Pickin’, shellin’ and tellin’

Tomatoes “Make sure they’re not too soft, boy. I don’t want tomato juice all over the backseat of my Buick.” My first lesson in choosing tomatoes, around 1972. I think about those words from my grandfather every summer as tomatoes, green beans and other fresh vegetables become so plentiful.

Granddaddy had spent fifty years working on the railroad, first in Louisville, Mississippi, then in Jackson, Tennessee.  He started before the Gulf, Mobile & Northern merged with the Mobile & Ohio to become the Gulf, Mobile and Ohio. He retired when the GM&O merged with the Illinois Central. By the end of his career, he was Master Mechanic at the Iselin Shop in Jackson and in charge of the GM&O mechanical operations in five states. While he said he retired because he didn’t like the idea of a GM&O-IC partnership, his age and health also played a part in his decision.

I will always be grateful that he moved to Pascagoula, Mississippi to live out his last years with my family. He had an apartment with a little front porch in our backyard. Come summertime, my mother would give Granddaddy and me the assignment to fetch fresh

My Granddaddy, Dewey Pittman, beside his prized Buick LeSabre

My Granddaddy, Dewey Pittman, beside his prized Buick LeSabre

vegetables for her to cook for supper. I had just learned to drive and he and I would pile into his 1967 Buick LeSabre, of which he was so proud, and hit the road in search of goodies for the table. My parents figured that I could get practice driving without too much danger since that car was about as big and strong as a GM&O RS-3 diesel locomotive.

Our favorite spot was a vegetable stand near Tillman’s Corner, just across the Alabama line. We’d get on Old Highway 90 and and point the snout of that big Buick toward the east and light out with all eight cylinders rumbling under the hood. I was driving on the “4-lane,” by then but Granddaddy and I preferred the scenery on the old coast highway to Interstate 10, the quicker route. We would pass yards with chickens in them and old service stations still operating with pumps that had the little ball at the top that vibrated and looked like a bubble as gasoline flowed through the hose. Eventually, we’d stop at the vegetable stand.

Continuing education

I got quite the extracurricular education on how to pick the best looking tomatoes, butter beans and black-eyed peas. “Be sure to get a few sorta green tomatoes, so they’ll ripen as the week goes on,” Granddaddy would say. “You don’t want ‘em to get ripe all at once.”

Copy of the timetable of "The Little Rebel," Granddaddy's favorite train

Copy of the timetable of “The Little Rebel,” Granddaddy’s favorite train

My coursework continued once we got back home and spent the next day or so shelling beans and black-eyed peas on his porch. As our fingers turned a little blue with the stains from pea shells, we talked about life. He told me stories like the one about the old engineer whose daughter and son-in-law had presented him with a cigarette lighter engraved with his initials on one side and a steam locomotive on the other. The proud engineer showed the lighter to everyone in the railroad shop before his next run. The next day, Granddaddy saw him lighting up with a wooden match. “Where’s your fancy lighter?” Granddad asked. “Well, I was so used to tossing dead matches out the window of the cab,” the engineer said, “I accidentally tossed my new lighter out as we went over a trestle.”

Or the one about the diner in Cairo, Illinois where a railroad man named Yankee Johnson advised Granddaddy to, “Tap that apple pie on the top with your fork before you eat it.” When Granddaddy asked why, Yankee, who stuttered, replied, “If a r-r-roach d-d-don’t run out of the p-p-pie, that means he’s still in there!”

When I told Granddaddy that some buddies and I had started a band, he said, “Who’s the leader of this awk’stra?” He seemed impressed that I would be the bandleader and then told me about the time my grandmother had made him take her to see “that Russian Sympathy” in concert. His personal musical preference leaned more toward Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs than classical “sympathy” concerts.

So now when I head for the farmers market in search of tomatoes, I make sure to pick a few ripe ones and a few green ones. And I’ve never ended up with tomato juice on the backseat before I got home.

Click here to listen to Dewey’s Tune, a song Les wrote about his grandfather.

Text and photos copyright 2013 by Les Kerr. Visit www.leskerr.com

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Stan Lee’s Fury

When Marvel Comics founder Stan Lee died this week most reports of his death included the super hero characters he created, such as Spider Man, The Incredible Hulk and the Fantastic Four. But the Lee creations that helped me get through summer camp and learn the importance of loyalty and justice all wore military uniforms. In the 1960s, I was addicted to the comic book series featuring Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos, a rough, tough U.S. Army unit fighting the Nazis during World War II. Although they had no super human qualities, they represented the machismo and bravado necessary to whip Adolf Hitler’s army pretty much all by themselves.

