Good Morning Orion

So the tour has ended (taking a small group of Americans around Scotland in a van and having a grand time). Jack and I are settled in Stonehaven (which is near Aberdeenshire for those of you not conversant with Scottish geography). Actually, Jack has gone to fetch our beloved Trixie and spend a week with dear friends back in Tennessee. He arrived yesterday and will be home mid-October

Me, I’m coming to grips with a more peaceful lifestyle. Stonehaven is a tourism community and as the season is winding down, the locals are coming back to clubs for crocheting, foraging, and walking. Our flat looks out on a boardwalk and then the North Sea. I can’t tell you which view changes more rapidly: the layer of sea and sky combinations against the shoreline, or the people who walk past. This is rich and fertile ground for people-watching.

I am considering setting up a doggie bingo board for various breeds–airedales, westies, and a sort of generic larger long-haired dog breed with a tale that plumes over their backs and stick-up ears, something like the love child of a collie and a retriever, perhaps.

The other day I was sitting at my desk early, watching the sun rise over the sea, and a little green glowing triangle walked by, followed by a red circle.

What in the world, I thought, and then realized it was a man in a dark coat walking his two dogs, both of whom had glow collars. I see them regularly now, along with the miner’s helmets of the runners (white lights bobbing) and the tail lights of bicyclers (a steady red stream, sometimes almost a line for the racers).

But the best lights are the moon and stars before the sun comes up. While the boardwalk is well lit, if I sneak out of my flat through the private garden gate and stand between two of the lights, there’s a dark patch where I can see the constellations well enough to greet them by name. Orion is hanging low and to the right over the water. He’ll disappear over the next couple of month, but it was a delight to be greeted by him, my first morning of stargazing.

Orion and I go way back; I met him in childhood at my grandmother’s farm, one of the best stargazing places on earth because no one had outdoor lights. He was there when I moved to Germany, to Newfoundland (where he also hung over the ocean in my little flat), to Scotland, back to the States, and now here in Scotland, but much farther north and against the sea. My life has been a bounce between rural agriculture, city, seaside, and Orion has been there every time, waiting like an old friend.

Orion reminds me that the One who placed him there is also watching over me, no matter where I roam. And that is very nice indeed.

The Emigrant Statue

So many of us in Appalachia are descendants of people who came from Scotland (and Ireland). The chain of events that led to this is the usual amalgamation of hard times, mean politicians, and wealth hoarding at the expense of others. Start with the Reformation, work your way through Glencoe, and let the Highland Clearances put your ancestor on a coffin ship (or get run out of Ireland by an angry mob of people from the other religion).

It’s kind of romantic, the idea that we came from people seeking freedom, land, all the things. Every time we stop in Helmsdale to show the Americans on our tour the Emigrant Statue it makes me feel gloomy.

The statue was created by Gerald Laing after being commissioned by Dennis Macleod, a native of Helmsdale who made his fortune as an emigrant in South Africa. (Diamond mines, since you ask).

There is something meta about that.

The statue shows the father looking forward into the future, the son looking at his father with a worried yet trusting face. The mother cradles an infant in her arms. And the mother is the one looking back.

Is she resigned? Is she furious? Is she making an internal vow that her children will be safe no matter what? That she will keep the family together? That she personally will come back one day?

Who knows? And who knows how often this story will repeat: someone with a lot wants what little you have, so they kick you off your land and take it from you, supported by legal principles created by them in the first place.

Sigh.

She’s going to sacrifice everything so her children will make it. She’s going to be resilient. She has no other choice, and down through history her story repeats. Celebrating resiliency to me in current times almost feels like complicity. Why did she have to be resilient? Why couldn’t she stay on her land instead of clearing off so the local laird could raise sheep there? How much money does a rich man need, and how often do the rest of us have be resilient to give it to them?

Just asking.