There’s not more Scots than the Scots abroad

I’ve known for many years that I was adopted. I didn’t know much more than that — only that a maternal uncle had petit-mal epilepsy, which fortunately never evidenced itself in me.

Like many adopted kids I wondered where I came from. Who was my biological mother? Biological father? What was my heritage? None of these questions had easy answers. In the end I decided to adopt a heritage. Knowing that my adoptive family was English with some Scottish blood I found myself attracted to Scottish and Irish cultures and languages.

Time spent at the local WISE hall and with friends yielded a small working vocabulary in each language, with the southern Irish dialect being the strongest. After a while my life began to move in different ways and I lost track of the language studies.

A couple of years ago I was contacted by my birth mother. It was a happy reunion, and I have since met her husband and my four sisters. I also found out about my Scottish heritage, and everyone was tickled to know I had some small remembrance of the language.

This year Grandpa Cameron gave me a book he made detailing the family, and I am listed in the tenth generation. For me this is a momentous honour.

When he gave me the book he read the clan motto for me, and I began to fondly remember the language. Now, some days later, I have decided to learn the language. Robynne has agreed to learn it with me, and I am very excited.

Chapters and the WISE hall, here we come!


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