Snakes

Let’s get this established right now: I hate snakes. I mean, I scream like a school girl at the sight of one of the black-hearted devils. But, this week, I had no less than two close encounters with the beasts. Both right around my house. I have never known so many snakes close to the house. Must be something in the climate. Perhaps climate change has altered their patterns. Nevertheless, they are here and I have to deal with them. At the beginning of the week there was a corn snake that wanted to use my house as a place of refuge. I discouraged him although I did not kill him. Guess I could have. And, today, an unidentified reptile was the subject of interest of my cats when I noticed it. As much as I dislike the devils, I could not bring myself to kill them. I kept thinking about the ecological benefit that snakes provide. I just have to overcome the fact that they are snakes. Not an easy task. What I have decided is to deal with my own irrational fear and let the snakes be snakes. They don’t seem to want to come in the house and they feed on mice, one my other great fears. So, learn to live with them.

Summer Storm

A strong summer thunderstorm moved through the greater Welch area this afternoon. We received an astounding 2.4” of rain in about an hour. Along with the rain came hail that did some damage to the garden and piled on the back deck as if we were living in the Rockies. The winds that accompanied the storm knocked over two of the Bodines – no simple task given the stability for which the Bodines are famed. Problem with a Bodine being blown over is that it takes the tomato with it. Several of the precious fruits are damaged and will have to stage a dramatic comeback to survive. In addition, several of the peppers were denuded by the hail. The rows stand about a foot high. At one point, though, the tops of the rows were barely visible due to the surge of water that drained across the garden. I watched in horror, knowing there was nothing I could do. After assessing the damage a few minutes ago, I concluded that in a couple of days I will replant a number of things, even a few new tomatoes and peppers. The beans and peas are pretty hardy and should recapture their energy and begin climbing the sticks, again. The potatoes are about to come out so I am not too worried about them. The cabbages, corn, melons, okra and onions seem fine. The squash and zucchini washed away so replanting is on the calendar for Thursday. All the flowers need replanting with the exception of the volunteer zinnias and the breath-taking daisies that are absolutely showing out and survived the storm still in bloom. Even though it was disheartening to see the garden ripped and drowned, the storm was magnificent! During the height of the storm, poor ol’ Daisy whined about the rain, thunder and lighting. I let her in and she laid down in the living room. Then, when the storm moved away, she was ready to return to the front porch. Likewise, as I was surveying the damage, all the cats joined in the inspection tour. It was funny to see the kittens playing in the rain run-off. I checked on the chickens and they were smart enough to take shelter in their houses. After the storm passed, they were out scratching and pecking the ground. So, there you have it. A summer storm passes through and, temporarily, all of our behaviors change. And, our schedule changes for the rest of the week. What a welcomed change of pace.

Joke Time

This is WitchWoman's and my favorite joke. An elderly couple is rocking on the front porch. The lady stops, looks at the old man, and says: One of us needs to die so that I can go live with my sister. Rat-ta-tat... thank you... I will be here all week...

Strange signs

I am perplexed by strange signs that appeared today. These are signs that might portend something is out of the ordinary in Welch. The first was at breakfast. I cracked a particularly large brown egg that I gathered from my chickens early this morning. What appeared but a two yoke egg. It was delicious. But, does it mean something? Two-yoke eggs are fairly rare. Here I picked one out of the morning haul and was treated to this pleasing sight. Surely this must mean something good. Then, a little after 7 am, the ever-faithful and vigilant Daisy, veteran guard dog she is, raised all sorts of hell when workmen appeared on the highway side of the property. Naturally, I hiked up to determine their intent and method. Come to find out they are from Charter Communications and are installing fiber optic cable up and down the highway. In a few short months, I will have high speed internet, multi-channel cable and crystal clear telephone services delivered to my home should I decide to subscribe. Internet is a problematic feature out here in the country. The way I access the cyber-super highway is through an air card for which I pay a premium each month. Even then, the air card provides weak connectivity and is not reliable. Access to high speed fiber optics will be a welcomed addition to country living. The third and final sign occurred a few minutes ago as I was enjoying an adult beverage on the back deck while delighting in a chorus of frogs and crickets as the fireflies buzzed in the pasture. I thought for a moment that there was lightening in the distance but there is a distinct lack of clouds this evening. After an initial moment of confusion, I remembered that workmen are putting the final touches on a cell tower at the other end of the big curve on the highway. Less than a quarter of a mile from my house, a new tower now stands and atop it is a beacon. What I thought was lighting is that very same beacon putting out a warning flash to air traffic. For me, it was as if a storm was brewing. So, what to make of these strange occurrences? Double yokes, fiber optic connectivity and improved cell telephone services. Is change crashing in on Welch? Is the world turning without me noticing? Is it the end or the beginning? If you get up every day and pay a little attention to stuff happening around you, it is amazing what you will find. I guess I should include in my list of astonishments today that I found the corn I planted three weeks ago is coming up as is the okra. Neither was expected. In fact, I discovered the corn sprouts when I was preparing to replant the rows. There it was, about an inch high, green and fresh, full of Nature’s desire to live on. Same for the okra. I have never been successful in producing much okra. If even half of this survives I will be wrapped up in the stuff in a month or so. What to make of all this? A priest of mine years ago told me that the early church never questioned miracles, rather they focused on what they meant. By contrast, modern man questions the very existence of miracles. I am not saying that what happened today was miraculous. I just wonder what all these strange things mean.

