Man Who Orders Three Beers

An Irishman moves into a tiny hamlet in County Kerry in Western Ireland, and he walks into the local pub and promptly orders three beers. The bartender raises his eyebrows, but serves the man three beers, which he drinks quietly at a table, alone.

An hour later, the man has finished the three beers and he orders three more beers. This happens one more time, before the man then leaves for home. The next evening the man again orders and drinks three beers at a time (and again for several times). Soon the entire town is whispering about the Man Who Orders Three Beers.

Finally, a week later, the bartender broaches the subject on behalf of the town. "I don't mean to pry, but folks around here are wondering why you always order three beers."

"Tis odd, isn't it?" the man replies. "You see, I have two brothers, and one went to America, and the other went to Australia. We promised each other that we would always order an extra two beers whenever we drank, simply as a way of keeping up the family bond."

The bartender and the whole town were pleased with this answer, and soon the Man Who Orders Three Beers became a local celebrity and source of pride to the hamlet, even to the extent that out-of-town people would come to watch him drink.

Then, one day, the man comes in and orders only two beers. The bartender pours them with a heavy heart. This continues for the rest of the evening. He only orders two beers. The word flies around town. Prayers are offered for the soul of one of the brothers who obviously must have died.

The next day, when the man enters the pub, the bartender says to the man, "Folks around here, me first of all, want to offer condolences to you for the death of your brother. You know-the two beers and all.

The man looks puzzled for a moment, and then replies, "You'll be happy to hear that my two brothers are alive and well. It's just that I, meself, have decided that during Lent, I probably should give up drinking."

Slaintè, John

~ Thanks to Rob-In Leeds, from an Irish American cousin, who lives in NJ.

The Hen Turkey Story

It was April 25, 2002. Clearly the Saudi ruler was not happy with Ariel Sharon.

Ever since President Franklin Roosevelt met with Saudi Arabia's founder, King Abdul Aziz, aboard the USS Quincy in 1945, America's relationship with the kingdom had been one of our most critical. The Saudi Arabian nation sits on a fifth of the world's oil and has tremendous influence among the Muslims as the guardian of the hold mosques at Mecca and Medina.

I had invited Crown Prince Abdullah—one of Abdul Aziz's thirty-six sons—to our ranch in Crawford as a way to strengthen our personal relationship. In anticipation of the March 2002 Arab League summit in Beirut, the crown prince showed strong leadership by announcing a new peace plan. Under his vision, Israel would return territory to the Palestinians, who would create an independent state that rejected terror and recognized Israel's right to exist. There were many details to negotiate, but the concept was one I could support.

The evening of the Arab League summit, a Hamas suicide bomber walked into a hotel dining room filled with people celebrating Passover in the Israeli city of Netanya. "Suddenly it was hell," one guest said. "There was the smell of smoke and dust in my mouth and a ringing in my ears." One of the bloodiest attacks of the Second Intifada, the bombing killed 30 Israelis and wounded 140.

In response, Prime Minister Sharon ordered a sweeping Israeli offensive into the West Bank. Israeli forces picked up hundreds of suspected militants and surrounded Yasser Arafat in his Ramallah office. Sharon announced he would build a security barrier separating Israeli communities from the Palestinians in the West Bank. The fence was widely condemned. I hoped it would provide the security Israelis needed to make hard choices for peace.

I urged Sharon privately to end the offensive, which had become counterproductive. Arafat held a TV interview by candlelight and was looking like a martyr. Sharon forged ahead. I gave a Rose Garden speech publicly calling on him to begin withdrawal. "Enough is enough." I said. Still, Sharon wouldn't budge.

By the time Crown Prince Abdullah arrived at our ranch, his peace plan had been shelved. He was angered by the violence, furious with Sharon, and—I soon learned—frustrated with me.

The crown prince is a gentle, modest, almost shy man. He speaks softly, doesn't drink alcohol, and prays five time a day. In eight years, I never saw him without his traditional robes.

After a brief discussion, Abdullah asked for time alone with his foreign minister and ambassador. A few minutes later, State Department interpreter Gamal Helal came to me with a stricken look on his face. "Mr. President," he said, "I think the Saudis are getting ready to leave."

I was surprised. I thought the meeting had been going fine. But Gamal explained that the Saudis had expected me to persuade Sharon to withdraw from Ramallah before the crown prince arrived. Now they were insisting that I call the Israeli prime minister on the spot. I wasn't going to conduct diplomacy that way. I sent Colin [Powell, Secretary of State] into the living room to see what was going on. He confirmed that our guests were headed for the door. America's pivotal relationship with Saudi Arabia was about to be seriously ruptured.

I walked into the living room with Gamal and asked for a moment alone with the crown prince. I had read two interesting things about him in a background briefing. One was that he was a devout religious believer. The other was that he loved his farm.

"Your Royal Highness," I said. "I would like to discuss religion with you." I talked about my belief in Christianity and the role religion played in my life. I hoped he would reciprocate by talking about his faith. He wasn't in a sharing mood.

In a last-gasp effort, I said: "Before you leave, may I show you my ranch?" He nodded. A few minutes later, the crown prince, flowing robes and all, was climbing into a Ford F-250 pickup. Then he, Gamal, and I took off for a tour of the property. I pointed out the different kinds of hardwood trees, the native prairie grasses that Laura had planted, and the grazing cattle. The crown prince sat silently. I wasn't making much headway.

Then we reached a remote part of the property. A lone hen turkey was standing in the road. I stopped the truck. The bird stayed put.

"What is that?" the crown prince asked.

I told him it was a turkey. "Benjamin Franklin loved the turkey so much he wanted it to be America's national bird," I said.

Suddenly I felt the crown prince's hand grab my arm. "My brother," he said. "It is a sign from Allah. This is a good omen."

I've never fully understood the significance of the bird, but I felt the tension begin to melt. When we got back to the house, our aides were surprised to hear us say we were ready for lunch. The next day, I got a call from Mother and Dad. The crown prince had stopped in Houston to visit them. Mother said he had tears in his eyes as he recounted the time in Crawford and talked about what we could achieve together. For the rest of my presidency, my relationship to the crown prince—soon to be king—was extremely close. I had never seen a hen turkey on that part of the property before, and I haven't seen one since.

*

~ From Decision Points, by George W. Bush.

=> What happened there? Something about the bird in the road apparently triggered a strong rapport between the two men.