Although I was born and bred in the Garden State, I have been a “Tennessee Squire” for many years (Teetotalers need not apply). As such, I “own” one square inch of property in Tennessee, and I regularly receive newsletters telling me about the goings on around “my property,” which is always fun to read.

The truth is that it is not particularly difficult to become a Tennessee Squire. All one needs to do is to buy a fancy-schmancy bottle of Jack Daniels, and you’re invited. Fill out the papers, and you’re in.

However, it is an entirely different matter to actually know a genuine Tennessee Squire. I had the good fortune of having spent a half-hour shooting the breeze on the phone with one such gentleman this evening as I drove home from work on Route 78.

“Hey Jeeyum, it’s Eric.”

That’s where we began, and before I knew it, thirty miles had passed and I was parked in my driveway wishing we could continue over a few cocktails followed by dragging out the guitars and making some music.

Eric has an ongoing love affair with words, which is obvious in his writing and infectious to his readers. He is a truly a Southern Gentleman. But … children … (as Eric would say), don’t jump to conclusions. While he may be a man who easily finds beauty in a morning mist as it gently caresses the earth, he is also a Marine who I want on my side when the shit hits the fan.

I am happy to say that he’s my friend, and I have this blog to thank for that.