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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, Isham McDonald by name, 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
