This is a true story. It might seem like it wouldn’t be true. But it is.
In 1995, my wife Barb and I were driving along a road in Ireland when it was time to start looking for a B&B for the night. We liked to stay in villages and towns so we’d have somewhere to walk in the evenings after we were settled. I saw a sign and trying to be helpful, suggested a possible destination.
“What about Tipperary?” I asked. Barb got out the big road map, spread it across her lap and studied it carefully.
And then, in a response that will live on in Hagarty lore for many generations, she replied: “I don’t know. It’s a long way.”
I responded, “It’s a long way to Tipperary?” and a second or two passed before the realization of what she had said washed over her and her face turned redder than a freckled Irish lad’s hair.
Of course, I never remind her of the incident. Who could be so callous?
I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.
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