When I was eight, Dad was stationed in Scotland with the Navy for a few months. Mom packed us up for a two-week trip to visit and see the holy land. It was the biggest adventure our family had ever taken and luggage space was limited. So naturally Mom bought Jeff and me matching green felt suits and tree-patterned brown shirts with collars big enough to land an airplane. I’m not sure who we thought we were there to impress.
We stayed with close family friends, the Cantrells, who lived outside a small hilltop town called Dunoon. Dunoon overlooked an inlet called Holy Loch where Dad and Uncle Walt were stationed. Uncle Walt, by the way, is the one who first spotted his future wife, Betsy, through a submarine periscope while docked in the Hudson river. But that’s not part of this story.
For me, our two weeks in Scotland was a magical time of steep hills, yellow sheep and rainy, castle ruins - a dreamworld for an eight-year-old with a fetish for knights and history. The Cantrell’s son, Thomas, took Jeff and me to the top of the hill next to his house and the three of us hurled ourselves down its slopes. The thick ferns slowed our descent as we chortled with adventurous joy, better than any roller coaster.
Dunoon itself was a fairy tale of walled gardens, winding streets and toy stores around every corner. I found some knights there, one painted a different color than an identical one I had gotten in my stocking back home. Same pose and same axe, but this one had an orange cloak instead of blue. It’s always the little things you remember.
Such a beautiful, magical town. So strange to think of its ancient walls and quaint cottages looking down on nuclear submarines, each one of which could unleash hell if called upon. I vaguely understood that was why Dad was there, so that would never have to happen. But it was complicated, too much for an eight year old to worry about when there were knights to find and old castles to explore. One time Dad took us to a ruin you could only get to during low tide. When we entered through the crumbling gate, a hidden flock of sheep were there to welcome us. These are the places you remember, little places the world has forgotten.
Later we went to see the Cantrells’ daughter dance in the Highlands games. As I watched kilted men throw massive log poles end to end, I got stung by a bee on the thigh. Mom asked a man smoking a cigarette nearby to borrow one. She took it, unrolled the cigarette and spat on the tobacco. She then told me to stand up and drop my drawers. So there I stood in my tighty whities among a crowd while Mom pressed wet tobacco against my thigh to ease the pain. What else is family for.
As Dad drove us around the Scottish countryside, we did our best to frequent local shops and pubs, to experience the land as it was meant to be. But one time we were on some sort of highway outside Glasgow and the only restaurant we could find was a chain place called Little Chef. It had a limited menu so I selected a cheese sandwich which seemed safe.
When my meal arrived, it consisted of two slices of white bread with a flat, cold orange chunk in between. Naturally. Being eight, I started whinng and moaning about it like little Lord ugly American Fauntleroy. Mom took my sandwich back up to the counter and asked them to grill it properly. When they did not know what she meant, she proceeded to lean over the counter and instruct them. I still remember the face of the hapless teenager with the paper chef hat standing over the grill and looking back at my Mom to make sure she did it right. Needless to say, I felt bad for her and learned something that day.
In those two weeks we saw countless castles and cathedrals, deep blue lochs and heathered hills. But the things I remember most are the little things. Wet ferns slapping my face. The weight of a new knight held in my hand. And how Mom did small things to take care of me, even if it felt humiliating at times. Make no mistake, those matching green suits were butt ugly. Even so, they kept us warm.
A few years ago, our family was able to take our big two week overseas trip. We visited London, Brussels, Paris and of course, Geneva. We saw Van Goghs and Rembrandts, Monets and Montserrats. We saw Notre Dame and Sacre Couer, Tintin and Harry Potter. I loved it all. But in truth, the best part of the trip was simply the excuse to spend two weeks together in the midst of busy lives. To be jetlagged together, pulling our suitcases behind trying to locate our London hotel. All screaming “curb!” together as I hit yet another one, driving on the left side of the road. Running across that tiny crepe place on a side Paris street with the grainy breads for Mom and a fruit salad they forgot to charge us for. Taylor staring down pitpockets and Geneva holding up a Clemson flag in a gorge near Amiens. These are the things I remember.
Because in the end, there are no big trips. Not that matter. They are all just a series of little things. Little things done together.
Wonderful memoir, Chris. Really enjoyed reading it, hope you keep writing more.
Our daughter is flying home from France today and she graduates college next week. Then she will join my wife and I as we take her brother to a national debate tournament. We’ll get a week of us four together. I can’t wait to rejoice in the little things as you describe them here.