A small town's legacy

"Did we end up in Paradise"? My daughter asked, a couple of years ago when we traveled together to a small town called Dunblane, Scotland. We had chosen to stay there because it was on the train and equidistant from Edinburg and Glasgow.

In 1996, my daughter was a five-year-old in kindergarten in a small town like Dunblane. Her teachers were caring toward their young charges. I never thought twice when I left her in their care for the better part of the day. She came bouncing out after school with colored pages she had worked on during the day. This was the beginning of her love of art that would take her through art school, followed by a post baccalaureate artisan degree, and a soon-to-be completed art therapy master's degree. A long road, to be sure, but one that she chose to follow since childhood.

Every five-year-old should have such a bright beginning that manifests in a dream fulfilled. Sadly, that was not the story thirty years ago for children in Dunblane.

Named Scotland's friendliest town, folks in this picturesque, bucolic town are out and about with their dogs in the evenings. We were greeted with "Halo" in a quiet, lilting accent and a tip of the hat or nod of the head on our way to or from our apartment in a former wool mill with wide windows overlooking the River Alan's waterfall.

Atop a hill, sat a substantial medieval cathedral. Its doors were locked whenever I tried to get a look inside, but from my bedroom I could hear the 12th century bells chiming the hour. My good intentions to attend a Sunday service did not come to fruition for reasons I have forgotten. I regret it now.

I learned too late that inside the Cathedral was a memorial to the children who had been victims of a mass shooting in their hometown. These children would be my daughter's age now. Like her, they would have shared classrooms with classmates and teachers who sparked their potential. Each one would have made choices about his/her future, be it art school, athletics, engineering, teaching, organizing, writing, singing, or whatever dream called across those lush hills. Their parents would have bubbled over with pride instead of sorrow.

Those very parents who lost their most precious loved ones took matters into their own hands. They rallied together with the rest of the town in what they called the Snowdrop Campaign for tighter gun laws, which helped to bring about sweeping reforms that left the UK with some of the strictest restrictions on private handgun ownership in the world.*

It gives me pause to read about such a far-reaching legacy for one tiny town --Dunblane would be the last deadliest mass shooting in the whole of the UK. Think of all the lives saved with determination and drive to make their child the last to suffer such a fate in a classroom with pretty pictures on the walls.

Here,in the United States, since 1996 there have been 540 deaths and a total of 844 shootings! There has been N0 national gun law reform.*** We are a country that could take a lesson from a little town in the hills of Scotland who refused to sacrifice anyone's future life, ever again.

*https://www.theguardian.com/world/2026/mar/13/friday-briefing-the-legacy-of-the-dunblane-massacre-30-years-on

**https://ballotpedia.org/United_States_school_shootings_and_firearm_incidents,_1990-present

***https://giffords.org/lawcenter/resources/scorecard/

Speak your mind: (202) 224-3121

The U.S. Capitol Switchboard will connect you 24/7 to the office of any and all Senators and Representatives. Most often, you will hear a recorded message asking your name, zip code, etc. Then you have the floor, so to speak!

This is an easy, painless, effective (sort of) way to speak your mind whenever the issues cause you concern. Sometimes, you will be mysteriously added to an email list from the office you called. I'll bet that email starts with a thank-you for calling, then goes on to tell you everything he/she has done for you, the voter, lately!

Not everyone wants to carry a sign with an ever-growing group of other citizens, who by the way will be out in force on March 29. If you are one who cannot or does not want to stand in solidarity physically, using your cell phone as a tool is better than nothing. And, if you choose to carry signs in solidarity, don't put down the phone. Call, and call again, during the march, after the march, and any time the Spirit moves you to speak your mind.

202-224-3121 Put it in your speed dial for future reference. You know we are going to need it!

Regarding Traditions

View from lanai by Henry

The annual pilgrimage to St. Augustine, Florida from Dublin, New Hampshire now complete, leaves me wondering whether another will come.

Tradition is the word Henry has adopted as I have adopted him as a grandson. His annual departure from home, then the return home, grounds him in a place that is not home.

A special place holds stories while a place within holds dreams. Being grounded within is a whole 'nother story - not bound by place nor time like the essence of tradition itself.

On the cusp of becoming nineteen, dreams dance in the mind even as feet stand on the homeland. Dreams, at some magical moment, grow wings to lift off from safe ground that has made all the difference when it counted most. Sometimes lifting off takes time - but like family, friends, and local community- time is on his side. When the time to fly is right, the urge to go will come. In the meantime, traditions continue to hold steady until no longer needed.

Breaks with tradition come without notice -- his midnight swim in the pool announced after-the-fact --my pronouncement that after age eighteen those root beer floats (a long-standing tradition with each grandchild) have run their course.

"Next year, I will buy you a root beer float", said Henry. That is no small thing! A cherished tradition was claimed in that expressed sentiment. Tradition is, after all, sentimental when smells and sounds and sights can be tasted and heard and seen with eyes closed from anywhere.

My Memere offered her version of root beer floats on every visit to her home--a smaller pilgrimage across town-- but nevertheless to another world that in my mind remained unchanged over her lifetime. Her tradition was in that first crunch of sweet corncakes topped with peppermint "old fashioned" candy like the last sip through a straw of root beer with traditional vanilla ice cream.

It had been a long time between bites when I found the treat again last summer in my grandmother's homeland, Quebec, Canada. I am the age she was when she passed away (!) but time -- like tradition-- exists between reality--yummy treats--and memories that linger like there is no tomorrow.

Serving up tradition is as sentimental as it is grounding. Stories baked in tradition often begin with the words: I'll never forget . . .

I'll never forget those root beer floats with my grandkids!