Expecting too much

In my morning prayers this morning at Mass, I asked that God give me a word of direction for my life. I petitioned the God of Hosts to give my priest, the very lovely Father Al, the words that would give me direction, words that would set my path on the right path. After my prayers, I settled in for the appreciated and comforting liturgy. To my surprise, Father Al did not deliver. There was nothing in his homily that spoke to me. It was all about mothers and Moses’ mother and Solomon and stuff that did not speak to me. It was most disappointing to me. After Mass, I realized that my “demand” that God perform was arrogant, as usual. I am left to my own devices, just as God intended. All I really want is some direction. But, supposing that it would come to me serendipitously is absurd. Father Al had no idea that I had laid such a burden on him nor would he have responded if he had. To carry the disappointment even further, The Old Goat assumed that I had forgotten about him today. He drove to my house to ask about lunch. At the same time, I was preparing sauce for spaghetti, from scratch. He was convinced that I had forgotten him. It demonstrate show I don’t get much credit for the care I provide him. The Old Goat transmits his wishes through Tinker who seems particularly attuned to his needs. I guess I never developed the sensitivity to TOG’s inner most thoughts. Nor do I plan to develop such sensitivity. One of the ladies in my church used eggs she bought from me to make deviled eggs. She brought them to church today and after Mass a number of us boys gathered around the snack table to scarf up the delicious offerings. The deviled eggs and the finger bologna sandwiches went fast. Pretty good stuff. Making deviled eggs out of really fresh eggs is difficult. The lady who made them told me that she punches a hole in the eggs before she boils them. That way, they peel easily. I will give it a try. You try it and let me know if it works for you.

Authentic Men Hall of Fame

One of my favorite former students and I began a conversation years ago about authentic men. It seems to me that the dialogue began about the same time that the term metrosexual was making its debute. The student and I were reacting to a minor, almost inperceptible, academic dust-up over the future of boys and the general resignation that the era of "real" men was over. John Wayne was dead. Gary Cooper was dead. Teddy Roosevelt was dead. At the time, the most "manly" men on the scene were Bill Clinton (he of $200 haircuts), Bob Dole (he of Viagra fame) and Sean Penn (a terrific Harvey Milk). The result of our conversation lead to the proposition that there had to be authentic men to serve as role models for the rest of us. Characteristics of the authentic man would include the ability to survive on one's wits without crying like a school girl. The authentic man knows something about tools and how to use them. He knows how to clean up. He does not present tatoos as the best means of enunciating his world view. He does not behave as a knuckle-dragging bafoon. He usually avoids face paint, anything camo, and NASCAR. Mostly, he likes to test himself, to find out the depth of his spirit. He is not necessarily committed to making the world better. In fact, it might be that the authentic man turns his back on the world and lives reconciled to forces of Nature that are not silly, petty or cheap. To date, there are seven inductees into the Authentic Men Hall of Fame. The first member, unanimously elected, was

