Tales From the Caves #2

THE SCOT

For those who missed Tale #1, there’s a charming, loyal, witty but frugal 6 foot, 4 ½ inch Scot living in the basement. He calls it his man cave.

Awhile back I was up in my light and airy cave banging away on the computer tracking down pirated copies of my books when The Scot came in and placed a lovely green apple martini on my desk. Grinning, he said, “I heard you cursing up here and thought you could use this right about now.” How lovely was that?!

At dinner he says, “I have to tell you something but first you have to promise not to get mad.”  

Hmm. First he brings me a martini and now he has something to tell me? Knowing he’ll remain mute until I promise, I lie. “I promise.”

“You know your broken vacuum cleaner?”

He’s referring to the supposedly indestructible, half-ton Rikar I paid a small fortune for 5 years ago, which could once suck paint off walls, but was now held together with duct tape and refused to even turn on.

“Yes, what about it?”  I’m worried he’s done me a favor and brought the monster to the repair shop again. Not good, since I quietly gave myself a new Dyson for Christmas, (Woot!) my 20^th such device in our marriage, but my perchance for destroying vacuum cleaners is another story…

“Well,” he says, “I saw that old guy sitting outside his apartment tinkering again and thought he might be able to fix it.”

Oh crap. Now you have to understand…the Scot is an accountant. He’s hell on wheel when it comes to numbers but will break a light bulb off in the socket if he tries to change it. Subsequently, he’s fascinated by men who work with their hands, be they woodworkers, plumbers, mechanics…or in this case, a tinker. And the Scot is nothing if not frugal.

Fearing the worst, I wait. He says, “So I walked the vacuum over to him and told him he can have it.” He gives me a narrow-eyed look across the table. “I saw the bill for the Dyson.”

Oops! Did I mention I have a perchance for breaking vacuum cleaners?

“Anyway,” he continues as I turn scarlet, “I told him the Rikar’s a solid, expensive machine but has a broken switch, thinking he could fix it and make some money off it.”

Ah, reprieve!  “Aww, how sweet of you. It’s worth a good few dollars…if he can get it working again.”  The old man was forever under the hood of a battered pickup held together with wire and duct tape.

The Scot nodded. “Precisely what I was thinking after I learned how much the salesman said he’d give you as a trade-in toward a new Rikar.” (Which we both now knew was never going to happen in this lifetime.) “Anyway,” he continues, “an hour later I happen to drive by the old guy’s place and he had the vacuum in parts all over the yard.”

“So? He was fixing it.”

“No, he was reducing it to its smallest parts…to sell as scrap. That’s apparently what he does. He didn’t understand its intrinsic value. That if he’d fixed the switch---or whatever--he could have sold it for hundreds. All he saw when I gave it to him was the value of its steel and copper wire.” Scott shook his head and sighed. “Now he’ll only make a couple of dollars from it…and I’ve learned some people only know what they know. That some don’t see potential…can’t see beyond their experience.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”

Looking sad, he muttered, “Me, too.”

The Scot…one in a million.

HER CAVE:

To celebrate the June 5^th print release of my 1285 Scotland-set historical, The King’s Mistress, I held a special contest and gave away EIGHT really great prizes. For this month's contest details and prize click on http://www.sandyblair.net/contest.shtm     

I hope you enjoy my new Highlander tale based on actual events.

So do any of you tend to break stuff?

Sandy

Tale #1 : The Racoon

The SCOT
There’s a 6 foot, 4 ½ inch Scot living in the basement. When we moved into this home last year I expected him to take over the bright, airy second floor office. After all, he’s the primary breadwinner around here. But he declined, saying “I like the idea of working in a dank, dark hole by the sea.”

Seriously?

This sudden desire for a man-cave shouldn’t have come as a surprise given the coal dust (the Ayrshire Blairs) and salt water (the Appin Stewarts) running in his veins, but it did.

A week after moving into his cave, the Scot announced he was going out of town on a three week business trip. Before he’d pack a bag I was on the phone to our contractor. Before you can say “Sunshine!” I had lovely double windows and banks of can lights installed in the cave. (Hey, I couldn’t stand the thought of living with a pale blue Scottish bat.) I then did my best to turn his brawny-man chaos into tasteful, color-coordinated order.

And his reaction upon his return? He took one look, and gave me a big squishy hug, saying, “Thank you, love.” And I’m still allowed down there—with adequate advanced notice—in order to vacuum and dust--but only for ten minutes. I cannot-- under penalty of imprisonment—touch any pile of paper, or God forbid, rearrange a photo on his helter-skelter pegboard, or touch a badger or raccoon hair on his fly-making workbench or in any way alter his altars to boutique hotel management, family memorabilia and fly fishing.

When we married I was well aware the Scot was gregarious, possessed a quick dry wit, and was hell on wheels when it came to money. His mother assured me he’d prove loyal, honest and hardworking, which he has. What she neglected to mention—and I suspect deliberately—was that he also lacked moderation, that he was to his marrow a “waste not, want not” kind of Scot.

Think I exaggerate? I point to Exhibit A: The Raccoon.

Last summer I had errands to run and shouted down the staircase, “I’m off to the food store then to the drycleaners to pick up your shirts! Do you need anything?”

From the man-cave I hear, “Nope. I’m good. Thanks.”

A few seconds later, I jump into my SUV and immediately start gagging. I scramble out, and hands over my mouth, peer under the car looking for a dead body.

“Uhmmm,” he says, suddenly appearing at my side, “I meant to warn you.”

“Oh my God, what--?”

“Uhmm, ya. Well, when I went fishing this morning I passed a dead raccoon in the road. I figured if it was still there on my way back, it was meant to be.”

“Meant to be what?”

“Turned into flies, of course. You know…lures. So,” he says, warming to his subject, “it was still there just waiting for me as I headed home, so I pulled over, took out my knife and tried to cut off its tail, but the damn thing wouldn’t break off.” He shrugs. “I couldn’t just leave it there--”

“Oh yes, you could have!”

“Woman, an ordinary Raccoon tail cost $20.00 and this was a thumper.” He huffs as if I were the greatest spendthrift on earth. “So thinking my coping saw would take it off, I threw the beast in my minnow bucket and headed home. Only the stench nearly killed me on the way, even with all the windows down, so when I got here I just threw it in the trash can…which I wouldn’t be using for a bit if I were you.”

By this point I’m gaping at him. And true to his nature, he finally notices.

And that’s when he puts that wicked gonna-getcha gleam in his eye--the one he knows usually turns my knees to butter--and starts slowly closing in. Grinning, he says, “I did try to air out the car, love…and I sprayed it with Glade.”

“Oh no you don’t!” Mad and planning to stay that way, I raise a straight arm and scurry back. In the kitchen I’m hunting down his keys and muttering, “All to save a few bucks on raccoon tail!” when his arms slip around my waist.

“And to make flies,” he reminds me as he tries to nibble my neck, “which would’ve saved even more. Seriously, love. The tackle shop charges two bucks for just one Wooley Bugger. I could have made hundreds...”

Yup, yup...Welcome to my world.

MINE
To celebrate the print launch of my 1285 Scotland-set historical, The King’s Mistress, I ran a special contest from 5/1-6/15 and gave away not one prize…but EIGHT great prizes. For details on my upcoming contest and prize list click on http://www.sandyblair.net/contest.shtm

I hope you enjoy this new Highlander tale based on actual historical events in 1285 Scotland.

Sandy