I collected and kept each issue I could find so I could go back and read about the exploits of Sgt. Fury again and again. At twelve- to fifteen-cents per copy, the price was even in a nine-year-old’s budget. Stan Lee was credited with writing many of the stories. The personality of each commando demonstrated Lee’s desire to show many sides of America to elementary school students like me. “Reb” was a Kentuckian whose dialogue bubbles exuded a southern drawl.  “Dum Dum,” the tough guy, spoke with the grammar of stereotypical black and white movie boxers of the 1950s. “Gabe,” the unit’s black member, had been a jazz trumpeter in civilian life and “Dino” and “Izzy” represented New York’s Hell’s Kitchen and America’s Jewish culture. It is my belief that Lee wanted his young readers to know that people of all backgrounds could work together for a common cause.

I was so impressed with Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos, I named my dog “Sergeant,” when my step-father found him in the woods near his Jackson, Mississippi marina and brought him home to me. The canine Sergeant proved to be just as loyal and upright as his comic book namesake. He also lived up to the name of Sgt. Fury’s unit when he chose to howl.

Beyond the story lines, some of the most entertaining parts of all comic books were found in the advertisements. The ads for Charles Atlas-style body building programs made all of us kids feel inferior. Kits to start million dollar businesses by selling flower seeds and greeting cards made young would-be entrepreneurs yearn to succeed. And, of course, I would still like to have a pair of “genuine” X-Ray glasses.

Through Sgt. Fury, Stan Lee proved that unbelievable super powers were not imperative in a person’s quest to do right. Fury’s commandos didn’t miraculously fly through the air or leap twenty feet in the blink of an eye. They fought real, historical injustice, teaching a little history along the way.

Text and photos copyright 2018 by Les Kerr.

Click photo to order Les Kerr’s new live CD!

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Playing Guy Clark’s guitars

With Guy Clark holding a guitar he built.

With Guy Clark holding a guitar he built.

On a September morning in 2013, I found myself in the home of a hero. I had come to Guy Clark’s house to interview him for a column in 2nd & Church, a quarterly literary magazine published for several years in Nashville. Guy is one of the songwriters I admire most and I have followed his work since the mid-1980s. Sitting at a table with him in his home talking about songwriting was something I could never have imagined those years ago when I discovered his music for myself.

The theme for the magazine issue was Ernest Hemingway. Guy co-wrote the song Hemingway’s Whiskey. He had some interesting comments about the man considered by some to be America’s greatest 20th Century author. But this is about my experience of being with a songwriting hero.

Guy Clark not only played guitars, he built them. I asked if there were similarities between writing songs and building guitars. “Sometimes I draw that comparison,” he said. “You have to take care with what you’re doing. I like to think of writing songs as art and poetry and at times, I feel that building guitars is the same thing. Except writing is so cerebral. You’re just sitting there staring out a window trying to come up with something from a pocket full of bar napkins from the night before. I’ve got one bar napkin that says, ‘my life was a blank bar napkin ‘til I met you.’”

As we continued to talk he reached toward a Flamenco-style guitar near him, handed it to me and said, “Check this one out. That may be my favorite.” I had told him that I had played some of his songs about the Texas Gulf Coast when I played clubs along the upper Gulf frequently in the 1980s and 1990s. He asked which ones so I played him a little of Blowin’ Like a Bandit, his song about shrimping. I played one verse and realized that there I was, playing a Guy Clark song for Guy Clark. On a guitar Guy Clark had built that he may consider his favorite. In Guy Clark’s house. Wow.

The label inside the instrument was unlike any I had seen before. “I prick my little finger and smear blood on the label and then sign through it,” he said.

Then, when I thought life couldn’t get any better, he handed me a steel-string that he had also built. “I also build these to play on stage, but not this particular one.” It had no strap-pin or electronics for amplification. “That one sounds so good, I decided to keep it in the house,” Guy said.

“Do you mind if I put a pick to it,” I asked and he said, “Sure. That’s what you’re s’posed to do.” I pulled a pick from my pocket and played him one of my songs, Old Lighthouse.