Henry David Thoreau. The second class included

Constantine Shanklin (actually Nevil Shute, Shanklin's real life counterpart),

Earnest Shackleton and

John Muir. Inducted since are

Capt. James Buchanan Eads and

John Wesley Powell. Our newest member is

Dick Proennecke. Nominations are welcome but please understand that my former student and I reserve the right to reject any nominee. When I mentioned the Authentic Men Hall of Fame to WitchWoman, I got an ear-full. She did not like it one tiny bit. And, after kicking my ass for a while, I finally conceded that it should be the Authentic Person Hall of Fame. Which means that I am automatically disqualified for induction to the Authentic Men Hall of Fame. There is no room in the Authentic Men Hall of Fame for a milk-toast who folds like a cheap suit case when challenged by a stinking woman. I don't know much about sociology. Never took any courses in the discipline. But, I believe our society will reap different fruit than expected from nuturing a generation of boys without manly men as heroes and role models. I am at the age that I no longer care if I am viewed as a neaderthal. Maybe I am listening to too much country music -- no gender confusion there -- and trying to live a simple life but it seems to me that Walt Kowalski (from Gran Torino) would be more valuable to society now than Chaz Bono. Make sure you hear what I am saying. I am not talking about sexuality. A manly man is about attitude. Making sexuality the defining characteristic that categorizes us is short-sighted. A gay man who can fix a leaking drain, prepare a tasty dinner, act to protect his home and loved ones, and mets his social obligations is as eligible for induction to the Hall as a straight dude who does the same. Sexuality is a convenient label employed by the lazy. More than anything else, what I am saying with this post is that there is no reason to apologize for being a man. There are differences between the sexes. Good. Variety makes for a more interesting life. Strong men will make strong women. Just as the tide raises all boats, honoring the best of men does not diminish any women. In fact, it has nothing to do with women. Imagine that, I can use this phrase that I have wanted to use for most of my adult life: "hey, it ain't about you."

Emily is dying

One of the Bronte sisters is dying. It is Emily but, I admit, it is difficult to tell them apart. She is hold up in the house, sitting on her perch with eyes closed. She is slowly fading away. I made the rookie mistake of naming my chickens. The three Orpingtons I named the Bronte sisters. They are big-breasted, Rubinesque, lusty, and always looking for a quick snack. Good layers who produced big, fat brown eggs. Now, Emily is dying. When chickens are dying, they remove themselves from the flow of events in the hen house. Sometimes, they will hid their heads and crouch in a corner. They quit eating. They don’t drink water. When I went into the house on Sunday I found Emily disengaged, glassy eyed, and looking as if she had given up. I knew in an instant that it was over for her. She was saying her good-byes. She continues to remain detached and sinking today. I expect her to die within the next 48 to 72 hours. I have buried a number of aged chickens who died in the same way. I prefer this to me chopping off their heads. Old birds have lived long enough to deserve more respect than ending up in a stock pot. I am sorry to see Emily go but I prefer she have her end in her way rather than mine. When she passes, I will dig a grave near the stream that feeds the lake and place her in it. The Old Goat says that animals don't have souls. He learned that from Jimmy Swaggert. As far as I am concerned, I will bury Emily and I will ask God to accept her into His hen house, trusting that He recognizes her authetic heart and genuine nature.

