People have been asking me for the past couple of weeks how my wee Scotsman feels about the vote for Scottish independence. Let me say this: he would've voted for it.
He watched the debates on CSPAN with fervor. He explained the pros and cons to me, and to anyone who would listen, often with a thick brogue. The man knows his Scottish history. Heck, we even watched Braveheart somewhere in there, with him bellowing in said brogue "they can take away our lives, but they cannot take away our FREEDOM!"
The man loves the land of his father.
We went to Scottish Fest last weekend, and partook of some fine Celtic music (if you ever get a chance to hear the Rogue American's, DO IT. They are amazing.), had a fine whiskey tasting, watched some caber tossing, and even saw a Storm Trooper wearing a kilt. No lie. It was a fine time, and I'm hoping to have my Smith tartan sash by next year's fest. 'Twas a proud day to be a Scotsman (or woman).
We wandered around to see what they had, and found ourselves in the Viking encampment, listening to a very loud rooster. I couldn't figure out where it was coming from, and me, being the Chicken Lady that I am, went searching. We found him, a fine, fat specimen, in a wire crate near the ladies, bellowing his displeasure at his accommodations. I admired him, only to be told by one of the ladies "he's dinner." I must've had a shocked look on my face, because she looked me in the eye and said "I'm serious. He's dinner." So of course, after the Ceilidh (a dinner and music fest of its own), we had to check to see if the rooster was still with us. Alas, the Vikings were all asleep, and unless one of them was cuddled up with him, he was in several bellies. RIP Rooster, you were a fine chicken.
So yesterday, friends invited us out to "either celebrate Scottish independence, or mourn the loss" in the vote. We found ourselves munching on burgers at the Irish Mutt -- ok, so it's not Scottish, but we figured MacNivens' was a) probably packed and b) further away and c) a lot more expensive. Jim and Bob are like Mutt and Jeff, but they are both Marines, so they swapped sea stories over several beers, whilst Annie and I listened. Just when we thought they were done, Jim ordered a round of Scotch, and drank to the land of his father, saying Alba gu bràth (which means Scotland Forever).
Never mind that on the way home, these same two Marines were in the back seat of the car singing Mama Mia at the top of their lungs, which Jim today steadfastly denies.
Alba gu bràth!
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