“Thank you very much for letting me play your guitars,” I said as I handed it back to him. “Oh sure,” he replied, “I love it when other people play ‘em.”

In his song Dublin Blues, Guy refers to witnessing excellence in viewing Michelangelo’s David and da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, not to mention hearing Doc Watson pick the Columbus Stockade Blues. In my own case, I haven’t seen David or Mona Lisa. But I have heard Doc Watson play Columbus Stockade Blues and many other songs and I agree with Guy about that. Now, I’ve had a visit with Guy Clark and the opportunity to play his guitars. For me, that ranks right up there with anybody’s milestones of excellent experiences.

Text and photos copyright 2013, 2018 by Les Kerr.

Les Kerr-CMA Music Fest

Click this photo for a video of “Old Lighthouse.”


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In reverence of reverie

Are “devices” “the vices” of our age? No. It is our dependence upon anything with a screen that seems to make them so.

As an independent career person, I strive to  to lead a balanced life between personal happiness and success as an entertainer and freelance writer. Through books and podcasts by career coaches Michael Hyatt, Ariel Hiatt, Seth Godin and Dan Miller, I picked up some tips that have really helped.

In 2011, I began making lists each night of my day’s successes and what I needed to do the following day. When I heard Miller say that Henry Ward Beecher called the morning’s activities during the first hour, “The rudder of the day,” I began to take a serious look at what I did upon waking. Instead of going straight to my phone or computer to check messages and see if I need to put out fires, I now read as I drink coffee. My morning fare always includes a short devotion from a book by Presbyterian minister P.J. Southam and a bit of the Bible.  If time permits, I’ll read part of a book or a newspaper.

Reclaiming Conversation author Sherry Turkle, songwriter Les Kerr

More recently, I read a book called Reclaiming Conversation by Sherry Turkle. Its basic premise is that technology isn’t bad, it is our addiction to it that is causing people to literally avoid talking to one another if they can send a text message or an e-mail instead. (Aside: to me, the word “text” is not a verb. It describes printed words.) My friend Dr. Randy Cross invited me to a conference at Calhoun Community College in Decatur, AL to listen to Professor Turkle speak and to meet her. She was fascinating and illuminated the issue that seems to be an epidemic.

Considering all of this input on the non-stop inundation of information which can consume us all if we let it, I wrote a simple song called In Reverence of Reverie. I sing it to remind myself to take a deep breath, look around, appreciate my surroundings and never pass up the opportunity to look someone in the eye, have a conversation, shake a hand or offer (or receive) a hug.

Click image to see video of Les performing In Reverence of Reverie

In Reverence of Reverie
Words and Music by Les Kerr

In reverence of reverie, I’m turning off my phone
There I’ll be with all my thoughts
So I won’t be alone                                                                             
No multi-tasking, reply-asking
Message on a screen
I’ll be aware of what is there
A moment just for me

So many think they’re on the brink 
if they have to converse
Face-to-face seems out of place
To them, there’s nothing worse
Than speaking without tweaking
And no edits before, “Send.”
But there’s a choice: a sound, a voice
A smile from a dear friend

Devices have divided us; 
We can’t see eye to eye
It’s text or instant message, 
Information on the fly
Avoiding all emotion, 
We just pass along the facts
And if we need to laugh or cry, 
We’ll find an app for that

I’d like to say we’ll see a day 
Not built upon the trends
Of social mediocrity 
And never-present friends
It’s haunting and it’s daunting
But there is hope, in the end
Let’s ditch the hype. 
Let’s talk, not type,
And we’ll be better friends
In reverence of reverie, 
I’m turning off my phone

Words and Music Copyright 2016 
By Les Kerr/O.N.U. Music (ASCAP)
Click to download song In Reverence of Reverie

Click for Les Kerr's complete 
online music catalogue.

Text and photos copyright 2016 by Les Kerr.

Originally published July, 2017.

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The memorial service at a little West Tennessee country church was followed by fried chicken, green beans and potato salad. Mixed in between the homemade banana bread and sweet tea were, “It’s good to see you,” “How have you been,” and “Nice to meet you,” many times over. Laughs and stories about those who were and weren’t there triggered a few rolled eyeballs and snickers among the usual devilish and irreverent bunch always and delightfully present at such gatherings. Next, a trip to the home of one of the departed loved one’s relatives and some informal singing. Then, hugs and, “Well, I guess I’d better be gettin’ on home,” and, “Look forward to seeing you again before long, now, alright?”

