A QUEST FOR THE HEALD TARTAN – SCOTLAND 1998

I will now leave, the memories of our brief sojourn in Canada behind, and move on to our time in Scotland. We had been lucky enough to return to Canada in the mid ’90’s, to provide our girls some grounding in their Canadian heritage. It was a great chance to allow them to meet and bond with their myriad aunts, uncles and cousins that had popped up while we travelled overseas. As for myself, being back in Canada was little different than being overseas. I spent 90% of the time overseas anyway, only without having Deysi at my side. There came an opportunity to join a group, in Scotland, and once again travel as a family. We thought long and hard, but the chance to travel together, was over-powering. And soon we were packed and off to Scotland.

Before I get too involved in our adventures in Scotland, I would like to recount one rambling memory, from our time there. This memory pretty much demonstrates the attitude in the British Isles between the English, Scottish, Irish and Welsh. Each group had their own cultural identity, and submitted reluctantly to British rule. It was obvious that each one of the smaller groups, would fight the English, once again, if they perceived any chance of victory. To say an uneasy peace existed, was an understatement. The tension could be felt in the air.

The title for the cover photo, comes from a visit by my niece Michy and husband Jonny, with us in Edinburgh. Jonny had definite Scottish roots. We therefore spent a great deal of time trying to find what estate, his family had come from. Michy patiently accompanied him on this quest that, ultimately, covered a lot of Northern Scotland. The closest we got to establishing his roots, was in tracking down his “family” name in Edinburgh. The root we found was to a “milk delivery driver” from the early 1900’s. Not to be upstaged, after we had made this remarkable finding, Michy entered the most famous tartan shop in Edinburgh. It was now her turn to discover her roots, and gain a little glory.

She wandered around and snooped for a while, before planting herself in front of a fully “kilted”, very Scottish, salesperson. She looked him in the eye and demanded to see the “Heald” Tartan. He hesitated for a second, puffed up his chest, crossed his eyes, tilted his head and sniffed out….. “HEALD is an English name is it not?” With that he turned and flounced off, leaving Michy to shrug her shoulders and give him a “WTF is his problem” look. What, an Englishman in a Scot’s tartan store! I coulda peed myself.

Another rambling memory is of Ange and our ride to her school, one rainy winter morn. She was enrolled in St. G’s private school for girls. She wore full uniform to school and looked so cute. I drove her most mornings, as her school was on my way to work. We would talk about all sorts of things. It was my opportunity to fill her head with family standards, thoughts and morals, while she was my captive. I took every chance I got. I was slowly turning her into a hard ass “righty”. However one day I undid all of my gains with one mis-statement. It happened like this. Each day we passed a field, smack in the middle of the city, that was always full of sheep. She would look out the window and make cooing sounds at the pretty little woolies. One day she asked……….

“Dad why do some of the little lambs have blue spots on them and some have pink?” I did not have an idea, but never wanting to be caught without an answer. I let out a large belching sound, smacked my lips and pronounced, “the colors are to tell them, which ones, go to which school, for lunch each day, yyuummm!” She said, “no dad!”, then thought for a minute and said, “you’re not serious? Are you?” I belched loudly once more, smacked my chops and said, “yep, the blue ones are for your school. Yum lamb stew today, methinks”! She looked at me aghast and a loud mournful sob escaped her mouth. The tears were flowing. Ol’ Bubbaloo, called me “an insensitive pig”. Now I was in serious shit. I tried to take it back, but she was forever traumatized.

Some days we would pass the field and it would be empty. I would just have to say to Ange, “see what’d I tell ya. They’re all gone. Musta come and cleaned it out yesterday”! That would set off a new round of tears! It also transpired, at this same time, in the UK, there was a bad spate of Mad Cow Disease. Although not whipped to the level of the Covid pandemic, it did have its moments. It affected this story because, coincidently, the Mad Cow Disease prevented beef from being served for school lunches. Only, bbbaaaahhhh bah, (little lambs) could be served for school lunches. Of course my little insight into the pretty little painted lambs, put Ange OFF all lamb, sheep and mutton lunch options, FOREVER.

Another rambling memory of our early days in Scotland was shortly after the arrival of Ron, to join us. Deysi had by now, bribed, bullied and coerced her into coming to Edinburgh to complete her university. We all missed her deeply, however no one, more so, than her mom. My end of the deal, to entice her into this move, was to promise to buy her a car when she arrived. So, true to my word, we went car shopping. Geezus what a surprise. The exchange rate between Scotland and Canada was 2.5:1. That meant 10,000 Pound Sterling was $25,000 Canadian. The prices were in the same numbers, as in Canada, however, now conversion made the prices 2-1/2 times greater. What I had planned to spend, would buy “nada” in Edinburgh.

Well I had promised; and a promise is a promise. During our shopping trips, I came to realize that Ron and I were far apart when it came to the type of car to suit her. Her tastes ran to high end, sporty, flashy convertible speedsters; while mine trended towards the Datsun sedan. We looked at quite a few cars, and more and more I understood that, even, $25,000 Canadian would get us little. Finally Ron found her car. it was a ten year old convertible sports car, with 150,000 miles, that had never been driven under the speed limit. She fell in love. My heart sank. I knew this car was trouble! It just sat there, begging me to buy it. For once I stood up and said, “we are not buying that money pit”. Her mom backed me.

Ron was pissed. I tried to show her lots of other options, but now she was “dug in” and resisting all of my efforts at conciliation. Finally we found a beautiful Toyota Corolla, four door sedan, with less than 100,000 miles and less than $25,000. We proudly took her to see it and this is where I learned another lesson about our girl. This one was about the depth of her resolve and about the standards she now had set for herself. She took one look at my treasure, looked at me like I was losing it, and proclaimed, “I’d rather walk than drive that”! I was gob smacked! Her mom said, “just give her a few days, she’ll come around”. Not our Ron, from that day on she walked everyplace she went as long as we stayed there. Now that is what I call resolve. She was hilarious!