An American In Scotland

                                                                                              AN AMERICAN IN SCOTLAND

      Hardly a day goes by that I don't think about my bonnie Scotland; and at least one night a week I dream of it.
      I'm not Scottish born or raised. I'm an American; but from the time I was a wee lass I had a love for all things Scottish. I even wanted to marry
a Scotsman with a name like "Maclaren". Well, when I was 33 and living in San Francisco, I fell in love with a tall, bearded man with shoulders out to here,
from Ullapool, whose name was Ewen Maclean. Zing! We were married six months after meeting, and flew to Scotland for our honeymoon and Christmas vacation.
My new mother-in-law lived in the village of Milngavie (mull-guy) on the outskirts of the historic metropolis of Glasgow. The land of heather and haggis was just as
beautiful, quaint, and magical as I'd expected.
      On Christmas Eve, Ewen and I dined at a local golf club dining room, enjoying a multi-course meal that included venison and berry trifle. We had a true Scottish
dining experience.
      A few years later we moved to Milngavie to live in my late mother-in-law's wee house. Everything was an adventure for me: from exchanging American dollars
for Scottish pounds to shopping for all the pieces of my young son's school uniform. None of it was simple or ordinary to me. I had to go to the right shops to get the correct gray wool trousers, white polo shirt with "Craig dhu Primary School" embroidered in blue on the left breast; the sleeveless gray wool vest, blue school sweatshirt,blue and gold striped necktie; gray wool blazer with the school crest and name on the pocket; specific socks and particular shoes. Boy, did he look handsome! The uniform actually gave the impression that he was a quiet, perfectly-behaved boy. Wow!
      For a while we had no car; but that's not a problem there. I walked my son to and from school each day in the bitter cold and enjoyed watching the crocuses and
tulips push up through the snow and ice. I walked to the village center for all my groceries, then picked up a wall phone at the supermarket exit and ordered a taxi
that was located a few buildings away, then my load of bags and I traveled home in the roomy comfort of an old-fashioned big black hack cab.

      To venture into the great city, we would walk down the hill to the train station and, always trying to follow the ways of the locals, I'd whip out my colorful Scottish
pounds and pence and purchase what I learned was called a "return ticket", which meant "round trip" (I'd never before traveled by commuter train). The small concrete train station had to be the coldest, windyest place I've ever been! It was always such a relief to board the train. The train ride was a new and different experience for me: I'm
used to greeting and chatting with people around me. That doesn't seem to be the way of the Scotsman. The car was so quiet. Any time I managed to have a conversation
aboard the train, it was with an Englishman or South African.We would laugh and get on quite well while stolid Scotsmen sat rigid, facing straight and looking at us suspiciously out of the corner of their eye. I, eventually, discovered that if you gave a fellow villager time, they would come around to being a true friend. They tend to be wary of Americans, but can also be quite tickled to be friends with one; just as I found it fun to be friends with them.

                                                                          TO BE CONTINUED...