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Because Tin is Stupid

When David and I traveled to Ireland many, many years ago, right at the beginning of our marriage, we went with our family to Sligo, in the northeast part of the country, where one of my most favorite poets was buried. Because, you know, it’s Ireland. And what do stereotypical Irish people and an easy-going Italian-and-French guy do? Go poke around some gravesites and then grab a drink or three at the (always) neighboring pub, of course. So we did.  When in Rome, and all. But what we found, around the corner, on the side of the church, hidden by a low stone wall (of course, a stone wall. Duh: Ireland) was a monument to my favorite ol’ W.B. Yeats.  And it was magical to me.  There was no other word for it, and not just because I was jet-lagged and running on the previous night’s Guinness intake.  The way the lone figure of a man hovered there, the words engraved on the curving stone “fabric”, the picture we took of the statue wearing a Notre Dame baseball cap…oh, wait. Well, most of it was magical…