Gifts

   Some years ago I was in Inverness, Scotland. A policeman recommended a nice B&B on the banks of a beautiful river. The first night I went into town and stopped in an old hotel to listen to a folk group play a few. A very tall young man walked toward the corner where I sat. He wore the type of beard that starts just below the eyes, covering most of the facial features, except for a scar that went from an eyebrow, through his mustache, then down his chin. We talked between songs, his thick brogue and my grits accent making that somewhat difficult.His scar came from an IRA bomb in Belfast, where he served with the British army. We traded war stories and he sang along with the band on a couple of songs. When the last bus was due, he said with that wonderful burr, "I'll miss you, lad."
   The next morning at breakfast, I asked the proprietor about hitchhiking to Culloden Moor.  Another customer overheard my question and said he was going to a boat and engine show in that direction. He had recently moved from Australia to reopen a small shipyard. We toured that sad battlefield, then rode to Loch Ness and the nearby trade show. He talked of his move and his family. He was so proud of his children, especially his Downe's Syndrome son, whose picture he showed me. After wishing me a good trip and dropping me at the B&B, he went on his way.
   In those two days, traveling alone. so very far from home, two total strangers gave me the gifts of their kindness, a bit of their lives, and a small story to keep and share for as long as I live.