George Tsunis, Norway and the Clan Gunn
Several years ago I came within a whisker of being thrown out of a kilt shop in Nova Scotia . Asking the clerk for help, I referred to her many lovely, “plaids.” She jerked to attention. “They aren’t plaids. They are tartans.” I caught both the warning edge in her voice and the cold glint in her eye. Unfortunately, habits are hard to break. A few moments later I commented that I had found, “…a lovely plaid.” The temperature dropped. Ice formed on the floor below my feet. The clerk’s eyes bored through me and she pulled herself up to superhuman height. I heard a deadly whisper, “…and there’s that word, ‘plaid’ again.” She turned on her heel and left me to find my own stinking scarf. At the register sh...