complaining, without bitterness. You always drew such strength and support from Jesus, your Savior. Thank you for all your prayers over the years. I wish I had them now.

You did not have much in material wealth, but you laid up countless treasures in heaven. Seeing you there, with Granny, Papaw, Dad, and so many others, especially as you see Jesus himself, comforts me a little. Selfishly, though, I still wish you were here, but healthy.

The year that you endured patiently the terrible suffering before you went to see Jesus was a great example to us. You did not deserve what you endured, but you accepted it graciously. I hope that our care for you during that year was a way of showing our everlasting and profound gratitude for all that you did for us.

Thanksgiving and Christmas are not the same anymore, because you suffered so much around those times. Also, Papaw got sick on Christmas Day, so many years ago. After you passed, Dad had health problems around Christmas, and we lost him after Christmas in early 2008. I still remember, though, the loving care that you put into all the festive tasks. I wish we could have that again.

I will never be the person that you were. Life has made me hard, angry, and bitter at times. The kernel of who you are, and of what you showed me by your life, is still there. I hope, someday, that it will bud and grow again.

Mom, I will never forget how you made homemade biscuits from scratch early every morning for years and years. You also made a rice crispy Christmas wreath for me every year. Those biscuits, and the wreaths, sum up in symbol who you were – always caring, always doing for us, no matter how much time or difficulty required.

Mom, I miss your biscuits. Will you have some ready for me when I join you someday? I love you, and I miss you.

Your devoted son.

Tribute to Dad

2009-06-21T19:32:00.004-05:00

Born in 1927, the youngest of eight children, five brothers and two sisters, Dad grew up in the Cave Springs community in rural Hawkins County—a county in which he lived all his life. His father was born in 1880, and his mother in 1892.

Subsistence farming, especially during the Depression, was rough. The Depression had little affect on their lives, since life was difficult in that area anyway. Dad said that it was hard to find a nickel to rub between your fingers. Still, with strong extended family togetherness, with neighbors helping each other, the people survived. Life made them tough, independent, and stubborn, but also quietly concerned and caring for each other--not in words, for a man didn’t express his feelings, but in deeds.

In 1953, Dad took over the water well business--which his father started in 1901, with a mule-powered drilling machine. In 1959, Dad and Mom were married. I came along one year later, followed by three other brothers.

Dad passed away on January 25, 2008, after bravely enduring heart trouble for several years. This is our second Father’s Day without him. Dad never told me that he loved me; he wasn’t raised that way, but he was proud of me, and he loved me. He always wanted to feed me, have Sunday dinner ready when I arrived, send me home with my favorite Winesap apples, etc. That’s how he was raised to show his feelings. Dad and I butted heads at times, for we shared that stubborn Irish core, but we had a unique relationship.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I miss you. Tell Mom, Granny and Papaw Wood, Granny and Papaw Ferrell, and everyone else there that I said, “Hello.” A few more years, and we’ll all be together again. Until then, I’ll keep wearing the watch that I gave you one Christmas, to remember you.

Cross Species Fatherhood?

2009-06-21T18:51:00.003-05:00

I have a pet peeve – pun intended!

Do you cringe when people talk about their pets as if they are children, members of the family? For example, “I have four granddaughters. Three of them have four legs!” Now, I can tolerate giving a pet a Christmas present, especially if the present is scraps from the dinner table, but I must draw the line at calling some four-legged varmint, no matter how much you might love it, a son or a daughter! Come on!

We have a cat. I don’t like to admit it, but we do. Somehow, a few years ago, telling my youngest brother that I might get a dog in the spring translated into “get them a cat for Christmas.” Well, I tolerate the cat, and I even like her sometimes. She’s not much on a hike in the woods, though. That’s why I wanted a dog!

Well, kind reader, I must confess that I received a “Father’s Day” card from this four-legged, clump of fur, rug rat today. I suppose that, over the years, my constant grimacing, and down right protests, about referring to pets as children have gone unheeded.

I suppose that I have to put up with it, if I don’t want to sleep in the doghouse! Does anyone else have similar thoughts, or do you want to send me to the pound?

Tennessee Motor Oil Survey

2009-04-18T21:41:00.005-05:00

My, this lady at a particular state university is persistent! The Appalachian Irishman finally responded to her Tennessee Motor Oil Survey, after receiving the second letter. Might as well have some fun filling out the thing.

I’ll share some of her questions and my answers, along with my other comments. Yes, she made the mistake of allowing freelancing from my glib tongue!

To begin, the eight-page survey asks mundane questions about the number of oil burning, gas guzzling, smoke belching, evil combustible engine vehicles and equipment one uses. It asks if you change your own oil, and if so, what you do with it. Then, several questions address oil collection centers. Other questions regard the use of recycled oil, which the survey wants to call re-refined. Finally, the survey snuggles up personally, asking about leisure activities, education, employment, dwelling location, gender, age, ethnicity, and income range. The survey, of course, promises complete confidentiality, despite pegging you with a unique number.

One question asks what I do with the old oil after changing it in my mowers. Of the ten options, I chose “other,” stating that I pour the oil on a big rock in the yard for the sun to evaporate. I bet that’s a unique answer! Although a collection center is less than five miles from the house, the big rock does just fine. (I wonder when the Big Brother sky-spy cam will catch me and send an eco-enforcement officer to demand that I take the oil to the center, blowing up my rock in the process!)

Another question asked if I would use their so-called refined oil for an oil change. No thanks, I replied. Can’t trust the quality. When will we be forced to reuse “refined” household waste?

The most entertaining question concerned what my neighbors do with their used oil. Of the 12 options, I again selected “other,” stating slyly, “Big Brother should not spy on his neighbor’s preference on disposal of used motor oil.”

I could not resist the opportunity, on the race or ethnicity question, to write in, beside White, “Irish American.” Why not? African American, American Indian or Alaska Native, and Native Hawaiian were other options.

And now, dear reader, let’s move on to my other comments. I wrote:

I have responded to your survey finally, after receiving your second letter. I just don’t want you to show up at my doorstep next, with clipboard in hand.

Why did you send the survey in English and Spanish? We are not yet at least a bilingual country officially. I went to Russia and learned Russian. Those who come here by legal or illegal means should learn English. Eta pravilna?

I replied to the survey, despite my misgivings regarding its hidden agenda. I suspect that your survey will be used to promote legislation requiring used oil to be recycled, disallowing the option to use fresh oil, and to create intrusive regulations on personal disposal of used oil – all for ecological purposes.

I am a conservationist, not an environmentalist. We should care for the environment, but we must not worship the creation over the Creator.

Just don’t track me down and take away my big rock!

Are my comments on oil slick, or what? What say you?

Best-Dressed Hiker

2009-04-13T20:58:00.002-05:00

The Appalachian Irishman hiked his beloved House Mountain, for the 55th time, on Easter Sunday. (The last hike was almost five months ago, so the trek was long overdue!)

The Appalachian Irishman has met a few interesting people on the trail. Often, he meets folks who “aren’t from around here,” either by geography or by mindset, who bring all the professional hiking gear. You know – the fold up metal hiking sticks, the high dollar packs, the costly hiking attire. The Appalachian Irishman usually snickers, after a brief conversation, as he continues on the trail, in his beat up blue jeans, old shirt and cap, carrying his “old school” quart canteen and Army surplus gas mask container, which contains his few essentials (e.g., beef jerky, toilet paper, lighter, first aid kit, snake bite kit, etc.). The brief conversations with these folks are entertaining. The vehicles they drive are easily identified in the parking lot. They usually drive a Subaru, fully equipped with the mandatory liberal, politically correct, tree lover bumper stickers.

Well, on Easter Sunday, I saw the best-dressed hiker ever – in my entire life of hiking! A young man with an older lady, perhaps his mother, came across the ridge from the west to the eastern bluff, just after I arrived, having come up the east trail. I was shocked, shocked, to see the young man dressed in black dress shoes (of course, quite dusty from the hike), gray-stripped dress pants and matching vest, white dress shirt, and light blue necktie, still neatly tied! For once, I was – almost – speechless. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, I allowed them to enjoy the view from the rock ledge.

Not being able to subjugate my mischievous side, and before continuing across the ridge westward, I had to, just had to, remark, “Young man, I must say in my 55 hikes on this mountain, you are the best dressed hiker that I have ever seen.” The young man wasn’t sure how to take my remark at first. I paused, awaiting his reply and giving him a little smile. He retorted sincerely, “Thank you.”

As I turned to continue across the ridge westward, I could hear the older lady, who had walked a few feet around the ledge toward the east trail below, laugh aloud delightfully. My smile broadened. It was another proud moment in the hiking history of the Appalachian Irishman. Enjoy the photo of the young man, which was taken by stealth.

Lesson to all Easter Sunday hikers: Change your Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes before the hike! Otherwise, folks will laugh at you, as they laughed at Mr. Douglas, riding his tractor in suit and tie. (Please don’t tell me that you don’t remember the 1960s TV show Green Acres!)

Wal-Mart Experience

2009-03-07T20:09:00.004-05:00

I appreciate the opportunity to address my “store experience” of today, Saturday, March 7, 2009. I shopped at Store #1319. I regret that your online survey disallowed comments, but, after searching through your website maze, I found this means to express myself.

