This public journal and commentary by M. Fearghail started on 3/6/2006. As a Christian, I affirm the biblical worldview and the good in Appalachian-Irish heritage. Articles are archived chronologically by topic and by year and month. Have a cup of coffee and read for a while! My website is free—always. You're welcome to subscribe, contact me, and comment. My wife and I reside in northeast Tennessee. Under “Authors,” our names include biographical introductions.
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!
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 above photograph 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!
We had winter in East Tennessee last season. It came on two weekends, with snow on consecutive weekends in February.
Finally, after downloading them from my camera, here are a few shots from a winter wonderland on House Mountain! I took the photographs on 2/12/2006. Enjoy! I took more photographs, but this platform allowed only five for some reason.
Born at 5:08 PM, weighing 9 pounds and 15 ounces 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!
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!
Mrs. Appalachian Irishman, as I have admitted before, is a patient, long-suffering 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. 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, and so forth. 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 “guvernment edukashun!”
What say you?
“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!” 
“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?
The Knoxville Civic Coliseum was the site.
The year was 1979. Kiss 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. Gene Simmons, Paul Stanley, Peter Criss, and Ace 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! I have great shot, of Gene Simmons 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” (as I nicknamed her) was graduating (as the only National Merit Scholarship Finalist in the class, I might add). Several family members were seated, on 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, from my youth, but I relish the love, of my dear, long-suffering wife and of those around us. Have I graduated?
What say you?
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. 
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?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. (See the article, “Hanging Up My Shingles (published 5-14-2006).” 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!
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?
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. Furthermore, they leave willingly, when it is time to go. On occasion, an invited neighbor acts out of turn or overstays 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, and 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 hurting us physically, but Father didn’t care. He just noticed how the uninvited neighbors washed his car so well.
Some family members 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?
Chicken Pox Part Deux? Varicella zoster is the 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 I could see the doctor! “Well, with my HSA health insurance plan, I pay doctor’s office visits, for a reduced premium,” as 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 us money first, before we help you, doctor’s office. I told, politely, the one brain cell babe that I didn’t like her approach. I 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 neither 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 I've 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?