The Not-So-Simple Life

Tinker's middle child, George, married over the weekend. The box scores for Tinker's kids are: 4 marriages, 2 divorces, 7 children. By comparison, the numbers for my kids are: 2 kids, 0 marriages, 0 children. Hummm. I have to remind myself that life is more than a numbers game. More than what I have yet to figure out. For sure, success is measured by accumulated assets. The guy who ends up with the most stuff wins, right? I've mentioned my on-going wrestling match with the Scriptural reference to the "lilies of the field." And, also previously discussed, Thoreau's advise to simplify, simplify, simplify haunts me. So, last week while spending some time on the Coast I had a conversation with Rick, a small business owner from Kansas. As the conversation unfolded, it was obvious that I am not making much sense. Rick questioned why I removed the air conditioners from my house. It gets hotter than Hades here in mid-summer. He challenged my refusal to use petro-chemicals on my garden. I lose a significant part of my produce to bugs, weeds and fungi. And, when I told him about my make-shift outdoor shower, I felt as if I was showing my Luddite credentials. My in-door shower works perfectly well. I have been thinking about all this stuff about living the simple life. Even though I am making a nod to the simple life, I have not made a full committment to it. I try to grow much of my food but I routinely patronize the grocery. I still use electricity and continue to watch television and listen to radio. Obviously, I fire up my computer every day. If I were to calculate my "stuff" it would not support any claim that I might make to living a simple life. This self-evaluation is disappointing. Here I thought I was making some progress to an ideal. Instead, upon serious and sober examination, the evidence produces a different conclusion. This means it is back to the drawing board to figure out what the hell I am doing. This does tell me that living a simple life is no where as simple as it may sound in theory. I spent some time with the Buddhists and now I wonder how a Buddhist would view the life I lead? Is it authentic? Is the life I lead one that rests with itself? Am I living a life of simplicity? Thing is, simplicity is not about denial necessarily. Just as the Buddhist life is not about self-denial. Rather, a simple life is about opting for different demands and priorities. Instead of fulfilling a list of chores, the simple life calls one to see the joy in elemental things. I made a note to myself this morning how it felt to fill the chickens' water jugs. The richness of the experience is made essential when it is considered in its fundamental parts. The clear, cold water, the swirl of the flow of the water, the weight of the filled jugs, the welcomed relief the filled jug brought to the chickens. They are, after all, captives under my control. I never really thought of them as such but it is true. Had I decided not to fill the jugs, another life form would have suffered from my indifference. Is the simple life not considering the discreet acts of everyday life and how they fit into a broader flow of events? It is not about rejecitng but accepting something different. A divergent path that seeks to find the joy in mundane experience. Sometimes when I am walking and I am tired, I focus on my legs and will them to move. I am exhilerated by the willful movement of my muscles and can feel my body respond to the focus I am giving it. In that instant, I am not working on a project, I am focusing on movement. At times, I swear, I can feel the blood course though my legs and can feel the tendons and muscles contract and relax as I propel myself forward. There is exquisite pain and pleasure in it. That is essential. That is real. That is simple. In all of its complexity, to take a step and move forward is a remarkable event that deserves celebration. Yet, normally I do it dumbly and without thought or recognition of its miraculous nature. What I generally do is focus on the task at hand without regard to the elemental parts that accomplish it. That is the ultimate rejection of living the simple life. It is not about things. The simple life has never been about things. It is about the mind. A person with lots of things can lead a simple life. A person with nothing can lead a simple life. Thoreau would have lead the simple life even without Walden Pond. Jesus lead the simple life even with the crowds of Palm Sunday. Ghandi would have lead the simple life even without the British.

Fat

I am fat. More appropriately, I am getting fatter. Before I went off to Iraq, I was a trim 150 pounds. Now I am a regular hog tipping the scales at 175. For years, I wore 32 waist size pants. Now I struggle to get into 36s. My God, what a blob! I can feel how fat I am. It is like I am carrying around a Mini-Me. My gut hangs over my pants, I can’t contain it. Fat, blubber, repugnant and disgusting lard, hanging off me. What happened? I work harder now that I have in years. I sweat like a whore in church practically every day. I don’t eat junk food. True, I do consume a fair amount of alcohol. How could something so beneficial be the problem? It is true that I quit smoking a few years ago and that might have contributed to my ballooning. But, this much? At one point in my adult life, I weighed in at 133. I was told once that I looked like something out of a concentration camp. Strangely, that appealed to me. During those days, I could eat anything without fear of gaining an ounce. Now, if I look at a doughnut, I gain pounds by osmosis. I cannot remember the last time I ate a doughnut. And, remember, this is the South, home of Krispy Kreme, the original fat pills. Now, if I eat a single Hersey Kiss, I will gain a couple of pounds AND get zits on my chin. True. Chocolate goes directly to my chin and erupts with a gross looking pimple. Image, a man my age with pimples? If I ever get hauled into court for eating chocolate, all the prosecution will have to do is point to my chin for the evidence. The complexion never lies. I do not like being a hog. I feel cumbersome, bloated, awkward. Since I believe we are what we eat, my weight has nothing to do with my physical labors. I have cut back on bread and pastas. I eat lots of vegetables and fruits. I avoid sweets and snacks. I try to eat a good breakfast and a modest lunch. I usually drink dinner. But when I do have an evening meal, it is usually something grilled with lots of vegetables. It hardly seems fair that I should enter my golden years as a fat pig. All those years as a slim chap now are memories. I wonder if the stores have husky jeans for old farts? Mostly, my weight is an assault on my self-image. I still see myself as a strapping blade, trim and comfortable in his skin. But, in reality, I am a hulking ogre, close to breaking into profuse sweating and grunting. In the profound words of Cosmo Kramer, “look away, look away, I am hideous…”