I am skeptical that change will arise from these remarks. At least, I may vent by this means. I am a lowly customer, who, by sheer practicality, may continue to shop, less often, at Wal-Mart, since few similar options are available conveniently. (Oh, a Target is nearby. Perhaps, I will shop there more often.) I am one of many, who shop at Wal-Mart, but who desire other options. (The Lowes employee, who assured me by phone earlier that Lowes stocks my bulbs, shared a similar view.) Unfortunately, you have eliminated much of the competition. My skepticism arises from my opinion that your concern, as a "retail giant," for one customer is lost in the larger world of number-crunching profitability.

The crux of my “experience” is that I am extremely frustrated by key items being unavailable, while being surrounded by a million products. It is not ironic? Interestingly, I interacted with two other shoppers, who also sought products that were not available.

Now, to the specifics of my “experience,” despite buying other items, the primary intent of my shopping was to purchase (1) four 21-inch florescent bulbs (better stock up, since they are rarely available!), (2) black, blue, red, and yellow ink cartridges for my Brother MFC-420CN, and (3) Pantene Curls mousse (for my wife). Of course, these items were not available. I would have spent almost $100.00 more. That is $100.00 in your debt column and one frustrated shopper in your credit column—hardly a winning balance sheet for Wal-Mart.

I am not one who gives up, walks out, and returns another day, in hope of finding these items. Instead, I extracted my pound of flesh from your polite and understanding management. Gregg was very helpful, as he inquired from others, regarding the availability of the bulbs and cartridges. By his assistance, I learned that Wal-Mart darn well has no intent to ever stock the 21-inch florescent bulbs. Why? I don’t know, nor does he. The fixture is only five years old. 21-inch bulbs should have their rightful place, between the 18-inch and 24-inch selections. (Is Wal-Mart prejudiced against 21-inch bulbs? Alas, I jest!)

Again, from Gregg’s inquiries, I learned that Wal-Mart no longer sells Brother printers; hence, I understand why the store will not continue to carry the cartridges. (Sorry, Brother. You must not have jumped through all the hoops to have your products placed on the coveted Wal-Mart shelves.) The lingering question, however, is: Why can I find black, red, and yellow cartridges at Store #2310 and find only red cartridges at Store #1319, but I can’t find the necessary blue cartridge at either store? (Is Wal-Mart prejudiced against blue? Is that not one of your store colors? But, again, I jest!)

What is my solution? Well, I found the mousse at CVS, buying two bottles at $4.49 each. Lowes has my 21-inch bulbs at $5.98 each. (I plan to buy four.) Office Max has all four of my cartridges, at a total cost of $63.98. I will shop more at Target, Dollar General, CVS, Office Max, and Lowes.

What is your loss? $96.88 in sales. What is your “gain?” One disgruntled customer, who will share his experience with others. Yes, this little article is posted on my blog! It is in expanded form, without your restriction on the number of characters.

What is your solution? Let’s see if you respond. I will not hold my breath.

Why I Left

2009-03-07T13:27:00.007-05:00

Today, while exploring the Internet, being too lazy to explore a mountain, I discovered an article at The Christian Chronicle, regarding why members leave the Church of Christ. The article points to a survey being conducted by Flavil Yeakley, the director of the Harding Center for Church Growth, in Searcy, Arkansas. The following are my responses to the survey questions.

1. Why did you leave the Churches of Christ?
I served in fulltime ministry for 14 years, including five years as a missionary. I was a member of the Church of Christ for 26.5 years, including four years before my fulltime ministry and 8.5 years after. I am still a member of Christ’s church.

First, I left the Church of Christ, finally, because I could not continue to associate with a group that--by a doctrinal implication that does not understand grace fully--concludes that the soul of my godly mother, who passed in 2000, is destined for hell, since she was a member of the Baptist Church. Silently, I disagreed with the implication for 7.5 years, uncomfortably taking my place on the pew, as I moved from lifeless congregation to lifeless congregation in the area.

My mother was saved by God’s grace, and she lived her life as a humble and shining example of God’s loving grace in her life. She may have had sincere misunderstanding on certain points of doctrine, which the Church of Christ stresses, but she was saved by God’s grace. Her salvation was not determined by her perfect doctrinal understanding but by her sincere, if imperfect, faith response to God’s free gift.

Second, I left the Church of Christ, because I could no longer tolerate the arrogant hypocrisy of that body, which, by implication, denies the fullness of grace, by asserting that its doctrinal understanding is correct and that all who disagree are in need of salvation. The body of Christ is exclusive, in that it is composed of all who are saved by grace through faith, yes. The Church of Christ, however, in its legalistic and elementary understanding of grace, cannot, with straight face, lay claim as the exclusive body of Christ. My God and my God’s grace are bigger than that.

Third, I left the Church of Christ, because I realized that the standard hermeneutical approach of its members is a foreign imposition on scripture. The model views scripture as legal code and interprets scripture by legal method. Scripture, in particular the New Testament, is composed primarily of inspired and authoritative but occasional letters. Interpreting occasional letters as legal code represents the imposition of foreign scaffolding on the text. This scaffolding skews the focus from grace to legalistic accuracy in obedience. Certainly, grace inspires our attempt to follow Christ’s will as accurately as humanly possible. Our salvation, however, is not merited by how perfectly we follow an understanding of Christ’s law that is skewed in its understanding by a legalistic approach to hermeneutics.

Fourth, I left the Church of Christ, because its local congregations, at least in this area, are lifeless. The candlestick has been removed. The Spirit of Christ is not present. In His place, is a spirit of legalism, which expects unquestioned conformity to the legal code. There is no freedom, without consequence, to question, to explore, to discuss openly. I was shackled in my silence, feeling unable to openly engage in dialogue on the points in this commentary. I felt as if I would be ostracized, shunned, labeled as a “change agent.” I am thankful that this forum allows me to express myself anonymously.

Finally, I left the Church of Christ, because my brothers and sisters of so many years were not concerned enough to offer supportive inquiry as to why I had left fulltime ministry, after returning from my mission work. To this day, no one, not a one, has asked, “Why are you not preaching anymore?” Instead, their silence has greeted me.

In sum, I left the Church of Christ, for the reasons mentioned, because I have matured in my theological understanding, unfortunately, as brought about by my mother’s passing. If the Church of Christ can move beyond its elementary understanding of grace, I can re-embrace it. Otherwise, I am now free to find and identify with a true non-denominational body of Christ.

2. Do you have any advice or suggestions regarding things Churches of Christ could do to improve and do a better job of meeting the spiritual needs of those who are still members?

First, and foremost, church leaders should create a spirit of open, non-judgmental dialogue in the congregations. Allow members to feel free to question, to discuss, and to study, without fear of labeling. Through this renewal effort, churches could be revived, members could be retained, and Christ could be honored.

Second, local congregations should seek comment from those who have left. Of course, if relationship ties and brotherly connection were strained, this attempt will be difficult. Still, with open and honest hearts, leaders should attempt unbiased, non-judgmental communication with those who have left.

Third, leadership in these congregations, after receiving feedback from ex-members, should implement plans to address the legitimate reasons why their former members left.

Finally, the Church of Christ should rethink its hermeneutical approach, with a primary focus of exploring the amazing depth of God’s grace.

3. If, when you left the Churches of Christ, you joined another religious group, what church did you join? Also, please comment on what you have found in that other church that meets your spiritual needs better than what Churches of Christ were doing.

Currently, I am attending a non-denominational, community church that has ties to the Restoration Movement. In this body, I have found a rich understanding of grace, a natural, exegetical approach to scripture, and an authentic sense of community. This church is not without its problems. (Name one that is.) It is, however, more truly in line with the purpose that Christ intended for his body.

Keyes on Obama

2009-03-01T17:53:00.003-05:00

He’s my candidate - an independent, conservative voice for the future! (I, too, voted for him in the 2000 Republican primary.) Sadly, Alan Keyes’ articulation is too direct and bold for the liver lilied, touchy feely, mainstream.

Of course, if the mainstream is heading toward the sewer, we must keep paddling toward fresh water!

(Please hit the title link. It will take you to my friend’s website (Stock Market and Political Commentary), where the youtube.com link is found.)

Fuzzy Math

2009-03-01T16:41:00.014-05:00

Math wasn’t my best subject in school; I’ll admit. Of course, I made decent grades, but math didn’t excite me. Still yet, I know how to add, subtract, multiply, and divide – without a calculator.

(Don’t get me sidetracked! These guvmint edukatd kids know all about self esteem, but they get that deer in the headlights look, when, at the drive thru, they ask for $3.56 for the biscuit meal, and you give them $4.06. You see, the cash register, which won’t work during a power outage, had already told them how much change to return, if I provided $4.00. Do it for fun sometime! Usually, you have to tell them how much change to give you.)

Well, back to the point, let’s see, our new savior (oops! President) indicates that government must live within its means. Yes, that’s right folks. We’re going to cut government spending, waste, and fraud! Great! Good ol’ W should have done that, instead of going on his drunken spending spree. Well, good for the Obamanator. (Yes, W turned me from a Reagan Republican to a disillusioned Independent.)

But, wait, there’s one little additional point. Let’s spend about a gazillion dollars to stimulate the economy. Let’s get over 8,000 earmarks in there. The fate of the country hangs in the balance, depending on research into the mating habits of the earthworm, ad nauseam.

