Megan and I attended our first Burns Supper last night.  A Burns Supper celebrates the life of Robert Burns in ways only Scots could think up. The festivities are a tried and true tradition of Scotland and are particularly common in Ayrshire, as the bard hailed from the region.

Burns suppers include a many-course meal, with haggis, neeps, and tatties as the main attraction.  Haggis, of course, is Scotland’s famous sheep’s guts and oats concoction that used to be the food of the poor and now is served up at black-tie events.  Neeps and tatties are turnips and potatoes–you’re pretty safe with those.

The food at the Burns Supper is important, but so are the many speakers and various sorts of entertainment.  Many toasts are given–the first, a toast to the haggis (with whisky of course) in language so Scottish that I struggled to understand a word.  After the long meal more toasts and speeches take place.  Our particular supper didn’t wrap up until after midnight.

A few months ago I was asked to give a toast at the supper, and kindly accepted the invitation and its accompanying complimentary stay in the fancy hotel.  Not until a few weeks later did I learn my toast “should be timed to no longer than 15 minutes.”  A fifteen-minute toast at a very specific custom I had never attended!

Well, after speaking with a friend and Burns Supper pro, my nerves were somewhat calmed, but I have to say I got progressively more nervous as the night approached.  My toast was to be to “My Scotland” a reflective but humorous talk on my American perspective on Scotland.

I’m happy to report, the night was a success.  I’m not sure if the flowing wine helped my delivery, but it certainly made the audience more receptive of my American attempts at wit and wisdom.

My address follows.  It’s best read with a dram of whiskey.  Cheers.

(click here for the wikipedia Burns Supper link)

Mr chairman, esteemed and honored guests, ladies and gentlemen, what a pleasure and an honor it is to present this toast to My Scotland.  A pleasure, because they don’t make haggis, neeps and tatties where I’m from.  An honor, because, if you consider the public speaking skills of America’s current president, it’s amazing you’d let an American in the door, let alone to the microphone.

But before you rush the exits, do not fret.  I have been well educated at several top American schools, and Bush has always considered himself an “education President,” a president–in his own words–driven by the question, “Is our children learning.”

Ahh, but Bush jokes are so easy…

When Megan and I arrived at the Glasgow airport four months ago, we didn’t quite know what to expect.  You see in America, especially in the American Presbyterian church where I work, everyone reveres Scotland.

Mention Scotland in a room of American Presbyterians and they all start talking at once–ok, well that’s not uncommon–but for many American Presbyterians, there’s just something about thoughts of Scotland that bring a twinkle to the eye.

As I prepared to leave the states for a year to live in my true “motherland”–my mum’s from Edinburgh–many of these American Presbyterians gave me advice for my stay here.

The first person said: buy a good rain-jacket.  Clearly: wise advice.

The second person said: buy a good rain-jacket.  (Incidentally, last weekend I got in the car, turned on the radio and heard the end of the weather report.  The announcer said simply, “Now for Scotland’s weather: tomorrow, all over Scotland, rain.”  And then she moved on.)

The third person’s advice was: you better start drinking now to build up your alcohol tolerance.  (I’m not sure if he expected me to be drinking with the Scots, or because of them, but I was more than happy to take his advice.)

The fourth person, a kind elderly woman with Scottish roots said, “Do you realize how lucky you are?  Scotland is a special place.  It’s a holy land.  You’re blessed to visit.”

After four months in this fine country, I’m happy to report I have a good (and now well-used) rain jacket, my alcohol tolerance is vastly improved, and this kind elderly woman was quite right.  Scotland is a truly special place, and I’m blessed to be here.

Scotland is a country of dignified people, but fun-loving too.  A cultured country of theater and music, where manners are generally respected, and generosity is common.  A country with four universities older than my America itself.  The home of golf.  And a country with the good sense to nurture such a grand poet as Robert Burns, and to celebrate him still.

However, this not to say Scotland is without its foibles.  As John Knox, the imminent minister-theologian, and father of the Church of Scotland once wrote, “Hey, nobody’s perfect.”

I mentioned your good manners earlier.  Well, I was flabbergasted a few weeks ago when I witnessed an amazing display of Scottish schoolgirl manners.  I was in my neighborhood chippy–that was reason enough to take the position at St. Columba: it came with a manse within walking distance of a fish and chip shop.  The chippy was pretty busy, mainly with teenagers of the female variety.

I observed the scene carefully: after taking an order and extricating the fish and chips from their heat-lamp haven, the man behind the counter asked each girl, “Saough and Souache?”  I studied English in university, but had never come across these words.  So I went outside to make sure I wasn’t in the China Buffet by accident.  But the worker repeated to the next person “saough and souache?”

Only after I watched him wrap the fish and chips a few times did I realize he was simply asking if the girls wished to have “salt and sauce” on their suppers.  But even more interesting, was the girls response.  One after another they said, quite loudly.  “Yeah, please.”  “Yeah, please?”

Now, where I’m from, the combination of “yeah” and “please” just doesn’t make sense.  “Yeah” is a lazy word, a rude word even, a word for ill-behaved children on the playground.  “Please” is a beautiful word.  A word of glamour, kindness, and class.  Putting “yeah” and “please” together is like putting a leather couch in a dilapidated shack, it’s like drinking a 30 year-old single malt with an Iron Bru chaser, it’s like putting tomato ketchup on french toast–oh wait, you crazy Scots already do that!  What a strange place I’m in.

