Cheers and Slainte

Cheers and Slainte

In August of 1985, I moved to Hooksett, New Hampshire, to take a position with the large insurance conglomerate, American International Group (AIG). The headquarters building was in Manhattan, but they maintained a data center in Manchester, New Hampshire, for tax purposes. Also employed there was a large contingent of technical consultants from England and Scotland. There were at least 20 of them working there, and when you included the wives and children, there was a sizable contingent of people on hand who were from Great Britain.
 
I can’t remember if I had any personal misgivings or preconceived notions as to what it would be like to work with them, or how they would react to me in a social setting. If I did have issues or misgivings, they existed in my mind only. I quickly became friends with the majority of them, and I stay in touch with a few still, some twenty years on. So, in the summer of 1985, began a two and a half year period rich in memories and experience.
 
I remember great people, men and women who possessed a warm and wonderful sense of humor. They had the same problems that Americans did: money problems, health issues, relationships that went bad, worries about the future. But they lived each day fully and warmly, and I grew to care for them all deeply, and they in turn cared for me.
 
The first friendship I formed was with Chris Ellison. He hailed from Scotland, and his wife and two children, a daughter and a son, were with him here in the States. He was a big tall man, loved his beer, always wore a smile, and could break out into a song at the smallest provocation. When he raised his glass to drink, he used the Scottish toast, “Slainte.” It was pronounced "slan-juh", as near as I could tell, and in American fashion I bastardized it to “slange”, said in a single drawn-out syllable with a soft "a" like in "ran". It didn’t take long before he would toast me with “slange”, and I would reply “slange, asshole”.
 
“What’s that for?” he asked a bit indignantly.
 
“Slange is probably a Scottish word that means Americans are idiots or shit heads, and every time all of you guys use it, you probably are all chuckling over an inside joke that is at my expense, so I’m just getting my due in now.”
 
He laughed, I laughed, and we toasted with our toast and reply, a tradition that has lasted now for more than twenty years, and is written with love on email and Christmas cards.

Shena McKirdy was another Scot who enjoyed those times with us in New England. I would say her last name and string it out with about twenty ‘r’s in it to emulate the way it sounded with a Scottish accent. She had a wonderful set of pipes and, like Chris, she would break into song with little provocation. I can close my eyes and hear her singing “The Dundee Weaver”. Chris would make it a point to have OVD shipped to him in the States. OVD was Old Vatted Demerara Rum, a dark rum with a rich and sweet taste. Shena, Chris and I would drink shots of OVD and Shena and Chris would sing. That was always a magic night.
 
The first time I was invited to a British party was when I went to a Guy Fawkes celebration in November of 1985. Guy Fawkes was the traitor who was trying to blow up the Houses of Parliament and, along with it, a bunch of Protestants. The purpose of this plot was to deliver the rule of England to the Catholics. He was caught in the act and imprisoned; later he was executed for his traitorous crimes.
 
The party was at Garry Dunne’s house. Garry was a blond man who had a wife and three beautiful young daughters. For the party his wife, Elizabeth, was dressed up like the Queen. She would pull the hem of her skirt up to reveal a long line of leg, and say, “It’s fun to be naughty when you’re the Queen.” We had a beautiful roast of beef for dinner, with roasted potatoes and vegetables. She spooned some drippings from the roast into a hot cast-iron muffin pan. She then spooned in some batter and made the sweetest and lightest hollow puff pastries to have with the beef. After dinner, we went outside for fireworks. It was a grand time.
 
My first New Years in New Hampshire was spent at Pete Shaw’s. He had a wife and four young kids. In fact, everyone brought their kids to the party, and they did a fine job of enjoying themselves on their own. There was plenty of drinking going on, but the Brits seemed so much more adult about it than Americans did, like its part of everyday life and something to be savored and enjoyed. At midnight, the adults formed a large circle in the living room. The kids formed a smaller circle within, and we all danced and sang songs.  
 
Time went by, and we celebrated its passing together, the good and the bad. There were births and divorces, holidays, summer picnics, concerts, and the rest of the things people do together. I brought my English friends on hiking and camping trips to the White Mountains. For two years, we had a team on the winter bowling league, and we called it ‘Brits Plus One’; I was the one. Towards the end of 1987, however, things began to change. Technology was changing, and AIG was changing with it. People’s contracts were coming to their end, and they were not being renewed. Others just went home to England or Scotland, and some went on to other jobs. The diaspora went on and, by the spring of 1988, that magical period was over. 
 
I am lucky enough to carry with me a legacy from that period, one thing in particular that has stayed with me over the years, a habit I picked up from those days in New Hampshire, and that is the use of the word “cheers”. It means so much more than its casual connotation as an English drinking toast. There are the myriad of inflections used to deliver the word. Depending on the inflection and context in the conversation or time of day, “cheers” can mean good morning, good night, thank you, to your health, good luck, farewell, goodbye, best wishes. In particular, are the wonderful and sweet ways it is used to express and convey the many shades of “thank you”, and of “you are important to me”. I carry the love of that word deep within my being, and know when and how to use it, and I do.
 
Years later, in November of 1994, I met another young Scot by the name of Darrin Kerrigan. He was a redheaded and handsome young man, very intelligent, and he possessed a wonderful and raucous sense of humor. He had just arrived in Atlanta to work at the company where I was employed. I told him the story of those days in New Hampshire, and of ‘slange’ and Chris Ellison, and he enjoyed it very much. A week or two later, his father, who was a lawyer in Scotland, arrived in Atlanta to throw a party for his son. At the main table, Darrin and I raised our single malts and touched our glasses.
 
“Slange,” said Darrin.
 
“Asshole,” I answered, putting my arm around his shoulders, and we both burst out laughing.
 
“Nice friends you’re making in America,” said his dad, eyeing us with a pained expression.
 
So the tradition continued, with a different Scot, from another time. Darrin and I worked together in Atlanta for three years. We hiked the mountains of Georgia together, and the Great Smokies as well. We shared outings with our friends, and partied in Atlanta. We also raised many a glass. Darrin was always a true and honest friend to me, and his joy of life and Scottish accent would often remind me of those wonderful days spent with other Scots, during that wonderful period in New Hampshire.
 
Today, I still keep in contact with Chris and Darrin, we still connect once or twice a year, mostly by email. At the end of every message is the same salutation, one that conveys love and friendship across oceans and years.
 
“Slange, asshole.”