I had a chat with my sixteen-year-old garden handyman

We are raising another breed of American

America is sliding toward autocracy.

Harry Hogg
Published in
6 min readFeb 7, 2022

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Statue of Liberty Image Source.

Mrs. Braebrooke, our classroom teacher, rolled down a map of the world from its anchorage on the ceiling. The width of the map stretched almost across the room. She held a long thin cane in her hand, similar to one dad might tie up tomatoes, and pointed to a large landmass. “This is the New World,” she said, popularly thought to have been discovered by Colombus, for the Spanish Crown, looking for a new shipping route to Asia, over here.” The point of the cane slid across the vinyl and stopped with a hard tap, and then slid back again. Today this land is known as America.

Mrs. Braebrooke again slapped the fabric with the cane, focusing my attention, and bringing an end to my daydream more focused on the sunny day outside. She then slid the cane all the way across the map to point to a small island. “This is the British Isles, and here,” she said, tapping the map several times with the point of the cane, “is Scotland, our home.”

There was other stuff, foolish king, presidents, slavery, civil war, ending with America’s role in the modern world, all of it less attractive than out the window. But the lesson learned then, and that remains true today, is America is a vast country, wealthy and powerful, and Scotland is insignificant.

I soon forgot about America. Then came October 1962. I was thirteen years old. Dad celebrated his 40th birthday, which is why I remember it being October.

Dad was a peaceful man, not worldly, having left Scotland but one time in his search to adopt a child, me. We’d all been in the pub that weekend, celebrating. Dad played the accordion, being masterful with the instrument. It was always a popular night with the locals, village friends really. Pretty soon, the place was bouncing. Truly, I mean, it was spectacular.

The women danced still wearing pinafores, their hair in curlers, and fishermen stamping their feet on the floorboards, thumping fists on tables and singing. Dad told me that even husky voices need to sing. I mean, how is it possible to make one understand it was a joy like you never heard. Music flying up into the rafters…

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Harry Hogg
ILLUMINATION

Ex Greenpeace, writing since a teenager. Will be writing ‘Lori Tales’ exclusively for JK Talla Publishing in the Spring of 2024