I
can hardly say I am a "Scot."
McKinney is one branch of my family, for sure, late of the Isle
of Skye, where they reportedly assisted in an uprising or two
and suffered because of their clandestine support, not well
concealed, for Bonnie Prince Charlie. Nevertheless, with a "bonnie"
amalgam of blood in my veins, Norman, Cornish, German, Scot,
and who knows what else, I am nothing but an American mutt,
and that is fine with me. However, I find Scottish culture a
fascinating and beautiful thing. On Saturday, November 6th,
Highland Games were held in Tucson. I went, but I did not wear
a kilt.
Highland Games are a mix of sporting event,
cultural show, family reunion, concert, and celebration of
all things Celt. Entering the main gate, I first encountered
the "food court." Available were fish'n chips, an
assortment of grilled items, the ubiquitous turkey leg and
roasted ear of maize, and… haggis! (No, I didn't.) I
also discovered another delight bestowed on us by the Celts,
the Ruben! Well, it's corned beef, you know, therefore Irish!
A seafaring people, the Irish braved the North Sea and crossed
the Channel. They picked up a bit of rye bread here and sauerkraut
there, some Swiss cheese, and next thing you knew, there was
the lovely Ruben. I was heretofore ignorant of this, so I
ate one in joyous celebration. Afterward, there was much walking
about, checking out various commercial tents and "clan"
exhibits.
There were sporting events for robust men
in skirts (and for robust women as well). There was "tossing
the caber" (apparently, "caber" is the Scottish
word for "telephone pole"), "hammer tossing"
and "putting the stone." In Scotland, frugality
prevents purchasing "shot" when there are an abundance
of large Scottish rocks just lying around, undisturbed. In
a pinch, they are apparently allowed to use Tucson rocks as
well. These men in skirts whirl around and fling these rocks
down-field, attempting to be found the greatest rock flinger
of the day. It's very interesting, but if you would be offended
by the answer to the question "what is under a Scotsman's
kilt," it's best to look away at the crucial moment.
As this is potentially a matter of some delicacy, I will not
elaborate further.
The excitement of that battlefield was too
much to bear, so eventually I scrambled across the grassy
moor to the main event at any Scottish gathering -- this would
be either the whisky tasting or the music of the pipes and
drums. This day, it was the drone and skirl of the pipes and
drums, as several corps put themselves out on our behalf.
Pipes, as you know, were perfected by Scots for the sole purpose
of scaring the English. As I saw no English venture onto the
grounds, I assume pipes are well-fit to their purpose. In
addition, the haunting tunes and cadences of the pipes and
drums carried me swiftly away to the pines, mists, and stone
of the Highlands, and a worthwhile departure that was. Back
in Tucson, nearby, as the pipers and drummers of the Seven
Pipes' Corps rested between their numbers, I watched Scottish
dancers and a lone Irish girl of about 8 or 10, as each shared
their well-practiced steps.
Afterward, filled with the warmth of a mustard-anointed
Irish Ruben and the ancient music of the pipes, I headed
home to Phoenix. I feel somewhat sorry for anyone who cannot
proudly claim at least a drop or two of Scottish blood!
Bob
"McKinney" Pruitt Stonebreaker Schaller
November 2004