So, all the punditry aside, we will spend a Pacific Ocean of money while, at the same time, try to cut back on spending a Pacific Ocean of money. That’s the bottom line. Logical? Not at all.

What’s the problem? Well, too many guvmint edukatd lemmings are drinking Kool-Aid from the poisoned trough of socialism. Tax and spending our way out of a recession is not the answer. Growing government is not the answer. In fact, one can argue that government policy got us into this mess. Instead, look at the 1980s for the answer. But, alas, the democrats are galloping toward socialism. Many republicans are speed walking toward it. I am just sitting back, awaiting the inevitable. Perhaps, a new conservative spirit will rise eventually from the ashes.

Unless, of course, the new math that the kids are learning is correct: A gazillion spent + a gazillion saved = a gazillion!

What say you?

Big Brother Got Me!

2009-03-01T16:06:00.006-05:00

Well, it had to happen! Big Brother got the Appalachian Irishman -- caught on candid-not-a-real-cop-but-we're-goin'-to-make-a-buck camera!

Yeah, yeah, so I did run the red light! As I recall, the yellow light was on when I started under. It must have lasted 0.025 seconds. Of course, as most vile criminals of my ilk state, the guy behind me would have eaten bumper, if I had come screeching to a halt at the light!

Worse, yet, when I paid cash for my little truck eight years ago, Mrs. Appalachian Irishman and her sister had to pick it up, after I had left the need-to-make-a-sale salesman weeping at his desk. (I had to get to work.) For some reason, the ditsy get-the-tag-info person placed Mrs. Appalachian Irishman’s name above mine on the title. I suppose since she picked up the truck. So, Mrs. Appalachian Irishman, who arrived home before I did, was quite perturbed when the ticket came in her name! Yeah, okay, I’ll pay the stinking $50.00 fine and ask Big Brother to put it in my name. I have to live with the little lady, you know.

Entrepreneurial idea: Could someone out there create some type of product that would not allow these socialist cameras to read your license plate? Of course, the plate must still be legible to the naked eye. Any ideas?

By the way, let’s brag on the truck. Paid cash for it eight years ago, when it was six years old. Had about 84,000 miles on it. Has over 222,000 miles now. Doesn’t use oil. Starts right up. It’s a Nissan, built in Tennessee.

Anyone still want to bail out the American motor companies? Another idea: Since we, the lowly taxpayer, must bail out these companies, why don’t we demand a new vehicle, after they straighten out their mess and become profitable again? Don’t hold your breath.

Helpful Link

2009-02-15T21:17:00.003-05:00

For those interested in the inspiration for the Appalachian Irishman's article below, please click the "Helpful Link" title above.

This brother in Christ provides useful resources on several points of religious discussion, especially as related to the Church of Christ tradition.

Cursing & Praying on a Ridge

2009-02-15T19:36:00.008-05:00

Okay, dear reader, this one will be more personal. Get ready!

Imagine the Appalachian Irishman standing on a bluff on My Mountain. The day is clear and crisp. The photo above depicts the scene below. Hawks fly about.

Can the Appalachian Irishman, in this setting, both curse freely and then pray calmly, in a span of minutes? Yes, of course, he can. As Mark Twain said, “Under certain circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer” (A Biography). A good cussin’ purges the soul and lowers the blood pressure, at times, better than the most eloquently worded prayer.

Does God understand? Yes, of course. He is a God of grace.

Three months after returning from mission work in Russia, my mother, at the relatively young age of 67, was stricken by a yearlong suffering that involved two illnesses. As she recovered from the first, the other took her—suddenly, unexpectedly, unfairly.

Since then, I have not served in fulltime ministry. My zeal was poured out of me, by the hole cut into my bowels, the seat of emotion. Over eight years have passed, and I still struggle.

Do not bother with the religious platitudes. I have studied, written, and spoken on the problem of evil. Remember, I dealt with atheists in Russia! Deep inside, I am still angry with God, despite my theological understanding; although, the anger has cooled over the years. Why must she die at that time, in that terrible way, when we needed her so badly?

Complicating the issue is the haughty stance of the Church of Christ, of which I was a part for so many years. You see, the arrogant Church of Christ member would consign my mother to hell, because her views, as a Baptist, on such doctrinal points as baptism, worship, church organization, ad nauseam, conflict with his interpretation of scripture.

For over seven years after Mom’s passing, I continued to attend local Churches of Christ, but I was uncomfortable. Their beliefs, by implication, sent my mother to hell. I also struggled through the faith challenge that followed her passing. I was the outsider, as I sat within their walls each Sunday. Not wishing to “rock the boat,” I kept quiet. To attend is better than not, I reasoned.

Well, last year, I finally left the Church of Christ, while remaining a part of Christ’s church. My mother, whose sincere faith inspired me, was a faithful Christian, under the Baptist tradition. She did not die and go to hell, for any doctrinal misunderstanding. She, in her genuine faith, was saved by God’s grace. Perhaps her doctrinal understanding was not perfect, but whose is? Her faith, her love for our Father, her lifelong example of Christ living in her, as a reflection of his grace, was undeniable. As such, she was a Christian, saved by God’s grace through her genuine, if imperfect, faith. No superficial Church of Christ interpretation of grace will deny that reality.

I still believe, because my mother believed, and because I know Him. As the father of the stricken child, in Mark 9:24, cried, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!”

The Appalachian Irishman hasn’t had time, with a burdensome schedule, to climb House Mountain, to curse and pray. Perhaps, this is his way of doing so, off the mountain.

Thanks for listening.

Mr. Chan Or Mr. Garuba?

2009-02-15T17:26:00.019-05:00

Has Patrick Chan, the figure skater, fallen on hard times? Is he in cahoots with Mr. Garuba? You be the judge! Suggestion: Don't send this "Mr. Chan" your contact information!

Here is the e-mail that the Appalachian Irishman received today. You know? It's just funny!

FROM:MR PATRICK CHAN.

(chan_pkwx@yahoo.com.hk)

Dear Friend,

Let me start by introducing myself.I am Mr.Patrick Chan Executive Director and Chief Financial Officer of the operations of the Hang Seng Bank Ltd.I have a secured business suggestion for you.

Before the U.S and Iraqi war our client Col.Hosam Hassan who was with the Iraqi forces and also business man made a numbered fixed deposit for 18 calendar months, with a value of Thirty Million United State Dollars($30,000,000.00)only in my branch. Upon maturity several notice was sent to him,even during the war early this year. Again after the war another notification was sent and still no response came from him. We later found out that Col.Hosam Hassan and his family had been killed during the war in bomb blast that hit their home.

After further investigation it was also discovered that Col.Hosam Hassan did not declare any next of kin in his official papers including the paper work of his bank deposit.And he also confided in me the last time he was at my office that no one except me knew of his deposit in my bank.So,Thirty million United State Dollars($30,000,000.00)is still lying in my bank and no one will ever come forward to claim it.What bothers me most is that according to the laws of my country at the expiration 7 years the funds will revert to the ownership of the Hong Kong Government if nobody applies to claim the funds.

Against this backdrop,my suggestion to you is that i will like you as a foreigner to stand as the next of kin to Col.Hosam Hassan so that you will be able to receive his funds.

WHAT IS TO BE DONE:

I want you to know that i have had everything planned out so that we shall come out successful.I have contacted an attorney that will prepare the necessary document that will back you up as the next of kin to Col.Hosam Hassan,all that is required from you at this stage is for you to provide me with your Full Names and Address so that the attorney can commence his job. After you have been made the next of kin, the attorney will also file in for claims on your behalf and secure the necessary approval and letter of probate in your favor for the move of the funds to an account that will be provided by you.

There is no risk involved at all in the matter as we are going to adopt a legalized method and the attorney will prepare all the necessarydocuments.

Please endeavor to observe utmost discretion in all matters concerning this issue.

Once the funds have been transferred to your nominated bank account we shall share in the ratio of 60% for me, 40% for you Should you be interested please send me the following informations below,

1. Full names

2. Private phone number

3. Current residential address.

I will prefer you reach me on my private email address below And finally after that i shall provide you with more details of this transaction.Your earliest response to this letter will be highly appreciated.

(chan_pkwx@yahoo.com.hk)

Kind Regards,

Mr.Patrick Chan.

Fencing

2009-02-03T21:43:00.006-05:00

A fencing team in school? Wow! What progress! I wasn't offered a class in fencing in high school. A good friend and former coworker informs me that his daughter is on a school fencing team. They are going out of town to pick up supplies.

Ah, the Appalachian Irishman remembers running a fence line back in high school, without any school training. The cows had knocked down a large section of fence, and the rest of the line needed to be restrung anyway. So, my buddy, Bill, and I helped Randy and his Dad run a new row of barbed wire.

Mind you, this was not in a flat pasture. It was on a steep hill in the woods. (Yes, cattle can get into the woods.) As we ran the wire, Bill had the spool above me on the hill, and he was running it down to me, where I was setting postholes. Well, sir, that spool got away from Bill. I looked up and saw barbed wire spinning off the spool, as it headed straight for me! Having a bit of mountain goat in me, I jumped out of the way, before the wire could shred me. What fun!

