Chapter 1

When I saw Scotland’s shacks and the one room schoolhouse the first time, I truly became physically ill. Overcrowded wooden structures were sagging into the ground. Deep ruts gouged an almost impassable dirt road. An outhouse leaned sideways. Broken glass and trash littered the yards where children played.

The roof of one tarpaper shack bowed so low I felt certain heavy rain would cause immediate collapse. A massive woodpile stood nearby, evidence of how the family heated in winter. Fifteen feet away, an outhouse door hung off its hinges. Broken bedding, screens, soda bottles, and trash were piled beside it.

Another house, painted yellow, appeared in slightly better condition than the rest, but painfully small. Behind it, hidden in trees, stood yet another outhouse.

Children filled the yard of a one room schoolhouse. Some of them were classmates of my daughter. They ran and laughed and slid down the playground slide, yet broken beer bottles, abandoned cars with shattered windows, and rotting debris were everywhere in sight.

I stared at the water pump, which I soon learned served as the sole source of water for 275 people.

I could not believe I had neighbors living like this.

Why hadn’t someone done something to fix things?

And then the more uncomfortable question: Why weren’t the people of Scotland doing something themselves?