Tracks 4 and 5

I had asked directions for the fastest way back to Nashville and turned onto the long two-lane road that took me past fields and farm houses on the way back to Highway 45. The album I had been listening to on the way over was playing as I turned onto “45.” In Humboldt, I was to head east, the quickest way to Interstate 40. Then, Track #4, Carl Perkins singing Blue Suede Shoes, began to play. Next out of my speaker was Track #5, Matchbox. Then it dawned on me. Jackson, Tennessee, Perkins’ hometown, was less than 30 minutes away down 45. I decided to head south.

The fact that Jackson is Carl Perkins’ hometown is interesting, but it’s not the real reason I decided on this unnecessary detour. I spent every Christmas and Thanksgiving until I was fourteen years old in Jackson visiting my grandparents and later just Granddaddy after Grandmamma died. Summer vacation weeks there allowed me to make childhood friends in Tennessee in addition to my buddies back home in Mississippi. Jackson, Tennessee has always felt like another hometown to me.

The duck pond and an old house

Mama’s parents, Dewey and Ruby Pittman, lived on Arlington Street near the intersection with Campbell Street when I was a little boy. I drove into Jackson on 45, then Highland, took a right near where The Hut and Georgia’s restaurants used to be and I was on Campbell. I headed toward a landmark I’ll always remember. On Campbell was what we called “the duck pond.” And there it still is.

The duck pond

The duck pond looked amazingly similar to the way I remembered it fifty years before. It even seemed a little bigger. There were some ducks in a yard along toward the back and an old man and an old woman were fishing on the banks. The man was on the north bank, the woman on the west, on the Campbell Street side. “Catching anything?” I asked. She pulled something tiny out of the pond just about that time and laugh/answered, “I think this one might fit in my goldfish bowl!” She removed it from her hook and I wandered along.

Soon, I was a few blocks down on Arlington, looking at the house where my grandparents had lived. It wasn’t the white home it used to be but a kind of off-tan, if that’s a color. Maybe it was the new paint that made it look smaller. Or maybe a ten-year-old’s eyes had made it appear bigger than it really had been in the 1960s. I walked up and down the block and remembered riding my bike along the sidewalks around the neighborhood with my friends.


Then, the tracks began to call. The railroad tracks that still lead into the old building that once housed the Gulf, Mobile and Ohio Railroad’s Iselin Shop. Granddaddy was Master Mechanic, in charge of that whole operation. When I was a kid, he would take me to work with him. I became addicted to the smell of diesel fumes, the sound of locomotive engines and train whistles.

I pulled up to where the tracks go into the freight yard, before they connect with others that allowed many a switch engine to pull boxcars, coal cars, gondolas and cabooses around the yard and in for maintenance. The big old building is home to another business now but the tracks and some locomotives and railroad cars were there, oddly silent on a Saturday afternoon. I walked around the tracks, not going into the yard because I didn’t want the video cameras to make some security guard think I was trespassing. But I remembered when I would have been just visiting.

Old crows and dirty nickels

The many times when I was welcomed as “Mr. Pittman’s grandson,” in The Shop, as Granddaddy called it, flashed into my mind. His secretaries Cecelia Bennett (affectionately called “Ceelie,” by everyone) and Miss Yetta Barhanovich always had candy and hugs. Mr. Buck Kitchins kept his rifle in the trunk of his car and he would take me out to shoot crows off the top of the building. I don’t remember him missing a single crow. On the other hand, I don’t remember hitting a single one. Mr. Buck really took chances that all of the windows would still be intact at the top of The Shop by letting me take my shots.

I was a young engineer looking out the window of a switch engine.

A crusty old wrench-turner named Mr. Smith had a heart of gold that probably matched the tooth always shining when he smiled. He was one of my favorites and Granddaddy always made sure to find him for me. Usually, he could be found in a big pit underneath a grease-dripping locomotive. He seemed to welcome the diversion of cutting up with the boss’s grandson.

“Son, you want a dirty nickel?” Mr. Smith asked every time I saw him. “Yes sir!” I would gleefully answer. After reaching way into his overall pocket, his rough workman’s hand always pulled out the greasiest, blackest, oil-stained nickel that ever existed and handed it to me. At first glance, there was no sign that Thomas Jefferson’s image was heads and his beloved Monticello was tails under the grease that covered the coin. But for me, those dirty nickels may as well have been hundred dollar gold pieces.

