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