Keeping the Election in Perspective

Several months ago, I wrote the following stuff. I guess I just forgot to post it but I suspect that I dipped my beak in the Scotch and plain out forgot to post it. I wrote this early in this year's charade we call the election. You can tell from the events, I was not imporessed then which matches how I feel now. Reading this today makes me wonder how I became so cynical? I think I have been paying far too much attention to these morons who run the joint. They really don't deserve the attention. It only encourages them. Anyway, here is what I wrote last year (at the end of October 2011) and I haven't changed my mind, yet. Interesting day. Herman Cain is the subject of sexual harassment charges. So what. That is what I say. So what. The Hermanator and Clarance Thomas together don’t make an afternoon of Bill Clinton. Case closed. Jesus, give me a break. I feel sorry for Politico who I suspect wants to be taken seriously in the future. They can just about forget it. Pathetic.

Meanwhile, O’Bama is trying to buy off the student vote with relaxed repayment plans for federal loans. Hey, anybody notice that the unemployment rate is over 9%? Who gives a whack about student loans when so many people don’t have jobs? Mark your calendar, it is the 31st of October and I am predicting that O’Bama gets his ass kicked in the November 2012 election. He is this generation’s Jimmy Carter.

Of course, leave it to the Republicans to spoil a great prediction. No party in American history has demonstrated the ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory like the Republicans. In 2008, how could you not defeat a mediocre state senator from Illinois who didn’t (and doesn’t) know his ass from a hole in the ground? Well, the Republicans figured out a way to lose that election. What a bunch of dumb asses. They are responsible for O’Bama. And, left to their own devices, they could very well do it again in 2012.

I have studied politics all of my adult life. There has not been a point in my life when I have been as cynical of the American political system. It is so thoroughly bankrupt. I am not sure it is capable of cleansing itself. O’Bama is the end of the line. If we actually get worse than this, there is absolutely no hope.

Don’t for a moment think that I am advocating for a Republican president. The Republicans are just as worthless as the Democrats. An election in the US today is a genuine choice between two evils. Both are awful. Maybe it is time we suspend government for a while. Surely it could not be worse than what we currently endure? Think of it, a break from presidents and congresses. No crises to endure. Of course, the cable news channels will go out of business. Without the foolishness of the government, there would be little to report. The state governments can continue because they actually provide a few services. Not many, though. It used to be that the states funded agricultural extension services. Now it is a figment of your imagination. The county agent in my county is a beef agent. She doesn’t have a clue about vegetables and could not care less. If she went away for a while, I would not be adversely affected. I never see the sheriff and have chronicled here how ineffectual law enforcement has been regarding transgressions on my land. So, if the sheriff went away for a while, I doubt if I would notice. Especially since I have loaded 30-06 standing by. It may be the appropriate time for government to just go away for awhile. Enough of your non-sense, enough of your ego-centric posturing, enough of your election-year charades. The gig is simply up. You sons of bitches are out.

Time for a new boss. (Same as the old boss…we won’t get fooled again, yeah, right.). While I am in favor of democracy, I share James Madison’s fear of it. Democracy destroys itself. “Hence it is that such democracies have ever been spectacles of turbulence and contention; have ever been found incompatible with personal security or the rights of property; and, have in general been as short in their lives as they have been violent in their deaths.” [Federalist 10] We Americans have been a great experiment. It just hasn’t worked out. Our greed and our laziness got in the way. We grew tired of keeping a sharp eye on our politicians. We let the bastards get away with murder. And they have. That is how I explain O’Bama. No rational nation would elect such an amateur to its highest office. An indifferent nation would.

Bottom line: we are screwed. Regardless of how 2012 turns out.