The right track…

Still hoping I choose the right track.

It is true that railroad tracks “run both ways.” After walking over them and looking toward the old GM&O Shop and reminiscing, I knew it was time to look the other way, follow them out and head home. Often at times like this, I reflect too philosophically. But as the afternoon sun got closer to the iron rails heading west, I reviewed some of the tracks I’ve taken in life. I wonder if I ever really know which tracks are best to follow at the moment when it’s time to release the brake, sound the bell and the air horn, notch the throttle up and go. Which rails should I take next? Maybe I’ll have to wait for my own memorial service to find out if I am on the right track.


Click this photo to hear Les Kerr sing the train song “The Little Rebel”

Text and photos copyright 2018 by Les Kerr.

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The lower lights

Round Island Lighthouse, Pascagoula, Mississippi

Lighthouses speak to me. The first one I remember seeing as a little boy is the Biloxi Lighthouse on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Later, when my family moved to Pascagoula in 1970 and I began to sail, the Round Island Lighthouse just off the coast fascinated me. Long out of service by the time I first saw it, the old brick tower still stood with the top intact. It was there without glass or the lens that rotated a beacon of white to sailors at sea and those who lived along the shore of the Mississippi Sound. The interior where the burned out spiral staircase once stood was now charred black as the result of many impromptu bonfires started in the base by beer-drinking overnight island visitors.

The stilts that held the lighthouse keeper’s home off the sand still stood, though the home was only a memory to a few when I, as a teenager, first came to revere that old lighthouse. I remember sailing out to Round Island alone many times in my twelve-foot Singing River Pram called the Half Moon. I stood in the base of the lighthouse wishing that, somehow, it could share its storied history with me. I would stroll around the beach that surrounded the stand of pine trees that held just enough ground together for it to be called an island.

Lower lights

Hymns speak to me, too. Within the last few months, I have become obsessed with one that uses lighthouses, and the lower lights around them, to illuminate the light of the Lord and the responsibility to help others see it. Let the Lower Lights Be Burning was written in 1871 by Philip Paul Bliss after he heard an inspiring sermon by legendary preacher Dwight Moody. The song is known far and wide. Yet, I had missed it completely until this year when I read the lyrics without hearing the music. In search of something to augment my “morning read,” I began thumbing through an old hymn book called Triumphant Service Songs. I read the lyrics on any random page during my devotional time to help set a more spiritual tone for my day. Ironically, many of the selections of Triumphant Service Songs seem to be out of service, themselves.

The title, Let the Lower Lights be Burning, drew me in immediately and there, in the first line, is a lighthouse. The song describes a sailor caught in a turbulent sea. He sees the lighthouse but needs help in getting his ship to the safety of the harbor marked by its beam. Without guidance, he’ll never make it to shore.

It’s the description of the sailor fighting the angry ocean that I seem to relate to most. Perhaps I have too frequently seen myself as lost and in need of a skillful navigator to show me the way, whichever way I may have been seeking at the moment. Many times I have felt bombarded by the waves of life which have pounded upon me like the tempest tosses the seaman’s vessel in the song. That feeling still occurs more often than I prefer.

It is safe to assume that I am not the only one who has felt a little lost at sea during the journey through life. Like the blues, confusion and lack of direction happen to everyone. Nagging old uncertainty that just settles in, sometimes for no apparent reason, causes those of any cultural, ethnic or economic background to founder a little. Or a lot.

Old lighthouses

While the composer’s image of the lighthouse as the Lord’s word makes a lot of sense to me, I think another picture could be added. I look at people I have known and know now, those solid, dependable ones, who are able to offer calm stability in the in the middle of my personal tempests, as lighthouses, too. My grandfather comes to mind. You have them in your life. Seek them out when you need them.

The words of some who sent signals for safe steerage in the past are still with us, even if they are not. I look to The Preacher who wrote Ecclesiastes. And Paul, in his letter to the Ephesians. Mark Twain, Hunter S. Thompson, Will Rogers, Robert Service, Rudyard Kipling and others. In reading their messages, I sometimes feel as if they know what what is happening in my life and are speaking only to me.

