I wanted my first fictional novel to be historically and culturally factual thus I did much research, and even later in the story of slang words about the time period I was writing. Too often I have read a book that I happen to know some timepiece info (I'm not all that know it all) is incorrect. It 'much more interesting and fun to read what life really was during the time period of story. Research I say. And you?

 Here's a bit of my story, The Skye in June, where I did a lot of research with people who lived through it and also other sources. If you are a Scot who lived in Glasgow during the late 40's and early 50s please let me know if you recall this and/or have a story I might use in further writings or this book.  Thank you. www.catholicpagan.com

Excerpt,  The Skye in June

Orange Walk

July 12, 1953

The stone landing outside the MacDonald’s flat quickly picked up the heat that came with the weather change. Although it had drizzled the day before, producing a refreshing low fog, the heat of the July afternoon now permeated the atmosphere. “Things are going to be hot today,” Granda B mused as he carefully lowered his whiskey glass from his lips, enjoying the last drop of Johnny Walker Red — his favorite whiskey.
    The revelry of laughter, singing and banging of drums in the nearby parade belied the upcoming clash of Glasgow’s citizens. If history were its gauge, then the day would most assuredly grow in violence that would last well into the next day.
    Granda B’s tawny brown eyes flickered over to Jimmy, his son-in-law. The old man watched Jimmy’s strong muscular body tense up with each faint drumming sound that, like an anxious heartbeat, grew louder and louder. While the older man and his son-in-law were very different in looks — the elder tall, white haired and slender, whereas Jimmy was short and stocky with dark brown hair — they were very much alike in their strong beliefs on family and religion. Granda B was not one to be easily upset or excited by the happenings of the world around him. But Jimmy would anger at the drop of a hat. Both were proud men. They had a right to be, they thought, having earned it from years of fighting to keep a decent job in a country where Catholics often found good work opportunities difficult to come by. And Jimmy, a hard worker, was proud that he had been able to provide well for his family.
    All was well, Jimmy thought, until last week when he was let go from his job.
Granda B’s low, calm voice cut short son-in-law’s thoughts. “Aye, ‘tis a shame, son. I told you that my cousin would take you on at his electrical shop.”
“Och, Dad, it’s no just that. It’s the whole thing of being let go like I was,” he said snapping his fingers loudly and grimacing with anger. “All because some bloody Proddy  comes along every time and takes our jobs away. It keeps me from getting ahead.”
Granda B had the same distaste for the Protestants in Scotland, having lived with their prejudices against Catholics much longer than Jimmy had. But he knew not to agree with his son-in-law. The whisky might encourage Jimmy to do something that would bring trouble to the family.
    Still, Jimmy’s words caused Granda B to think back on that day, many years ago, when the police and his parish priest came to his door. Granda B’s stomach started to burn as it always did when he remembered that horrible day. They came to tell him that his youngest son, Francis, a gentle fair-haired boy of thirteen, was dead. Against his father’s orders, Francis had gone with some friends to watch the Orange Walk , a parade of Glasgow Protestants celebrating their religion. A brick tossed from the crowd of Protestants had struck his beloved son, killing him instantly. Months later, Granda B told his wife that Francis’ spirit had visited him during Mass. The spirit instructed him to help unite the two religions. Soon afterward, Granda B began his crusade by founding and raising funds for the Francis Buchanan Glasgow Youth Soccer League, an organization for children from both religions. Although his work with the program brought some comfort to his grief, his sadness and anger over his son’s untimely death had never stopped burning in him.
Speaking with the wisdom of time, the old man said to Jimmy, “It’s a bit better with them now than in my days. Just be patient, son, you’ll get another job.”
    The men were interrupted by the voices of two young girls, one crying and one yelling, coming up the stairwell. They heard Mary shouting, “You’re the stupid cow!” as she stomped up toward the landing. Annie, who liked to have the last word, yelled at her unseen target behind her, “You shut up!” In anger, her usually light blue-gray eyes were as dark and steely as a Scottish winter sky.
    Mary began to cry. Her golden-speckled brown eyes, usually bright with mirth, now brimmed over with tears. Their father stepped in front his daughters. “Mary, what you greetin’  about?” he said.
    “Them boys throwed stones at us,” scowled Annie as she pointed down the stairs toward the boys. “They hurt her. I’m going to tell Granny.” Granda B bent down to Mary as she stood rubbing her freckled arm with a red mark on it. “Oh lassie!” he gasped. He needed a little muscle to pick up the solidly built six year-old girl. “Never you mind them bad boys, pet. Granda’ll take you to Granny. She’ll give you a wee sweetie ,” he said as he brushed back his favorite granddaughter’s wavy blonde hair. Mary sniffed, but managed a big smile for her grandfather.
    Annie continued her ranting against the bad boys. “And they said we was stupid papist  cows. Them boys are ugly, bad Proddys. Right, daddy?”
Before her father could answer, a male voice yelled very loudly from downstairs. “Billy! Hurry up man!” Jimmy prepared himself to defend his children and religion to whomever showed his face.
    “Hold your bloody horses!” came the loud response came from the flat upstairs. Billy, a young man in his early twenties, skidded down onto the MacDonald’s landing. He stopped short when he saw Jimmy and Granda B standing still and staring at him. Billy had known both men for most his life, but in that moment he eyed them as though he happened upon the enemy camp. His bowler hat and orange sash across his chest was the uniform of his team — the Protestants. The young man quickly ducked his head so as not to look at the two, although he did manage to mumble a greeting of sorts. Granda B cocked his head and acknowledged the greeting with an “Aye.”
    Billy continued trekking down the stairs, staying close to the stone wall to put as much space as possible between him and the two men. He had gone only a few steps down the landing when Granda B said loud enough for his comment to echo, “That wee bauchle  is lucky I’m no longer a young man. He’d be eating that orange sash.” He turned to tickle Mary’s plump belly as she laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Let’s go see your Granny,” he said.

Thank you so very much for your helpful eyes! And also, interest and time. The chapter has been looked at and then again. You caught what others couldn't.  Here's the proof that not once, twice or thrice is not always enough.  I also saw another error re-reading it.  You have been most helpful to move my project along.

June/Clearwater Lady