Cool Mountain Scottish

For a short time I lived in Arizona.

I spent a semester at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff.

In the center of NAU sits the bookstore and the post office.   And in that bookstore works a woman.  I don’t know her name or where she’s from.  Truth be told I don’t even remember her face.   But everyday at 11:00, she plays the bagpipes.

It’s not something you ever expect to hear.  And it may be something you never hear.  But I was in the right place at the right time one day.   And there she was, in plain clothes on her lunch break with only her bagpipes and a turkey sandwich, seated on the side of the bookstore.   Most people walked right past her.   Some gave her bizarre looks as they went.  But still she played.

Not me though.  Along with a few others, I listened as she played the slow, soulful music of the Scots.   There’s a story there, I’m sure.   Something brilliant.  Maybe tragic.  But I never asked.  Every day, or as often as possible, I would sit for a minute and listen to her song.

She’s probably still out there, next to a brown brick building, playing her song.