The Squeeze!
Guillermo MacLean
M
y Scottish grandfather crossed the At-
lantic, squeezing between his arms,
into his body, a wooden and leather
case with a bagpipe inside.
He had a thick white beard, a good
stomach, and sturdy hair. He arrived
in America after sailing for three months in a freight boat
that carried cattle and smelled of cow dung. He worked
for a British company, Liebieg; a version of the Texas King
Ranch in the old continent. He wore a woolen suit with
a waistcoat crossed by a silver chain and a watch at the
end, a white shirt with a starched collar, and tie. Glasses
hung around his neck by a chain. It was the end of the
18th century.
My Spanish grandfather crossed the Atlantic squeezing
with his hands a book into his body.
Black hair, gel hairstyle, avid eyes, large hands with
long fingers, good height and a frock coat with black leath-
er shoes. Reciting poems. Well shaved and with bulging
eyebrows, he arrived in America after three months sail-
ing on a ship that carried Spanish refugees who decided
to seek a better life on another continent without wars. It
was the beginning of the 19th century.
Two grandparents, two immigrants, two destinations.
Two lives that gave life in torrents as a product of two
rectilinear trips. The Spaniard was born in a small town
called Olivares, a few kilometers from Seville, where pos-
sibly seventy percent of its inhabitants are relatives of
mine.
When visiting Olivares thirty-nine years ago, my cousin
Isabel took me to a bar to drink a couple of "finos". I had
arrived at siesta time. I’d knocked on the door of an aunt's
TRAVERSE 51