Got rocks?
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Along the Maine coast roads you frequently see open areas generously stocked with boulders and rocks. It reminds one of the rural roads in Ireland. On our drive here, we passed one of these rocky areas and I remarked, “Look at all those rocks! There must be Irish folks around here.” Sure enough, 5 miles down the road there was a road sign that read ‘Belfast, 12 miles.’ When we reached the Belfast outskirts there was a sign advertising a Celtic Festival. Huh! And here I thought I was just being a smartass.
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What is it with the Irish and rocks? I’m half Irish: am I supposed to love rocks? I don’t. I do appreciate mountains and colorful rocks and especially rock formations majestically sculpted by water and wind. But - your average garden variety ho-hum rock - not so much. My brothers and I picked tons of rocks in the fields of our MN farm when we were young. It wasn’t much fun. Furthermore, getting up close and personal with several thousand rocks did not endear them to me in the slightest.
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If you know any Irish folks, best not tell them about my rock heresy. I might be disbarred or excommunicated or defrocked - whatever it is they do with nonconforming Irish lads. Oh! It just hit me: they stone ‘em.
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Stick with me now cuz we’ll be following one of the many poorly marked trails that meander through my sick, twisted mind. Fellow Minnesotan, Bob Dylan, sang ‘Everybody must get stoned.’ I’m guessing here but I suspect Bob is Irish, and that he doesn’t like rocks any more than I do, and that he found about the stoning thing and wrote that song about it. And what did he get for his trouble? He got stoned - over and over, if the rumors are to be believed. The poor devil.
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