You then decide to visit with your, once upon a time, friendly banker. Approximately five minutes into the meeting, she/he collapses into an uncontrollable fit of laughter in response to your request for a car loan. While her/his cacophony of hilarity continues to ring in your ears, you steer your rust-emblazoned Yugo onto the street and are immediately passed by a squadron of shiny new Corvettes.

I don’t have any great desire to own a Corvette (well, okay I do, but haven’t got the necessary funds). Visiting Scotland is my goal. It is a dream that I’ve held dear within my heart for many decades and one that refuses to abate. I want to be strolling through fields of heather and, when my imagination is coated in Technicolor, can almost feel the posies brushing against my body.

I’d like to be in Scotland at this very moment. In its stead, I am typing this article while experiencing the heat and humidity engorged blast furnace that is summer in Chicago, Illinois. There is only one reason why I’m not touring around the land of Wallace today. I can’t afford the trip! It is that simple.

Over the past while, I’ve become so obsessed with dreaming about visiting Scotland that my heart came very close to breaking following a determination that I couldn’t afford the vacation for a very long time to come.

I found that my despair was so great that even thinking about anything to do with Scotland caused me to sink into a teary mass of Canadian (yes, I’m a citizen of The Great White North) protoplasm. I, therefore, made a decision to disassociate myself, for a time, from Scottish influences of any kind.

I went so far as to decide that my “Reflections On a Dream” columns would not, for a few months, address the topic of Scotland, its culture, people or basically anything to do with the land. That was a ludicrous thought and I’ve already cast it aside.

The truth of the matter is that I might as well continue dreaming about visiting Scotland (regardless of my lack of funds) because I can’t get away from references to the country. In fact, I’m surrounded by them, but it’s not my fault. Really, it isn’t! Read on and you’ll see what I mean.

Immediately after deciding to temporarily close my eyes to anything Scottish, I contacted my dear friend, Sharma (editor of this fine publication). She joyfully told me that a trip to Scotland (one of several she makes each year) was in the immediate offing. I was very pleased for her, but begged off of discussing the impending vacation. I just couldn’t bear to think of her jetting off to The Highlands while I could only consider a day trip to a local museum.

In a feeble effort to console my spirits, I decided to venture out and get a bite to eat. I dragged my body into my rusty Corvette wannabe and creaked over to a local hamburger emporium. As I pulled into the parking lot, the proud sign overhead proclaimed "McDonalds.” Even though this had been my intended destination, suddenly I couldn’t bear the thought of eating anything that was wrapped in a package stamped with a Scottish name.

After driving to another restaurant, I purchased a rather surly looking taco and then headed home. Along the way, the car radio was blaring out a song by a trio of youngsters known as “Hanson.” The group’s current mega hit is “MMMBOP.” My overwrought mind, however, only heard “MMMSCOT.” That night, as I lay beneath the sheets of my bed, I couldn’t get the annoying chorus “MMMSCOT, MMMSCOT” out of my head. It had been that kind of a day.

The following Sunday, I was sitting in my favorite pew in The First Presbyterian Church of Downers Grove. At one point, Reverend Bianchin announced that he would be spending three months, this summer, in Scotland.

I was about to scream out “hey! Aren’t Presbyterian ministers supposed to practice vows of poverty?” I suddenly recalled that Presbyterians are stereotyped as frugal, not necessarily poverty-stricken, thus decided to hold my tongue.

As it turned out, Reverend Bianchin was going to embark on a pastoral exchange program. A minister from The Highlands would be preaching to our congregation while our leader would be delighting a church full of Scots.

Ordinarily it would have been very exciting to be spiritually attended to by a Scottish minister. To me, however, the very thought that our pastor (and his family) was heading off to the land of my dreams while I was trying to figure out whether I could afford to put more than $5 into the collection plate was quite distressing.

Within a few minutes, as I continued to stew over my woes, the congregation launched into the singing of a hymn. I ended up humming “MMMSCOT.”

One month ago, I spent a weekend in the city of Morton, Illinois. On Sunday morning, I headed off to a local church and then settled into a pew. Within minutes, the minister appeared and began the service. While the weekly announcements were being read, I took a glance at the program and noted with sagging spirits that the pastor’s name was Rob Roy. Once again, I found myself humming…well, you know.

Two weeks ago, my Montreal based brother in-law called. During an otherwise very enjoyable conversation, he stated that my 16-year-old niece would be embarking on a wonderful excursion in September. I innocently asked, “oh, and where is she going?” He cheerfully replied, “she’s been invited to spend three weeks in Scotland. It’s a scholarship program for gifted students.” I said, in a somewhat curmudgeonly manner, “I’m very pleased for her.” I then bid adieu and went out to buy another surly taco.

Last weekend, I was exhausted from trying to rid my mind of anything to do with Scotland. I decided to relax and watch a sports event. I turned on the television and was presented with a picture of Tiger Woods who was attempting to win yet another golf tournament. It took less than an instant to realize that I had stumbled across a presentation of The British Open being played in Scotland.

I reached for the remote control and clicked the channel selector. In the blink of an eye, my frazzled brain was assaulted by a video of Rod Stewart swaying his middle-aged hips to the tune of “Maggie May.”

Okay, okay, I’ve got the message. Scotland is beckoning and I’ve got to be there. Yes, I will need to generate some funds, but won’t bother asking my banker for a loan as I have no urge to provide him with a comedy routine. I will, however, stop buying tacos and put my hard-earned pennies into a savings account. At some point, I’ll have enough money to afford a visit to Scotland before the end of the year.

In time, I won’t have to sing “MMMSCOT” any longer. Soon, I’ll be proudly crooning “Scotland The Brave” and will do so standing atop a moor overlooking Loch Ness.

I would love to hear from you. My readers are very important to me and I answer each and every email. My contact is Gary.

You can find more articles in the archive under Reflections on a Dream.