The beacon of a lighthouse showing you exactly where to steer may also sing the proper course to follow. Listening to song lyrics by Kris Kristofferson, Randy Newman, W. C. Handy, Jimmy Buffett, Jimmie Rodgers, Johnny Mercer and so many more also gives me guidance that I need now as much as I ever did. Like many an old lighthouse, they are within sight and sound for a reason and they are built to serve.

Click photo to see Les Kerr and Brent Stoker perform the song Old Lighthouse

Text and photo copyright 2018 by Les Kerr.

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Southerners and Irishmen, revisited (song link included)

Les Kerr & The Bayou Band perform their annual St. Patrick's Day Concert at Jimmy Kelly's Steakhouse, Nashville, TN

Les Kerr & The Bayou Band perform their annual St. Patrick’s Day Concert at Jimmy Kelly’s Steakhouse, Nashville, TN

Songwriters are often asked where they get song ideas.  I hope you’ll enjoy this story behind my song, Southerners and Irishmen.

When I lived in Mobile, Alabama in the 1980s, I developed a near-addiction fondness for coffee with chicory, readily available in local grocery stores at very reasonable prices.  New Orleans (where I have also spent a lot of time) is most associated with this flavorful and potent treat, but it’s also found up and down the whole Gulf Coast.  When I moved to Nashville in 1987, I realized that finding it on grocery shelves here was nearly impossible, and always expensive.

So when my performance schedule took me back to the Gulf Coast or New Orleans, my standard operating procedure included loading up at (the late, great) Delchamp’s and other local grocery stores on coffee with chicory.  I chose every opportunity to load up with vacuum-sealed bricks of Community or Café du Monde coffee every time I made it down South.

2018 marks our 24th St. Patrick’s Day appearance at Jimmy Kelly’s in Nashville

In the late 1990s, I had spent a few days in the Mobile Bay area before performing at an event in Destin, Florida.  As usual, I made sure to buy a bunch of coffee to take back home. Around that time I had heard some report about how nostalgic people from Ireland and from the American South become when they leave the familiar places where they were raised.  In my own case, I was raised in Mississippi and had spent a lot of time in New Orleans and I have always felt like coffee with chicory is a way to start the day with a taste that part of the country, which I still so dearly love.

So with my car full of coffee with chicory heading back to Tennessee, the thoughts of this song occurred to me.  I stopped at a roadside gas/convenience store somewhere in Alabama and bought a pad and wrote these lyrics as I drove back home.  Songwriters might relate to this – drive a while, stop and write.  Drive a while, stop and write.

By the time I got back to Nashville, I had finished the song, and it’s been a good one for me.  The recorded version is simple: Robby Shankle plays flute, Jeff Lisenby plays accordion and I sing and play acoustic guitar. It is included on my Bay Street album and you can click the link below to hear it.

I hope you will enjoy the lyrics, printed below.

Click here to hear Southerners and Irishmen

And, by the way, I’m happy to report that coffee with chicory now found in many Nashville grocery stores.  But I still “stock up” every time I’m on the Gulf, just in case!

Southerners and Irishmen
Words and Music by Les Kerr/©1999
Southerners and Irishmen always long for home
No matter how far they’re away or how long they’ve been gone
The little things that take them there for moments at a time
Are elevated to a place that’s sacred in their minds
To hear a fiddle play a piece of some old Irish reel
Can cause a man from County Cork to genuflect and kneel
A Georgia lady in New York might fall down on her knees
If someone merely speaks the words, “My mama’s black-eyed peas.”
Show a cotton boll to a Mississippi son
Or talk about the bluegrass with an old Kentuckian
Find a displaced Dubliner and sing, “Oh, Danny Boy,”
And smiling eyes will soon be filled with grateful tears of joy
I do my best to keep a taste of home right close at hand
I guard coffee with chicory like smugglers’ contraband
Be it Irish Whisky or fried chicken with green beans
Southerners and Irishmen are brought home by such things
Southerners and Irishmen always long for home
No matter how far they’re away or how long they’ve been gone
Others have a sense of sight, of hearing, touch, and taste
But Southerners and Irishmen are blessed with sense of place
Southerners and Irishmen always long for home
Text copyright 2012 by Les Kerr
Learn More about Les & join the e-mail list for free downloads, including Southerners and Irishmen
at www.leskerr.com
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