“Angry mobs filled the streets demanding food. The price of oatmeal
soared when farmers and landlords exported it elsewhere for higher profits.
When the authorities refused to stop such exports on the grounds it would
disrupt trade, thousands more took the law into their own hands, putting
northern Scotland ‘nearly in a state of insurrection.’
Some, like Colonel James Gordon of Cluny, owner of Barra, South Uist,
Benbecula and other islands, seemed content to let their tenants starve.
‘Family after family in Barra, as in the West Highlands and Islands more
generally, went hungry despite many of them having in plain view some of the
richest fishing grounds in all the world.
That the famine did not equal Ireland’s was due in large part to the
Free Church of Scotland, which swiftly raised aid and inspired others to
follow.”
I lead with this from a review of James Hunter, “Insurrection:
Scotland’s Famine Winter,” because students often ask when I tell them of past
injustice, “Why didn’t I get this in school?”
“Because there’s too much of it,” is my answer. “Sixteen weeks of
‘Injustice, a history,’ would barely scratch the surface.” But maybe it would
be good to try.
The most hopeful thing I noticed this week was how, no matter what the
news or weather, the chickens rush out every morning when I open the door to
the coop. They behave as if each day is precious and worth embracing with
enthusiasm. Of course it could be that they don't get the same news we do, or
they may just be hungry and want food and water. I decided to ask.
“Hey, Mimo, do you ever get depressed?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Well do you have good days and bad days?”
Appenzeller decided to join in, “Of course we do. A good day has seeds and
crumbs at the start, a warm dust bath in the middle and maybe pizza at the
finish.”
“PIZZA!” they all said together.
Pecorino, “Me first. Where is it?”
Mimo, “It’s been so long, I can barely remember the taste.”
“Bridgeport closed.”
Appenzeller, “Is that where they bring pizza in from Italy?”
“You think of pizza as Italian?”
Pecorino, “You said so yourself. You said proper pizza has anchovies on it.”
Mimo, “Which, if I remember correctly, you also said fish gods use to keep
their boats in place, which puzzled me greatly because the Neverbudge seems to
be kept in place entirely without the aid of fish.”
Appenzeller, “Perhaps it’s too big for anchovies?”
Pecorino, “Well then, what does keep it in place?”
“Gravity,” I said. “It’s much bigger than a fish.”
Mimo, “Oooooooh,” said Mimo. “I bet it’s invisible too.”
“It is.”
Pecorino, “That would explain why we’ve not seen it.”
Appenzeller, “But gods can?”
“Can what?”
Appenzeller, “See gravity?”
“No,” I said. “We rely on others to tell us about it, the gods of our god
world.”
Mimo, “What do you call them these seers of gravity?”
“Physicists, but we have Physicians and others too.”
Pecorino, “Do all their names begin with the letter f?”
“Bridgeport,” I said, deflecting, “was a pub. I used to go there for beer and
pizza, but they went out of business. And I’ve not been buying pizza from
other places.”
Mimo, “Well do so! And soon. In the name of all that’s flighty and fizzy.”
Hamish bursting out of my office in search of the rat—yes, it’s still around—
is like a ship being launched with champagne but without anchovies. There’s
the initial potential energy that becomes kinetic, the dip when the back end
comes up and then a spin so that the nose or prow ends up facing the deck or
bank. I don’t think rudders generally wag, so that may be a flaw in the simile.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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