I'm glad that my friend's daughter is learning how to fence in school. But, why can't they go to the local Coop, to buy the supplies? You know, wire, nails, hammer, posthole digger, etc.

Oh, it's another type of fencing? Never mind. What is this country coming to? Remember, don't bring a knife, or sword, to a gunfight!What say you?

All Redefined

2009-02-02T21:45:00.005-05:00

Well, the neglected old friend, whom you don't see as often as you should, but who will be there for you any time, needs some attention. The Appalachian Irishman, as a good friend, just sits out there on the Internet, awaiting my notice. Well, here is a short entry.

For the thousands out there who await longingly my every post, check out the link above. She is a friend and former coworker, who, with two others and I, braved the treacherous climb up House Mountain, just over a year ago.

Check it out! She's a good one!

Mediocrity

2008-11-18T20:34:00.009-05:00

Mediocrity, from mediocre, is from the Latin "mediocris," meaning medius, middle.

I was driving up the road today. (Yes, it was up an East Tennessee hill.) To the right was a drop off down a ravine--of course, no guardrail. To the left was, ironically, an EMS vehicle, over the yellow line, in my lane! I had two choices: die by EMS vehicle (oh, what irony!) or by a long drop. Well, since I'm writing now, the EMS driver swerved back into his lane in time. (No, he wasn't on a run. Lights were off.)

Illustration? Yes. What happens when you drive in the middle of the road? You crunch or are crunched!

What is wrong with so many people? We settle for mediocrity. Not satisfied with politics, career, religion, family, etc.? So what? Don't rock the boat. Don't strive to change or improve. Keep your mouth shut. You might cause chaos. You might hurt someone's feelings. There is too much uncertainty, too much risk. Don't change.

Then, we go through the motions of life, robotically. We don't really live. Thoreau, in "Walden," wrote, "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." I don't know about you, but I'm tired of "quiet desperation!" Darn it! Enough is enough!

So what if you rock the boat, take a risk, upset someone? Use your compass. Don't just stand in the woods looking at it for direction. Find your path. Get out of the woods! The view is great at the bluff! You can see for miles!

Of course, I am not advocating some form of hedonism. Ancient Greece fostered that. You compass is magnetized by your morals, your sense of what is right. Do what is right, based on your ability to read your own compass.

In short, don't let others "fit you into a box" where you don't belong. Stand. Don't be afraid. Change for the better. Improve. Don't look back.

Quit driving down the middle of the road in mediocrity. I don't want to be hit!

What say you?

Beat the Market

2008-11-18T19:50:00.011-05:00

Well, well, guess who's back? Yeah, yeah, promises, promises. So, I lied! So what? I just didn't have time to fool with this blog slog until now. Okay, I'm in a mood now. And why not? The economy is in the tank. Jobs are scarce. Blah, blah, blah, etc., etc.

Hey, want to have some fun reading an insightful blog? Check out the link above to:

Stock Market and Political Commentary

Markets - Money - Military - Politics -

Issues and Events That Affect Your Life

The blog is administered by a good friend and colleague. I have found his political insights refreshing and to the point. He also offers good market advise, for the rich and infamous among us. (Yes, I meant infamous.)

So, check out the site. You won't regret it!

I'm Back! (I Think.)

2008-02-16T20:29:00.010-05:00

Well, after a long hiatus, I'm back--I think. (By the way, "hiatus," from the Latin "hiare," means "to yawn." My almost year and a half break was definitely not a yawn!)

Well, as you can see from the photo, I've been on a long trek through the mountains, hiking the Appalachian Trail from north to south and back again. Okay, okay, I'm dreaming!

Actually, the practical hectic nature of life called, and I had to answer. From late 2006, I endured a career transition (from the adequately lucrative, but unfulfilling, life of insurance sales to the more fulfilling but chaotic and stressful world of a non-profit position), the illness of my mother-in-law, and the multiple hospitalizations, ER trips, and final passing of my father. Yes, 2007 was, and early 2008 has been, a roller coaster ride, not a walk along the trail! (I despise roller coasters!)

Now, I'm back. I will endeavor, with greater diligence, to post away my life story, for any and all, if anyone is out there, to read. Let's see where we go. Read on!

Hee Haw Luck

2006-09-03T16:00:00.000-05:00

Watching older shows, on TV Land, etc., instead of the latest cookie cutter, cardboard bilge offered by the networks, is a sad consequence of the degradation of society. For example, Mrs. Appalachian Irishman and I enjoyed watching Hee Haw reruns on CMT recently, which brings to mind the song line, “If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all . . . .”

“Where has the Appalachian Irishman been, since June 12?” You might have asked. Well, Mr. Murphy struck this summer. After the wonderful birth of our niece, Mrs. Appalachian Irishman sought medical attention, ultimately requiring surgery. Thank the Good Lord, the surgery was successful. Mrs. Appalachian Irishman is recovering well, and she should be fully recovered in a few more weeks.

The Appalachian Irishman’s cooking has inspired his good wife to hasten her recovery time. Soup beans, instant mashed potatoes, and canned green beans have wonderful healing qualities!

Oh, also, the Appalachian Irishman managed to fracture a big toe amongst all this. Don’t, please don’t, ask me how he did this!

So, dear reader, read on! The next few articles have been churning inside me, along with the soup beans, for some time!

Garuba is a Fraud!

2006-09-03T15:58:00.000-05:00

The following e-mail exchange doesn’t produce clean copy, but I am posting it, for the common good of all mankind. I have removed the personal references, except for Mr. Garuba’s e-mail address.

Section One is an e-mail from a friend, with Mr. Garuba’s message forwarded. Section Two is my reply.

Beware of Mr. Garuba!

Section One

----- Original Message -----
From: [snipped]
To: [snipped]
Sent: Saturday, September 02, 2006 9:35 AM
Subject: Assistance Needed on Matter of International Importance

Can someone help me please?

I'm too busy to take all this money, but I really hate to see it go to waste. Please reply directly to Garuba if you can provide assistance regarding this matter of utmost importance.

Thanks,

[snipped]

Note: forwarded message attached.
______________________________
From: as_garuba_10@hotmail.fr
To: None
Sent: Saturday, September 02, 2006 4:50 AM
Subject: FROM/AS GARUBA

Newton & Associates
Chattered Accountants
6750 Strand Street,
covent Garden,
London,WC2E 7JSl
Email.

Attn.
I am Mr. as garuba, president of Newton & associates, a chattered accountant firm and united kindom appointed Tax manager. I am a member of Chattered institute of london and former President of Association of chattered accountants-london, 1995-2002. Part of my services includes management of clients fund, business funding, auditing, tax management,project financing etc.

My contacting you is based on this (BBCWEBSITE)
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/859479.stm Just click and go through with your full attention. This website is a link to the victims of the Caribbean cruise organized by Deilmann on a Concorde Flight AF4590 that crashed into the Hotelissimo. I am not trying to make a journalistic reference here, but I want to present you everlasting business relationship that came as a result of this air crash.

Among the victims of the Monday, 31 July, 2000 air crash, is my biggest client Andreas Schranner, 64, a German property magnate his wife Maria, 62, their only daughter Andrea Eich, 38, her husband Christian, 57, and their children Katharina, eight, and Maximilian, 10, all perished in the jet. Just click. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/859479.stm.

Mr. Andreas Schranner is one of German biggest Estate Magnate. Before the air crash on Monday, 31 July, 2000, he signed an agreement with my firm in london to oversea his %40 capital investment base share with Natwest Bank london Limited. The share is his international investment objective valued at fifty four Million U.S dollars ($54.000.000.00) since 2000. On January 8th, 2006, my team of auditors was appointed to execute the annual auditing of the banks investment, shares, reinvestments, and profits. It became obvious that Mr. Andreas Schranner $54.000.000.00 has generated %75 interest.

Currently, Natwest bank london is calling my office for immediate presentation of Mr. Mr. Andreas Schranner next of kin for claims of the Mr. Andreas fortune. Since my client Mr. Andreas Schranner and his entire family died in the air crash, I wish to use my humble office to appoint and present you as the next of kin to Natwest Bank and assist in getting the fund transferred to you. Since the fund is my late client's hard earned fortune, it is one of my prerogatives to get the fund utilized. The fund has over stayed expandable servicing and if not claimed, the bank shall confiscate the fund. My Chattered account office is the sole manager of the fund $54.000.000.00 which has generated handsome profits which cannot be stated here. I cannot personally apply for the claims as the next of kin since Barclays Bank knows my office and personality. It shall be impossible for me to personally make the claims. All I need is your approval to accept the business transaction. You shall keep %50 of the total fund to yourself while you keep %50 for the office of Newton & Associates. The Bank through my declarations about you shall accept you as the next of kin to Mr. Andreas Schranner and make the transfer of the fund to you with all the interests acrrued from the capital base of $54.000.000.00.

All I need is your sincerity, trust and confidence. Do send also yourfull details viz.

Full contacts............................
Occupation............................
Age................................
Postal Address............................

I wait to read from you urgently.

Thanks.

Mr. as garuba

pls you can call me 22676408234
MSN Hotmail sur i-modeT : envoyez et recevez des e-mails depuis votre téléphone portable ! http://www.msn.fr/hotmailimode/

Section Two

Dear [snipped],

Mr. Garuba is a fraud!