But I have to say, in Scotland it’s not just the young who have strange habits.  Older Scots have the same strange habits, they just have more money and should have more sense.  One obsession of older Scots which I just can’t understand is their penchant for gardening.  Gardening, in a country with, “Two seasons: winter and June,” wouldn’t rain harvesting be a more fruitful avocation than gardening?

But no, Scots love their gardening.  The extent of this love affair hit home last week when I needed to wake up early.  So set two alarms, one to beep, and the other so that BBC Radio 4 turned on at a fairly high volume.  So at 6:30 in the morning what did I hear?  My blurry mind was assailed with commentators and guests arguing over the best chemical combination of mulch, whether to buy mulch with peat or peat free, and when and how to mulch what plants according to the chemical makeup of the mixture and their particular genus and species.  And this was at 6:30 in the morning in the dead of winter!  Lord help me come June.

I do like your garden centers, however.  They have large car parks–hard to find–and friendly workers.  They’re a great place for a coffee and a bacon roll.  And if one needs to buy a plant or bird feeder, they’re just the ticket.  …but tropical fish?!  Yes, I’ll have a coffee with milk, a cheese scone, a piece of shortbread, and a fish tank with two of those Amazonian tetra fish to take away, please!

Perhaps your penchant for gardening says a bit about your character as a country.  The best description of such character was a reader’s comment in the Herald a few month ago, back when Scotland’s football team looked like they had a fair chance to make it to the European Championship.  On the eve of the long-awaited Italy game a reader wrote one pithy sentence that summed it all up:  “I’m fine with our usual poor showing, it’s this optimism I can’t stand.”

I’ve been lucky enough to attend a few matches, and let me say they have been quite educational–every time I go I learn some new words and hand gestures.  What shocked me most, however, was not the fanatical devotion to one’s team, but what fans mumbled, no yelled, about their own team.  When play wasn’t going well, fans expressed more emotion and exuberance against their own team than for it.  They seemed to enjoy the poor play by their team even more than good play.

When one thinks about it, however, this perspective isn’t heinous, for it builds character, it forms young Scottish minds to accept the bad with the good, and it makes sure those football players appreciate the value of a hard earned pound.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I have been impressed by many aspects of Scotland.  Compared to America, Scotland’s train and bus system is commendable.  And not only that, you allow pensioners to ride for free!  I know where I’m coming for my 65th birthday.  Overall, your food isn’t half bad.  Of course, there’s your world’s best fish and chips, but I also think Scottish cheese is just amazing.  I don’t know what you do to those cows–I’m not sure I’d want to know–but when I think of the heavenly banquet, I imagine a glass of red wine, a big plate of oatcakes, and an enormous block of mature Scottish cheddar.

And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention your hospitality.  Where I’m from in America, we pride ourselves in what we call Southern Hospitality.  Southern hospitality is about anticipating your guests’ needs before they even know them themselves, feeding them more fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and iced tea then they thought they wanted, and trying your darndest not to talk bad about someone until you’re at least out of the room.

But after a few months in Ayrshire, I’ve discovered another even kinder form of Southern hospitality.  What can I say but, “Y’all sure are nice.”

You anticipate my needs before I even know them.  I’ll give you an example.
So the other morning, I’m minding my own business at the manse, having my toast at the breakfast table when I hear this banging noise outside.  I figured the neighbors were having some house work done, and continued munching my toast.  But the noise kept up, and it sounded pretty close to my place.  So I went to the window and pulled open the shades: all I saw was a huge ladder, and someone’s legs heading up to my roof.

Well, it’s not every morning someone climbs on your roof while you’re inside having breakfast.  I considered, for a bit, that this could be some strange Scottish tradition–like a first footing taken up a step–but eventually I went outside to assess the situation.

(to guy on roof…)
“Good morning sir.  Nice day huh?”

“Aye, that’s right.  Could be worse.”

“Um…right…yeah…hope you don’t mind if I ask you a question.  It’s     just, well, why are you on my roof?”

“Aye, just a few loose tiles.  Shouldn’t be long.”

“Great, well, ok.  Well, I’ll just be inside eating my toast.”

And thirty minutes later he was gone.  I honestly don’t know why this nice roofing angel came.  I also don’t know where he intends to send the bill.  But, at this point at least, I’m just considering it good ole’ Scottish hospitality.

(Incidentally, speaking of hospitality, it wasn’t till preparing this toast that I finally heard the the companion joke to one I’m told often.  So you’ll know what Glasgow folks say about Edinburghers.  When you knock on their door, and they invite you in, they say, “Come on in, you’ll have had your tea.”

Well I just found out what Edinburgh residents say about Glasgow folks.  “Come on in, you’ll be hungry.” And it’s a statement of fact, not an offer of food.)

I could go on…about your beautiful landscapes, your penchant for bargains, your love for your animals, your strange sports–golf I understand, but curling?–your commitment to each other, your horrible signposts (it’s like you don’t want the new minister to find your house…oh, right, wait a second), your general cleverness–did you know that the word “whisky” comes from the Gaelic word for water, “No honey, it’s fine, the doctor said I should drink more water.”)–but at the end of the day, my conclusion would be the same.  That fourth American Presbyterian had it spot on.  “Scotland is indeed, a truly special place, and we are all blessed to be here.”

So ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses to Scotland, a country I’m honored to call My Scotland.  To My Scotland!