the hour of soft light...

a ferry tale

It’s hard to describe the feeling I get here…knowing this is where some of my ancestors boarded a ship and left Scotland for North America five generations ago. Of course, lots of them didn’t leave. Their descendants share my “names” and look familiar to me (I don’t even care if it’s only my imagination).

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The other night, I was introduced as a prodigal “Ross” to the Bingo crowd at the local pub, the Cromarty Arms. “Now yer among yer’oon,” said Nola, smiling big at me. It was Wednesday night Bingo. Virtually everyone there had cards and blotters. After a lot of good natured ribbing (mostly of the caller—also a Ross—who defended his shiny bald head as “nothing this grrreat shud eever be covered oop!”), the game began. Nola kept one eye on my paper to see if I was keeping up.

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I hadn’t played Bingo since pigtails, but how hard could…

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