First, I was a member in good standing of the renowned Association of Chattered Accountants--London (not to be confused with the less well known Association of Chartered Accountants--London) in the late 1990's. The esteemed Mr. Bob Cratchit served as president during that time, not a Mr. Garuba.

Second, this Mr. Garuba cannot be president of Newton & Associates, as the highly regarded Mr. Fig Newton is president.

Third, I returned recently from the summer conference of the Chattered Institute of London (again, not to be confused with the less respected Chartered Institute of London) and did not hear a Mr. Garuba's name called in attendance. Attendance is mandatory to retain your seat in the cigar and brandy parlor, so with Mr. Garuba's obvious taste for hard liquor, to which the esteemed Mr. Jack Daniels attests, he would have attended, if he existed.

Fourth, the tragedy of Air France Flight 4590 occurred on 25 July 2000, not on the 31st, as this Mr. Garuba asserts. A colleague from the Chattered Institute of London, Ms. Chicken Little, was one of the four individuals killed on the ground, as she looked upward, exclaiming, "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!"

Fifth, which this Mr. Garuba must be drinking, Andreas Schranner was certainly a big client, as he was 6' 2" and weighted 300 lbs., but he was not a German property magnate. Instead, Mr. Schranner was a peddler of magnetic car signs for insurance companies in the United States. He was not married, as he could not attract a mate. I know this, since he sold a magnetic car sign to a friend of mine.

Finally, as is commonly known, upon the death of Mr. Schranner (which occurred when he crashed through a coffee table while giving a motivational speech) and of any supposed beneficiaries that he may have had, his assets would have passed to his estate. Of course, his assets included only a van down by the river, in which he lived, a box of 100 count car magnets, and a sawed off shotgun. In all, Mr. Schanner's estate was worth about $5,400.00. This Mr. Garuba must have carried the decimal point a bit too far.

Please, pass along this warning to your colleagues. The quality of the letter from Mr. Garuba could dupe many a professional person. Being aware of certain details as I am, however, I wished to pass along the above information for the better good.

Best regards,

[snipped]

Pay with Your Finger

2006-09-03T15:56:00.000-05:00

After having joined half the county in hauling off trash yesterday morning, the Appalachian Irishman’s truck was down to an eighth a tank. Fortunately, someone named “Current Resident,” who must have lived at our address once, had received in the mail a scratch off $2.00 discount coupon from the benevolent people at Shell.

Well, that tank of gas cost the equivalent of $2.417 per gallon, instead of the posted $2.599, a whopping 7% savings! With the joyous fumes of gas discount wafting in my head, my fractured toe and I hobbled into the store to pay.

While making the transaction, I noticed a “Pay with Your Finger” advertisement. “What is this?” I asked the a bit too bubbly clerk. She explained that Shell has formulated an optional, for now, plan, by which you pay for purchases by inserting your index finger in a scanner.

Your index finger? Why didn’t Shell require the middle finger? Imagine the commercial, explaining the process! “Just fold your hand into a fist, then extend your middle finger vertically and insert it into the scanner.”

Let’s give Shell the finger by not giving it our finger! Mark it. This will bring out the beast, if Shell tries to make this plan mandatory!

Gas Wars -- the Missing 7%

2006-09-03T15:54:00.000-05:00

Aha! I just discovered why Shell could offer $2.00 gas coupons!

I took the following shots on Father’s Day, June 18. Notice that the Shell price per gallon, in Rutledge, Tennessee, is 7.5% higher than

the Appco price, in Rogersville, Tennessee!

I assume that the extra 0.5% went to administrative overhead!

Seriously, how was a 21-cent per gallon difference possible, or justified? This confounds my one brain cell!

House Mt. -- The Big Dig

2006-09-03T15:52:00.000-05:00

Over five months ago, I extolled the beauty of My Mountain, House Mountain Park. Now that fall is here, counting from September 1, as the Russians do, I am eager to hit the mountain--after, of course, this busted toe heals.

On August 16, I decided to stop by the park entrance, to see “your tax dollars at work.” As the photo shows, not much progress has been made toward spending that $250 million!

A contractor can build a house in five months or less. Why, then, does the government not have the parking lot paved, the bathrooms built, and the picnic tables set by now? And, again, why should these “improvements” cost $250 million? Once more, this is just too much for my one brain cell to understand!

House Mt. -- Winterland

2006-09-03T15:50:00.000-05:00

We had winter in East Tennessee last season, and it fell on two weekends, with snows on consecutive weekends in February.

Finally, after downloading them from my camera, here are a few shots from winter wonderland on House Mountain! Enjoy! (Blogger only allowed five shots.)

It's a Girl!

2006-06-12T20:26:00.000-05:00

Born at 5:08 PM, weighing 9 lbs., 15 oz., and being 23 inches long, the Appalachian Irishman has a new niece! My brother almost didn’t get his mitt on in time, but he caught her!

I can’t wait to take my new niece hiking up House Mountain and Devil’s Nose!

Congratulations to the new father and mother!

Baby Watch

2006-06-12T01:19:00.000-05:00

No, I didn’t say Bay Watch! The Appalachian Irishman just returned from the hospital, where the wife of his youngest brother is waiting, with feet still several hours away from the stirrups.

I had to return home for the catcher’s mitt, as my brother, fully in expectant father mode, forgot his. A new socialized medicine rule is that the baby cannot be born until the father has his catcher’s mitt!

Anyway, I’ll try to catch a few hours of shuteye, and then return to join other bleary eyed family members, who are still sitting on Baby Watch!

Guvernent Edukashun

2006-06-11T21:57:00.000-05:00

Mrs. Appalachian Irishman, as I have admitted before, is a patient, longsuffering soul. Why she married me, I’ll never know. She also suffers as a government school employee. Of course, she is one of the good ones--trying to wield the sword of positive, responsible, moral (dare we say biblical!) influence against the menacing socialist hordes that run, or are brain washed by, the system.

Mrs. Appalachian Irishman received a thank you note from a student, whom she had helped, at the end of the school year. The sentiment, the influence, and the result are all commendable.

Looking for the cloud in every silver lining, as I do; however, I must address the grammatical mistakes made by this product of government education. Here is just the first part.

"Thank you fur being there for me whin i needed you that ment a lot to me and thank you for helping me . . . ."

The letter continues for several more lines--totally unencumbered by any form of punctuation whatsoever! The first person singular pronoun is never capitalized. Is this the result of the socialist emphasis on the collective over the individual?

Of course, the aforementioned student may be valedictorian material, for after further thought, the note could have started:

"thunk u fer bein thair fur me whin eye neaded u thatthar mint a lot 2 me + thunk u fer halpin me . . . ."

The Appalachian Irishman is just thankful that he was taught phonetics in the first grade. (No, kindergarten wasn’t required then.) He is also thankful for the excellent grammar teachers, who taught him parts of speech, parts of a sentence (including diagramming), types of sentences, spelling, punctuation, etc. Now, as long as little Johnny feels good about himself, it doesn’t matter how well he writes or speaks!

Of course, to correct all these ills, all we need is more money for guvernent edukashun!

What say you?

Coke and a Snicker

2006-06-11T21:53:00.000-05:00

“A dollar eighty for a 12 oz. Coke and regular sized Snickers?” I asked the resident scholar behind the counter at the zip-in-to-get-ripped-off convenience store. “Why, young man, when I was a boy, you could get a Coke and candy bar for 25 cents!”

Mr. Earring/Tattoo just looked at me, with the line growing behind me, and asked, “Look, Mister, are you buying?” Plunking down the $2.00 in silence was my answer, since I had a light lunch a few hours ago.

The worst part is that I sounded just like some old guy!

Just Plain Coffee!

2006-06-11T21:47:00.000-05:00

“Frou-frou coffee! That’s what’s wrong with the world!” I exclaimed, while talking with colleagues, over coffee. No, we weren’t at one of those yuppie coffee houses either. We were at the office for the Friday meeting. Yes, I was drinking regular coffee, black. Okay, I’ll add a few drops of cream when I’m feeling a bit more sophisticated, but that’s all.

In simpler times, choices were fewer--Folgers, Maxwell House, JFG, Sanka, and perhaps a few others. Now, however, a Google search of “coffee types” returns 64.7 thousand references! No time for all that, so I hit the Starbucks website, to find 32 types of coffee in five categories! They even offer multiple serving sizes! Not small, medium, or large, mind you, but Grande, etc.

Just give me a simple cup of coffee, please! I’ll add cream and sugar, if I want to.

Somehow, I just don’t trust the politics of someone who walks into a Starbucks and says, “I’ll have a Colombia Nariño Supremo, size Doppio, please.” Just for fun, one of these days, I will walk into a Starbucks, which I haven’t done yet, and say, “Give me a cup of coffee, black.” How will the rocket scientist behind the counter reply?

Does anyone else want just a regular cup of coffee?

Kiss Vs. the Graduate

2006-06-03T20:13:00.000-05:00

The Knoxville Civic Coliseum (http://www.knoxvillecoliseum.com/) was the site.