High Pressure Farming

High pressure farming. That is what I call it. Behind in planting with rain in the forecast. Now is the time to get the seeds in the ground. Delay and it could be a week before you get back in field. So, it all comes down to getting it all done right now. High pressure farming. To complicate things, I am a slow and deliberate farmer. Not exactly a Luddite but I do like hand-work. There is no room in high pressure farming for hand-work or slow and deliberative days. I made a couple of compromises under the circumstances. I used the tractor to lay out my rows. Normally, I use a shovel. I did not go as far as planting watermelons and cantaloupes in rows; I hung on to my principles and planted them in mounds, each with a generous wreath of mulch to preserve precious moisture and ward off excessive heat. I stuck to soaking the okra seeds overnight before planting. The corn went in after soil preparation was done completely by tractor. Until I get a pump and water lines installed to bring water from the lake to the field, I am do selective watering. I discovered that by using a hand-operated bilge pump (the type used on small boats), I can half fill the water tight utility trailer I attach to the lawn tractor. It sloshes about a bit but I get to the field with most of the water still in the trailer. Once on site, I use the hand pump to fill water cans that can then provide liquid sustenance to plants in dire straits. It takes some time but is good water-saving strategy. I mulch heavily in hopes that water demands will decrease. As a general rule, mulching helps achieve that goal. Last year was dry but my tomatoes produced a bumper crop without me watering them. The mulch aided in holding on to more of the rain we did receive. Mr. Jimmy down at the liquor store told me that it is going to be another dry year. That means more mulch, continued use of the bilge pump, and hauling water with the yard tractor. Then, long term, pump water from the lake. The forecast does call for increased chances of showers. Now that I am finished with the corn, okra and melons, I am hoping we get a good rain. As a reward for holding up under High Pressure Farming conditions, I treated myself to a margarita and an Aleve for dinner.

The Original "Roll Alabama"

Long before frenzied fans bellowed for the Crimson Tide to roll, ale-swilling sailors and fellow-travelers gustily sang the sad tale of the CSS Alabama. By all accounts, the CSS Alabama was a terror of the high seas to Yankee shipping during the Civil War. The Alabama sent Union ships to Davy Jones locker from Texas to North Carolina. While in Cherbourg, France, in 1864 the Alabama was surprised by the USS Kearsage. The Alabama met a watery grave. The ship took on legendary status and was soon memorialized in song. Here is some timely art work to illustrate this post.

This is a depiction of the USS Kearsage sinking the CSS Alabama off Cherbourg, France, in 1964. I think it is an artist conception since this was a long time before CNN or FoxNews. The rest of this story is that I had never heard of the song until a friend of mine brought it to my attention. The chap was none other than Trevor Killen, once introduced to the Alabama Legislature as the ambassador of Northern Ireland. Trevor is, indeed, from Northern Ireland and a devotee of all-things Alabama. We became close friends over a bottle of Scotch while both of us were in Basra, Iraq. If I could figure out how to make the record function work on my computer, I would sing into this blasted machine and share this wonderful song with you. While planting corn today, Trevor leaped into my mind. Funny how that stuff works, huh? Trevor was part of the team that created the economic boom in Ireland several years ago. Unfortunately, poor Ireland is now falling on hard times. As a representative of the Northern Ireland governing authority, Trevor was sent on a goodwill mission to the United States. All this happened in the 1980s. He was treated well on his tour but when he got to Alabama, he fell in love. He related to me that he was treated as if he were royalty. Amazing what doors an Irish accent will open. When he got to Montgomery, he was invited to address a joint session of the Alabama Legislature. That was when he was introduced as an ambassador. What a guy! Here are the words of the song honoring the CSS Alabama. You can thank Trevor for providing them. By the way, he dictated the words of the song to me. I call that close to being a miracle since he remembered them and I was able to write them down in long hand on the back of an envelope after we polished off a terrific 12-year old bottle of Scotch. God bless the Irish. They scoff at weepy concerns of alcoholism and bravely provide guidance for a thirsty world. Trevor is one of my household heroes. Roll Alabama Roll When the Alabama's keel was laid Roll, Alabama, Roll It was laid in the yards of Jonathan Laird O roll, Alabama, roll It was laid in the yards of Jonathan Laird It was laid in the town of Birkenhead Down the Mersey way she sailed then And Liverpool fitted her with guns and men Down the Mersey way she then sailed forth To destroy the commerce of the North To Cherbourg port she sailed one day To collect her share of the prize money And many a sailor lad he met his doom When the Kearsage appeared in view A shot from the forward pivot that day Blew the Alabama's stern away Off the three mile limit in sixty-four The Alabama went to her grave Trevor, my friend, I pray that the road always rises in front of you and that the wind is always at back. When you tire of the Emeral Isle, come on home to Alabama.