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Her name was Elizabeth May (Jamieson) Smith, but we called her Grandma. She was the mother of twelve, and needless to say, family was important to her. As a child, I learned from her, and those lessons were many and varied. Two of her teachings were particularly sacred, however, and they were pride of name and pride of country. The name was "Smith", and the country was Scotland. Throughout my life, I have been haunted by these early learnings, but I have never doubted their veracity. It seems My ignorance was not my fault. I had asked Grandma for more information. In fact, the occasion of the question is one of my earliest childhood memories. The whole family was at a picnic. Not just any picnic, it was the "Scotch" picnic. It was in the early fifties, and we lived in Youngstown, Ohio. I can't tell you where the picnic was held, but we got their in our black '49 Plymouth. There was a lot to see. Afterall, everything in the world was bigger in those days. Adults were taller, picnic tables were higher, even Grandmas were towering. I think my cousin, Jane, danced the sword dance, but I wouldn't swear to it. I did, however, see the swords- that I remember. I also remember wanting to wield one, but the adults were too quick. The kilted pipers were spectacular. I never remember thinking that they were wearing dresses, and, though I do not recall anyone in my family wearing the kilt, I knew very early on that this was the way men were supposed to dress. From their buttoned spats to their black busbys, these dirk-carrying men were at least ten feet tall. The tartan they wore was primarlily red, but I cannot remember well enough to identify the sett. They also had these marvelous, horse-haired, military sporans (the kind that are presently out of style, and my wife thinks are obscene). To this day, I do not understand men who feel threatened by the prospect of wearing the kilt (or seeing others wearing one). I play a game with myself sometimes. I try to see male highland dress through the eyes of the non-Scot. I've never been successful at seeing it as anything but masculine, but then again, I'm looking through the filters of ten foot tall, busby-headed, warriors in full military regalia. You'd never ask them if they wear a slip (or anything else for that matter). Anyway, it was on that impressive day that I asked my Grandma, "What clan are we?" I remember accepting her answer as an absolute truth, but also being very disappointed. She said, "In Scotland we didn't belong to any clan, we were too poor." Of course, she spoke with a burr, which softened the blow. For if I was disappointed about not wearing a clan badge, my pride of being a Scot was intact. Thus began a quest that has continued well into my middle years. Yet, I did not know that I was on a quest. I suppose all good adventures begin with a level of discomfort. The discomfort turns to a restlessness, and the restlessness becomes a quest. My discomfort began with the shocking truth, "We did not belong to a clan", and continued with the constant irritation of people who unabashedly announce that "Smith", being a common name, is always of uncertain origin. Of course this is violates the two cardinal rules of childhood, pride of being a Smith and pride of being a Scot. One thing that I have observed over the years is the extent to which people cling to their ignorance, and I confess that there is some joy in pointing out that not only is "Smith" a Scottish name, it is the most Scottish name. The 1861 census shows that 1.5% of the population of Scotland, 44,378 people, bore the surname "Smith". The second most common name was "MacDonald" with a mere 37,572 entries listed. While this little stastical analysis has a way of slowing down the critics who think that all Scottish names begin with a "Mac", it also points up another problem, that of tracing Scottish roots. The difficulty of the dilemma is not lost on those who know Scotland. In 1988, my family was crowded into one of those familiar black taxis out of Waverly station in Edinburgh. We were headed toward the Wright's who live on Lennox Row in Trinity near the shores of the Firth of Forth. As we passed near New Register House, the driver struck up the conversation by asking, "Are you here to work on genealogy? All Americans come here for that." To which I answered, "Well, my grandparents were from here, but my name is 'Smith'." The traffic lanes in Edinburgh get narrow at certain points, and so I do not advise using this response unless the taxi is at a complete standstill. Needless to say, the driver roared. Thus, having surveyed one of the locals about the practicality of discovering the Smith ancestory, we had an enjoyable holiday. The fact remains, however, that he was correct, and the idea of chasing after such a common surname could be an insurmountable, almost humorous, prospect for an ancestor search. Reason demanded an end to the search, even before it began. I guess, however, that I am not a reasonable person. I did have several allies in my madness. The first was my brother, Adam, who surveyed my father's brothers and sisters for any information and stories of bygone days. My second ally was Margaret (Steele) Anderson. Peggy's mother was Margaret (Smith) Steele, my grandfather's younger sister. Peggy remembered many of her mother's stories and my research would evoke comments or answers to questions that she had stored away in memory. For example, when I commented that "Lillie" was one of the surnames on the family tree, she said, "My mother used to say there were a lot of 'Lillies' around in Scotland and I always wondered about that. I figured she meant women named 'Lily'." She also had some photos and correspondence from the first half of this century that helped pinpoint locations. My final ally was involvement with Scottish-American Societies. This grew out of the fact that my son, Court, started playing the pipes a few years ago. Along with his hobby came the obligation to attend Burns Night Suppers, Saint Andrew's Night celebrations, and highland games. I found myself surrounded by kilts and tartan, and the images of childhood reasserted themselves. The question came back, "Grandma, what clan are we?", Scottish societies give a different answer than Grandma Smith. They toss you a book of surnames, and say "Pick one." Never mind the facts, never mind that most Scots were not clan members, never mind that location in Scotland played as much a role as surname in clan identification. Some will even tell you there was a clan "Smith", and they have the tartan to prove it. A Scottish friend once said, "Smiths can wear any tartan they like, since every clan had a smith." I know, however, that my family came from Glasgow, and while being poor would not prevent anyone from belonging to a clan (in spite of what Grandma said), being a Glaswegian could. No longer can I ask, "What clan?" That question was answered more than thirty years ago. We have no clan! Instead I ask, "Which tartan?" What fabric should I wear to satisfy my social schedule while maintaining the truth of what I have learned about my family? My quest, fueled by curiosity and social pressure, led me to Glasgow. What tartan do I wear? The one called "City of Glasgow", for my family was of that place. In fact, the story of this family of "Smiths" is the story of "Glasgow Toon".
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