This week’s story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
Mairi placed the last mug into the cupboard that Grandfather had built nearly sixty years ago. She sat with her tea at the worn table, a treasure from Scotland.
Niall already said goodnight after silently packing away the fiddle and guitar.
Every week since she was a wee girl this house was home to the community ceilidh. Now, most of the regulars were gone seeking work, and three older folk had passed on this year.
The old homestead was silent. A tear spilled down Mairi’s cheek.
Another tradition coming to a sad end?
No, not if Mairi had her way.
Note: ceilidh (pronounced kay-lee)