The year was 1979. Kiss (http://www.kissonline.com/) was in the house! Two buddies and I stood only a few feet from center stage. We were there! What a show! The rock vibes were rolling from the speakers. Simmons, Stanley, Criss, and Frehley were in true form! What a performance! One very stout and tall friend hoisted me up from time to time, so I could take pictures above the crowd. What shots I took! Great shot of Simons breathing fire! The house was packed. We were there! What a memory! I was young and felt great!

The year was 2006. Gibbs High School graduates were in the house. My niece, Trina Biscuit, was graduating (the only National Merit Scholarship Finalist in the class, I might add). A score of family was seated to stage left. The commencement music did not rock. The speakers were adequate but not on a roll. I tried to stay awake. I was old and sick, still fighting varicella-zoster. Still yet, when Trina Biscuit walked across that stage, a chill of pride and sentiment ran down my back. Was this the little girl whom I used to “walk on the ceiling”? Congratulations, Trina! Yours was not a ceremony of mediocrity. Good luck and Godspeed in the future!

The Knoxville Civic Coliseum hasn’t changed; I have. I miss the thrill and fire of the concert of youth, but I relish the love of my dear, long-suffering wife and of those around us. Have I graduated?

What say you?

Marriage Melee

2006-06-03T19:56:00.000-05:00

A marriage melee is raging in our country. On the right, knights gather in defense of marriage as the recognized union between a man and a woman. On the left, hordes pound their shields, shouting that two men or two women have the right to marry.

As Mason said to Dixon, “We have to draw the line somewhere!”

Logically, if, by definition, marriage is not the recognized union between a man and a woman, then it can be anything! The slippery slope will prevail. The line will be redrawn continually.

Today, two men or two women may marry. Tomorrow, a man may marry several women, or vice versa. Next week, a group of men may marry a group of women. Next month, a group of men may marry each other. A year from now, a man may marry his dog--or his truck! Who is to say what is wrong?

To argue “there are no absolutes” is an absolute contradiction. Absolutes must exist, in logical reasoning and in the law.

Marriage is by definition the union of one man and one woman! Anything else is a perversion.

Bring on your “logic” to prove me otherwise!

What say you?

Random Questions

2006-06-03T19:46:00.000-05:00

Why is Knox County resurfacing Cedar Bluff Road, when the road was well paved already? Was the asphalt just not dark enough? Why aren’t other roads, in less politically affluent areas, not resurfaced, when they are in desperate need?

Why do many public restroom doors open in? After having washed my hands, why must I grab that nasty handle or knob?

Why does the song end and the station go to commercials, just as I tune in?

Why do people insist on riding my bumper, since I have no catchy bumper sticker to read? Is my license plate that interesting?

Why does the downpour hit when I’m trying to get through rush hour traffic on the Interstate in west Knoxville?

Why is there a wreck, blocking the back door route, when I, unwisely, get off the Interstate, hoping to avoid the delays?

Why does the last train car pass by, just after you finally shut off the engine?

Why does the light turn red, just as you are next in line to turn?

Why do women with flabby bellies wear shirts that show their bellies? Is it an optometrist’s conspiracy to make my eye sight worse? Or do their mirrors deceive them?

Why do people lie to insurance consultants and think that God will not hold it against them?

The glass is still half full.

Shaking the Shingles

2006-06-03T19:41:00.000-05:00

No, I did not say “singles!” Nor is this about a new dance step!

But seriously, folks, the Appalachian Irishman is finally returning to his former infamous self, after having engaged in a costly and prolonged battle against his archenemy--varicella-zoster, or Chicken Pox Part Deux (http://appalachianirishman.blogspot.com/2006/05/hanging-up-my-shingles.html). Costly it was in medical expense and missed work and prolonged in a month of suffering and slow recuperation. I wouldn’t wish the shingles on my worst political foe (http://www.daffodillane.com/). (Just kidding, Daffodil.)

Web log? No way! I just managed to endure and to try to work as much as possible!

Well, to friend and foe alike, I’m back!

20 Years as But a Day

2006-05-16T21:09:00.000-05:00

The Appalachian Irishman admits it; he can be hard to live with at times. Must be those Irish roots! Twenty years ago today, Mrs. Appalachian Irishman made the dubious decision to honor me by becoming my wife. Dubious on her part, because I dragged her, not by the hair, mind you, to the flat lands of Missouri for several years then on to Russia for a few more, before finally, finally returning to the true Garden of Eden--Upper East Tennessee.

Those twenty years have passed by as but a day. Mrs. Appalachian Irishman, at times, probably feels as if it has been forty years, but for me, it has been just a day. She is more lovely and dear to me now than then--and believe me, she was lovely and dear then too.

So, I raise my Guinness to you (no, I don’t drink, but let’s pretend), Mrs. Appalachian Irishman! Thanks, my dear, long suffering wife, for putting up with me all these years. Here’s to twenty more!

Okay, okay, you may wipe your eye now! The Appalachian Irishman will return to his wit and witticism later.

What say you?

Illegal Analogy

2006-05-14T21:02:00.000-05:00

We have a large, fine home with plenty of room. It is the envy of many in the neighborhood.

We regularly invite our neighbors over for the evening or to stay the weekend. They ring the doorbell and come in through the front door. They conduct themselves politely and properly. They leave willingly, when it is time to go. On occasion, an invited neighbor acts out of turn or over stays his welcome. He is not invited back.

Many in the neighborhood face difficulties in their own homes. We invite some of these neighbors into our home, not as guests, but as new family members. We take them in willingly, and we would take in more, if we had additional room. These neighbors are grateful, agree to obey the rules of our house, take on our last name, study our family heritage, and leave behind adherence to their old homes. We celebrate when we are able to help such neighbors!

Lately, however, some neighbors have tried to sneak in through a back room window. They do not have the dignity or courtesy to wait to be invited in through the front door. We ran them out at first, but they returned. So many started coming in! We couldn’t stop them!

Mother wanted father to increase security around the house, to keep out these uninvited neighbors, but father saw that some of them were cleaning the house, taking out the trash, mowing the yard--doing chores that house members did not want to do. So, he allowed them to keep sneaking in. Mother kept telling father that these neighbors were eating our food, using our medical supplies, and physically hurting us, but father didn’t care. He just noticed how the uninvited neighbors washed his car so well.

Some of the family even argued that we must allow these uninvited neighbors to come in, because we are so wealthy and they are so needy. “Why can’t we go to their homes and help them? Why can’t their own fathers and mothers help them?” I asked, to which I received no reasonable reply.

In time, these uninvited neighbors demanded that we take care of them! They wanted us to change our last name to theirs! They demanded their “rights” as equal members of the family! Our once well kept home is now in need of repair.

Why can’t these uninvited neighbors just wait to be invited in by the front door?

Hanging Up My Shingles

2006-05-14T14:05:00.000-05:00

Chicken Pox Part Deux? Or varicella-zoster by its more scientific but less entertaining name. Yes, the shingles have floored the Appalachian-Irishman!

Too much dang work! Too much darn stress! These are the hammers that nailed me. It started with that little pain in the side, like a sore muscle. Nothing about which to worry--right? Wrong! Next, the malaise poured over me. “What’s this little rash on my side?” I wondered next. Then, over last weekend, the little pox belt appeared!

By the way, for you linguists, varicella, from the Latin, means "little pox." Zoster is Greek for “girdle” or “belt.” The word shingles comes from cingulum, Latin for “belt” or “girdle.”

Finally, the proud Appalachian-Irishman went to his family doctor, whose shingle hangs about 30 minutes from home. Having already done the research, I agreed with the doctor’s treatment--an antiviral medication, ibuprofen, plenty of water, and rest. In another country, I could have bypassed the doctor’s office charge by buying the antiviral drugs directly from the pharmacy--without prescription. Not so in the good ol’ US of A! No, I must pay the doctor to prescribe that which I know I already need! What a country!

Anyhow, I am recovering but not completely well. But, alas, this is not the nail point to the story!

Upon arrival at the doctor’s office, promptly, for my 9:45 AM appointment, I had to take a place in line behind one of those well dressed, overly-friendly-to-the-medical-staff, pharmaceutical sales representatives--pill pushers, by another name. Great! I almost asked the young thing, “Are you here to see the doctor for a medical reason?” Assuming her negative answer, my next line would have been, “Well, since I’m actually sick, you shouldn’t mind if I cut in front of you!” But, being a southern gentleman, I brushed aside those thoughts. Instead, the added stress, caused my side to hurt more. I’m sure that another red streak appeared as well. Thankfully, the receptionist made pill pusher chicklet sit down to wait also.

The good doctor took my advice and prescribed the antiviral medication that I recommended--the generic that works as well as the high dollar brand name, which he first suggested. The brand name drug was probably the one that the sweet young thing out in the lobby was pushing!

Upon leaving the examination room, what did my wandering eyes see? Yes, another pill pusher--standing just outside the door, like a vulture awaiting its next victim! This time, it was a young man, slickly dressed in the traditional dark suit. “Hello, Dr. Cox!” he cheerfully chortled. He caught my eye, and I glared at him.

Oh, by the way, before getting in to my family physician, I tried out a foreign doctor, whose shingle is only about five minutes away. “With the price of gas these days, why not try the local guy?” I had concluded.

