A TRIBUTE TO MY SCOTTISH GRANDFATHER

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Back in 2008, when I and another cousin, Kimberly, meticulously planned a grave marking ceremony for our Scottish immigrant, Revolutionary War ancestor, well, I can tell you we “didn’t miss a beat.” Literally, hundreds of hours were poured into the construction of that ceremony. By the time we finished our figurative blueprint, and the invitations had gone out, it was a regular Rembrandt.

However, I can tell you, readers, that there’s can be a huge difference between a blueprint, and a completed building.

A blueprint is only a theory,

… until the building is raised on the site.

But to return to my story…

November 1, 2008 dawned,

and a couple hundred McDonald descendants appeared (Check)

Each and every one of the planned speakers showed up (Check)

Representatives of the Georgia Sons of the American Revolution in period uniform graced us with their presence (Check)

The still and video photographers were right on time (Check)

And Bagpipers “dressed to the hilt” in kilts (Check)

The Boy Scout troop with their pre-selected bugler filed onto the cemetery grounds (Check)

Why, even Sonny Schroyer, (“Enos” of “The Dukes of Hazzard”) graced us with his presence (No Check required, since his appearance was an unexpected treat). He lives in the area, and counts a couple of my relatives, his friends.

But since too many participants, too much geographical distance, and too much required time precluded a dry run, in the few minutes I had available before the ceremony commenced, I provided my participants a few last minute instructions.

And then it began,

… and then it began to “go wrong.”

Well, to say it went wrong would be a gross exaggeration, since to be fair, there were only a couple of obvious mistakes in an otherwise flawless ceremony. And it goes without saying that when you’re involved with turning blueprints into buildings, any conscientious architect is sensitive about millimeters, turning into feet.

And when I say it went wrong, it was, paradoxically, the one ingredient which should NOT have gone wrong, and in which I might have invested the most confidence.

For when our “seasoned” bagpipers proceeded to “strut their stuff,” (who had, I’d been informed, participated in dozens of such commemorative ceremonies) their kilts and pipes figuratively, (if not literally)

… unraveled at the seams.

“Danny Boy”???

(They might just as well be playing, “Jingle Bells”)

and the (not so) amazing,

“Amazing Grace”

(A tone-deaf nuclear bombardier wearing earmuffs might have paused to shake his head in disbelief).

And I, “Mr. Structure,” himself, was absolutely mortified as the pipers piped their way through instrumentations which should have been the most familiar of all selections to folks who play the pipes.

But upon reflection, when I consider the depth and breadth of a ceremony which required an hour, I suppose a scant fraction of the elapsed time having been disrupted by the horrendous interpretation of two songs isn’t all that significant.

I can tell you, I was my own worst critic that day.

And so it is, I think, with all of life.

by Bill McDonald, PhD