Well, arriving for the 8:00 AM appointment, I filled out the traditional reams of new patient paperwork. To my surprise, the receptionist started talking about payment--before Dr. I’m-from-India even saw me! “Well, with my HSA health insurance plan, I pay doctor’s office visits, for a reduced premium,” I told the one-brain-celled young lady. I added, “I am ready to pay the $70.00 with my HSA debt card.” Well, to my surprise, the debt card frightened to death the educationally challenged chick! She asked me to go home, get the HSA checkbook, and return, before I could be treated!

Having arrived home, with additional pain and reddening in my side from the experience, I called my regular doctor, mentioned, above, to set an appointment. I then promptly called the give-me-money-who-really-cares-about-curing-you doctor’s office, politely told brain cell babe that I didn’t like her approach, and told her that I had arranged to see a real doctor.

Fortunately, the Appalachian-Irishman is from hearty stock and doesn’t need a doctor more than once a year, if that. This experience, however, illustrates the sad state of medical practice in this country. First, the lack of true market forces continues to drive up health care costs. Set aside the stinking co-pays, to which millions think they have a constitutional right, and dicker directly with doctors on office visit charges. Second, pharmaceutical companies should not advertise nor send their minions of pill pushers to bribe doctors into prescribing their high priced product. Third, people should put down the Twinkie and get some exercise, instead of neglecting their health and expecting the doctor to fix them. Finally, tort reform should eliminate frivolous medical lawsuits and limit settlements. Other measures, I’m sure, could be taken.

Despite the need for reform and improvement in our medical system, we must not seek salvation by further socializing healthcare! I’ve been to Russia and seen the effects of socialized medicine. We don’t need that here!

Well, it’s time to take another pill. Maybe America will do the same.

What say you?

Cloth Towel Dispensers

2006-04-25T21:22:00.000-05:00

Okay, the Appalachian-Irishman was out trying to make a living today. By the way, was today Tax Freedom Day? You government-educated types didn’t realize that your income through late April goes to Uncle Sam, did you? And, you think that you’re sticking it to ol’ Uncle when he gives you a meager refund? Right!

Anyway, back to the story, I made a pit stop at some convenience store. After addressing Mother Nature’s urgings, I washed my hands. Argh! Another one of those push-the-button-and-stand-there-all-day-long air-drying units!

Do you recall the old cloth towel dispensers from years ago? Pull down on the corners, and a clean section of towel emerges. Wiping your hands, or face, was a snap! Ah, those were the days!

So much was easier back then. Cars had character. Gas was inexpensive, and someone else pumped it. Football players stayed with teams for years. Kids played outside and didn’t get fat. Families stayed together. Neighbors knew each other. Parents, not grand parents, raised their children. Churches were not metal building, mega-marketed monstrosities. Dirt roads led somewhere. Rock was classic, and country didn’t rock. Students used their knives in shop class, and they were spanked by teachers--and parents. Doctors made house calls and didn’t charge an arm and a leg for an office visit. You bought goods at Mom and Pop shops and ate at locally owned restaurants. Carhops wore roller skates. You could pray in school and say “Merry Christmas!”

Yes, I know that some things have improved, but we have lost so much. We need to pull down on the towel and wipe away the bad, while keeping the good.

What say you?

Too Much Work!

2006-04-23T21:12:00.000-05:00

To those who are wondering where I've been lately, the rumor of my demise at the hand of a Yankee, tree-hugging, quiche-eating liberal are mistaken! Such a one couldn't take me anyway!

No, instead, I've been working and taking care of family business. Good ol' Uncle Sam took some time--and dollars--also!

A warning to you leftists out there: I'll be back soon!

Cereal Serial

2006-03-28T19:16:00.000-05:00

Kellogg’s Special K Red Berries. Yes, I ate them, and I’m sorry. I apologize to all the red-blooded Irish-American men out there. But, confession is good for the soul.

Here’s my excuse. You can’t eat eggs, sausage, bacon, biscuits, and gravy every morning--even thought our corpuscles cry out for it daily. So, I usually eat a bowl of good ol’ IGA generic raisin bran cereal in the AM. Yeah, yeah, it’s healthier for me. I can hike up House Mountain in 25 minutes, easily, so my ticker is fine. I want to keep a healthy ticker a while longer, so I eat cereal.

Well, neither my long-suffering and precious wife nor I had gone to the store lately, and the cupboard was bare. No generic raisin bran for the Irish-American. Not enough time to whip up a good country breakfast. Not enough time to go to the Huddle House to tank up.

Decision time! Either go hungry, which my stomach was forbidding me to do, or eat (yuck, gag) my wife’s frou-frou, namby pamby, get-in-touch-with-your-feminine-side Kellogg’s Special K Red Berries cereal.

As I said, I ate it--not one morning but two in a row! Finally, my wife brought in my regular morning staple, but the deed was already done.

And, guys, it wasn’t that bad!

What say you?

P.S. Yeah, yeah, I know. The photo is a Kellogg’s Raisin Bran box from 1967 (http://theimaginaryworld.com/kelloggs2.html), but I couldn’t find a photo of an IGA box!

My Mountain!

2006-03-19T15:33:00.000-05:00

At the risk of being a Benedict Arnold to the local hiking community, I will reveal the secret location of my Saturday getaway--House Mountain!

The mountain is located in east Knox County, standing alone, off either Washington Pike or Rutledge Pike. Only a small sign marks the direction from Rutledge Pike.

At 2100 feet, House Mountain is the highest peak in Knox County. It has commanding views in each direction--west facing Knoxville, north facing the Clinch Mountain range, east facing Blaine, and south facing the Holston River and the Smokies. Two primary trails lead to either the western or the eastern points on the ridge. The western trail is not as long, but it is the more challenging. (Real Appalachian-Irishmen prefer this trail up.) The literature says that one should anticipate an hour’s hike to the top, but if you’re in shape, 23 to 30 minutes is all that is required.

After taking in the view westward, the scenic hike across the ridge takes another 15 minutes. You pass a communications building and the location where a fire tower used to perch. (The two-seater outhouse is still there; although, it suffers from a few shot gun blasts!) Near the fire tower is a tabletop rock, perfectly suited for a picnic.

Having crossed the ridge to the eastern trail, which leads back down, do not make the mistake of quitting at that point! No, go on across the ridge farther! In about five minutes, you will turn left to find the northern bluff, which, to me, has the best view. (Go just past the “Private Property” sign then turn left.) Watch for hawks circling nearby for prey! What a view!

Continue eastward on the ridge about 10 more minutes to reach the eastern bluff, from which you see toward Blaine and the Holston River. On one cool, crisp, and clear Saturday morning, I stretched out on a rock there, with my canteen for a pillow, and took a nap. I woke up with a hawk circling just overhead. “Not yet, not yet!” I said to him.

Now, you have seen all three views from the bluffs, so you may head back toward the eastern trail, which descends to the parking lot. Notice the views as you go down. The descent takes about 25 minutes.

The distinctiveness of House Mountain is the rugged terrain, challenging climb, breathtaking scenery, unique rock formations, diverse fauna, and relative isolation. Yes, you will pass a few hikers, but the trails are not as crowded as in the Smokes, and they are by far more passable than I-40 during rush hour!

Thus, our secret is out! I apologize to the area hikers who wish to keep our mountain a secret. I just hope that the socialist powers that be do not spoil the mountain for us.

Unfortunately, Congressman Duncan decided to bring in just over $250,000.00 in pork into our little park. These taxpayer dollars will be wasted to “improve” the parking lot, build a picnic shelter, install restrooms, and put up new signs. I’ve even read-tell of paved sidewalks!

Note to Congressman Duncan: our quaint, little parking lot is sufficient! You’ll only be killing several old trees to expand it. For those who make it, the natural picnic rock on the ridge works just fine! And restrooms? Who needs restrooms, when all nature is around you? Take a roll and hide behind a tree, for goodness sake! And, as for taking a leak, there’s nothing like standing on the big rock at the top of the western bluff and taking a leak toward Knoxville! By the way, some government intellectual set a couple of portable potties near the parking lot a couple of years ago. Some local rocket scientists, who must have been drunk, for beer bottles were amongst the ashes, set fire to them!

Give the $250K back to the taxpayers!

What say you?

A Liberal's Stew

2006-03-18T22:25:00.000-05:00

I have discovered the joys of “blogging;” although, being a linguistic purist, the term does not fit well on my keyboard just yet. (Is not “weblog” or, even better, “web log” preferable?) However, I digress.

Earlier this week, I came across, via a relative’s web log, a link to the log of someone with whom I had a religious discussion years ago. Back then, we agreed on some religious aspects but disagreed on others. Still yet, I found the young man polite, objective, lucid in thought, and willing to consider other viewpoints. Despite our disagreements, we had a hearty respect for each other. Therefore, having found his web log serendipitously, I looked forward to stirring the pot again, by having the type of direct but open-minded exchange that we had years before.

To my disappointment, however, I sadly discovered that this good man has boiled in the stew of liberal opinion too long, for the vital nutrients of discussion (i.e., objectivity, courtesy, and logic) have evaporated in the steam.

Please feel free to visit his site yourself (www.daffodillane.com). He has a lovely family, and many of the postings, by his wife and him, are on that topic, but they careen recklessly down the road of political opinion also.

For example, the following is a sample of my friend’s current ingredients, referring either to Republicans or to the Republican Party. To him, Republicans: are “amoral monsters,” “hate America,” are “without values,” seek to “destroy our Constitution,” wish to bring about “slavery,” cause “tyranny,” are not “real Americans,” are “godless Republican animals,” “seek America’s destruction,” are “hypocrites,” have an “amoral Republican ideology,” are “radical America hating Republicans,” are “dumb,” are a “disgraceful people,” are “vile,” have a “simplistic view of the world,” are “evil,” are “worthless cowards,” are a “racist hate group,” are “morally bankrupt,” are “moronic” and “stupid,” and, finally, “[undermine] our way of life.”

He also adds that Republicans (1) seek to “allow children to starve to death and want to throw the elderly out in the streets;” (2) ”are too weak morally and mentally to be allowed to hold office in this country;” (3) “are [sic] danger to our way of life;” (4) “[work] night and day to destroy the country;” (5) “only represent a narrow group of radical extremists;” (6) “hate Americans and especially the poor;” and (7) seek to “[eliminate] the freedom of the press.”

Furthermore, he adds that “corruption is the core defining value of the Republican [sic] party” and that “there are no limits to Republican incompetence and ignorance.” Finally, he concludes, “the Republican [sic] party is the devil's concubine.”

In addition, he labels Christians, by his definition, as a “radical religious minority” (emphasis his). He states: “The Republicans have capitalized on [their agenda] by working within the most radical of the churches and encouraging the new version of the Christian Identity movement to flourish which has labeled itself the born again movement.”

Obviously, my friend is good at casting insults and engaging in ad hominem attacks, but his postings are woefully lacking of logical reasoning and objective proof to support his comments.

I feel as if I should apologize for placing this smelly stew on your plates, for I should have just tossed it into the garbage. I decided to write about this man’s web log, however, to illustrate the digression of the liberal mind. Years ago, the ingredients for the stew were there, but they were fresh. The young man was courteous, well reasoned, and open to divergent dialogue, despite his liberal, secular leanings. Now, having boiled in the liberal pot for years, the ingredients have putrefied. The man is blinded by his bias and closed to disagreement. Such is often the destination of the liberal journey.

Granted, we conservatives, too, can be closed-minded and biased. We cook our own stews at times also. The striking point of contrast, however, is that the secular liberal takes pride in his tolerance. “We must be tolerant,” he says. This tolerance, however, often ends at the border of his own views and agenda. Tolerance means that you must accept his belief, not that he is willing to accept yours.

Instead of using intellectual reason, the secular liberal often looks down his nose with disdain at the “unenlightened and ignorant” conservative before him. Emotion, not reason, holds sway, as the secularist brushes aside facts to affirm his own perceptions.

In conclusion, biblical conservatives have nothing to fear in secular liberals, such as my friend from years ago. They will only persuade those with whom they already agree.

I suggest that my friend learn how to eat from his own kitchen before he tries to serve his stew to others.

What say you?

Irish-American Heritage Month

2006-03-14T18:50:00.000-05:00

How did I miss this proclamation? Further research indicates that March has been so designated annually since 1991, when the first President Bush made the initial declaration.

Where have been the media announcements, the special interest pieces, the programs dedicated to Irish influence in this country? One wonders.

Here are a couple links of interest, which I have come across before.

http://www.irishamericanheritage.com/
http://www.iaci-usa.org/

Just read and enjoy!

Remember, Irish-Americans should watch “The Quiet Man” on Friday!

Just Try Lye Soap!

2006-03-10T19:39:00.000-05:00

A couple of days ago, I, a real Appalachian Irishman, succumbed to the wiles of modern, left-coast influence--if but for a moment. Yes, I must admit it! You can’t walk down a rain soaked trail without getting a little mud on the back of your pants legs.

I needed a haircut, and my regular barber, who doubles as a used car salesman (what a great job combination!), was already closed. So, not wanting to be accused of being a leftover from the flower power decade, I stopped by one of those barber shop/salon combos. Kind of like a steak and tofu restaurant, it just doesn’t seem natural!

The barber gave me a good haircut for the going rate price. So far, so good. But, he added the little comment about a shampoo that would work well for my salt and pepper grey (variant of gray, for you socialist school graduates) hair. “How much is it?” I asked--suddenly feeling the soft squish of bovine excrement between my toes--for I realized after speaking that I had stepped in it.

Well, the price seemed reasonable, a bit more than my regular who-cares-what-brand-it-is-just-give-me-the-generic shampoo, but not too pricy. “I’ll try it,” I added, as I began to smell the fragrant aroma rising from between my toes.

Okay, after washing my foot, I took the shampoo home and tried it the next morning. Conclusion: stick to the generic shampoo!

Maybe I should just try lye soap! It worked for the old timers!

What say you?

Give Me a Horse and a Dirt Road!

2006-03-09T20:13:00.000-05:00

Any day! I absolutely detest having to drive into the yuppie, slick suit and tie, cappuccino (pronounced ‘cap’ + ‘puck’ + ‘ino’) world of west Knoxville!

Take today for example. First, I-40 westbound--that illustration of eternal suffering in the nether region--had one lane blocked for the perpetual, keep-the-fat-cat-contractors-in-business road construction. To top off the dung heap with a rotten cherry, a wreck had occurred in the now-left-hand-used-to-be-center lane. Dejavu all over again! The same thing happened yesterday!

Second, on the way back (for you government-school educated folks in Farragut, that’s I-40 eastbound), a semi didn’t think that I was speeding sufficiently (just trying to stay in the traffic flow, folks!), so he tried to climb into the bed of my little pickup! I saw his tactic just in time, so I hit the gas to keep him from eating my bumper. Fortunately, I keep a good distance between the driver in front and me, just for such occurrences. (No, I don’t believe in the NASCAR style of riding someone’s windbreak!)

Give me a good horse on a dirt road any day!

What say you?

http://www.othalaacres.com/dirtroads/

Devil's Nose Mountain, Hawkins County

2006-03-07T12:56:00.000-05:00

Ah, so relaxing--the view from the eastern bluff of Devil's Nose in beloved Hawkins County! Get away from the trappings of modern life and wonder how you would live 150 or 200 years ago! The crunch of the leaves under foot, the smell of the cool, fall air, and the beauty of the clear, autumn sky invigorates the soul--making the struggle through the briars not too aggravating.

Yes, yes, the previous posting (below) was a bit salty--overstatement for effect in my political persona. But the true Appalachian native enjoys the woods--hiking, camping, fishing, and hunting. He yearns for simpler times, when family lived and farmed together. You knew your neighbors, and they honestly cared for you. Times were hard, yes, but modern conveniences would not have been missed then--since they weren't around. People worked with their hands, staying better fit than today's "couch pizza." (The potato, being an Irish staple, gets a bad rap. It is rather nutritious!) Churches were not mega-big business-conglomerates but small, rural spiritual families.

Okay, okay, I am romanticizing a bit, yes, but do you not feel the temptation to go back? What say you?

How to Pronounce "Appalachian"

2006-03-06T17:12:00.000-05:00

Well, the Appalachian Irishman is trying to get this site up and running. Hundreds will soon rush to this site--for obvious reasons--so let's start off with a little education on the basics of how to pronounce "Appalachian."

All you foreigners (i.e., Yankee transplants; see below on "Yankee") and New Age mush-minded liberals need to understand how to pronounce "Appalachian."

The Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary (M-W) states that the word may be pronounced two ways: "a-p&-'lA-ch(E-)&n, -'la-, -sh(E-)&n." Now, for you government-school educated "scholars" who were not taught phonetics, the citation makes no sense. So, let's go back to Romper Room. First option: pronounce the "ch" in "Appalachian" as it sounds in "church." Second option: Pronounce the "ch" as a "sh" as is sounds in "shoe." Got that?

Well, even though the dictionary gives you two options, let me tell you right now that you can just pitch out the second option with last night's left over quiche! "Appalachian" is pronounced with a strong "ch"--as anyone from here will tell you! Got that? Good! You can always spot an Appalachian chameleon by the way he mispronounces the word.

By the way, M-W defines “Appalachian” as "a white native or resident of the Appalachian mountain area." Now, far be it for me to disagree with the mighty M-W, but that definition belies a clear Yankee liberal, politically correct bias toward God-fearing conservatives from around here! The word actually refers to any person who lives or used to live in Appalachia and who abides by true southern, Christian conservatism! What is this "white native" fluff, M-W? What happened to the content of character over the color of skin? To a true Appalachian, skin color doesn't matter. Of course, our necks may be a little red from getting out and actually working for a living, but you can be red, yellow, black, brown, or white and still be an Appalachian! Understand?

Oh, regarding "Yankee," there is a difference between a northerner who simply moves into Appalachia and a Yankee! A northerner may have been born somewhere else, but he is proud of Appalachian values, heritage, and culture and tries to fit in, without trying to change us. A Yankee, on the other hand, is a haughty, arrogant, blankety blank who thinks that he knows it all and comes down here to educate us "poor, dumb folks." A Yankee tries to force his politically correct "tolerance" on us (a contradiction in itself), and we just laugh at him behind his back--or do worse if he gets too uppity! Now, do you understand the difference? Good!

Well, that's the lesson for today. Live it and love it!

That is all!