I had a funny dream the other night. I dreamed my sister Lonna and I were in the Scottish Highlands, marching with the McGregor Pipe Band, celebrating Scottish Independence. Pretty silly dream, since Scotland continued to vote down independence and Lonna and I never played the bagpipes together. After all, we only had one set of pipes that we shared.
The dream started me thinking about my high school days, so I got out my year books to check the validity of some of those memories. I would be meeting Lonna for lunch later in the week, and it would be fun to pick her brain and see what she remembered.
***
I attended Shorecrest High School in Shoreline, Washington. It was a very young school, having opened just three years earlier, and it was just settling in. A contest was held to determine its name. Green, blue and gold were chosen for the colors. I don't know what went on behind the scenes, but there were quite a few students with last names that began with Mc and Mac. The colors morphed into the plaid of the Clan Gordon, and the Shorecrest students became the Highlanders.
Coincidentally, some of my ancestors were from Scotland. My maiden name was Gregg, which was changed from MacGregor when members of the family immigrated to the States. Rob Roy MacGregor was a Scot from the Highlands and was involved in a lot of fighting and various roguish activities. He became a folk hero and lived on in songs and legends. So, in my silly teenage mind, Rob Roy provided some romance to an otherwise dull heritage. I identified as Scottish.
The marching band and the pipers had just received their new uniforms: kilt with the beautiful blue, green and gold Gordon plaid, forest green jacket, hat with feather, spats, sporran with long horsehair trim—the entire fabulous, romantic outfit. I was breathless with admiration. My heart beat with envy. I really wanted to wear that outfit.
As I said, it was a new school. I played cello in the orchestra which didn't have uniforms yet; we wore white shirts and dark pants or skirts. A committee of orchestra members formed to select the uniform and absolutely no one listened to me. The chairman said something about the expense of the band uniforms and since we sat no one could see them, so the cost couldn't be justified. It was decided the girls would wear a dress of forest green wool with a blouson waist. Compared to the full dress kilt, it was an ugly and boring outfit. Unshed tears burned my eyes as disappointment swept through me.
What could I do? I was desperate to wear the kilt and dress up like a Highland Laird. I rattled my brain for ideas. I'd been playing the cello for six years, since fourth grade. There was no way I could switch to a woodwind or brass instrument and compete with the band kids who'd been playing their instruments for an equivalent length of time. Maybe percussion? The answer to my problem came in a morning bulletin announcing it was time to sign up if you were interested in being a Highland Dancer or Piper the following year. Yes! Could it be as easy at this? Why hadn't I thought of it?
I would learn to play the bagpipes.
Two weeks later, I walked into the room for interested pipers. I arrived early and took a seat near the front. About twenty students were seated when Collin, the lead piper, stepped forward. He looked around and announced, “Dancers are meeting in the room next door.” A few potential Highland Lassies stood and left the room. “So, the rest of you want to be pipers, is that right?” I was so excited I couldn't keep a big silly grin under control.
He showed us his set of pipes and played them briefly; they weren't meant to be played inside. He explained how they worked. Blowing through the blowstick filled the bag. Squeezing the bag sent air through the aptly named drones for the background accompaniment and through holes in the chanter for the melody. He showed us the practice chanter which was a separate item and looked similar to a recorder. It was much quieter than the full set of pipes, which was the point. You could practice inside without your family throwing you out.
Collin went over requirements and suggestions for learning the instrument and for being in the band. He would be teaching lessons after school, but we would learn quicker if we took private lessons. We would have to practice after school and with the marching band on Saturdays. We would play at pep rallies, football games and other sporting events. We would join the marching band whenever they had an engagement. There would be a few day trips out of town and, if we were lucky, at least one weekend trip.
And best of all, I thought, we get to wear cool uniforms.
After the meeting I took the information pack and rushed home to tell Mother. She wasn't nearly as excited as I was, but she gave me the go-ahead as long as I kept my grades up. I turned in the forms, and as soon as my practice chanter arrived I started private lessons. A couple of my girlfriends were in the Highland Lassies dance class, and we had a lot of fun imaging what next year would be like.
Over the summer, I convinced Mother that I was ready to get a set of pipes. She talked with my teacher, and he agreed that I was very enthusiastic and committed. It would be good to start playing the full set.
I practiced hard, learning Scottish tunes on the practice chanter inside the house, and playing the full set of pipes outside on the back patio. The hardest aspect of playing them was to get the drones started without sounding like I was killing a large goose. It was a ghastly sound. The neighbors were very kind; curious at first but never complaining. It was probably fortunate that we had the lake on one side, and a high bank and a highway on the other, which cut the likelihood of complaints in half.
That fall I started playing with the other pipers after school. We would stand in a circle and play a piece, trying to get our drones all going at the same time, trying to keep the fast little grace notes of the tune together, and hopefully ending simultaneously. Then, to add another level of complexity, we tried to walk while playing. Blowing into the blowstick, compressing and relaxing the arm to control the air flow from the bag into the drones and chanter, playing the melody with the flying fingers, and walking—it was very, very tricky.
On some Saturdays we would join the marching band. Obviously, since I played the cello, I had never had to march, let alone, in unison; starting and stopping together, maintaining spacing and a straight line, wheeling to turn a corner. It was so much fun.
Finally, the big day arrived. I picked up my uniform in the band room. I raced home to try it on, and it was marvelous. I stood in front of the mirror holding my pipes and admiring my reflection. Filling the bag, I started to play. My brother yelled, “Go outside!” I went out and marched around the patio while playing all of the tunes I knew. It was glorious.
My senior year, 1967, was the Queen of England's fortieth birthday. The Shorecrest orchestra, band, pipers, flag carriers, dancers—everyone possible—went to Victoria, British Columbia, for the Queen's Birthday Celebration. We traveled from Seattle on the Princess Marguerite II, a ferry boat that was so fancy inside it was more like a small ocean liner. It had been built in Scotland, so it felt entirely appropriate as we traveled in style.
On the day of the parade, the April weather was breezy and the sun kept hiding behind the clouds. The parade route was over a mile, which seemed like quite a distance to keep our lines straight. It was a competition. As we stopped in front of the judge’s stand, the sun came out from behind the clouds, the pipers played Scotland the Brave, and the Highland Lassies danced to the music. It was spectacular. The band and pipes played together and then we marched on. It was over too quickly.
We were jubilant after the parade, knowing we had put on a magnificent performance. Later that evening we learned that the judges agreed and had awarded us First Place within our category.
***
When my sister Lonna and I met for lunch, I told her my dream and we had a good chuckle. She reminded me she had started playing the practice chanter when she was in ninth grade, and she borrowed my pipes whenever she could. She had to wait until I graduated so she could have the pipes full time in eleventh grade and march with the pipers.
Which led to one final bagpipe memory. When the two of us went to Scotland, we were staying in a youth hostel in the Highlands. A very outspoken young man from Glasgow was carrying on about Scottish independence, and he pulled out his bagpipes to play a piece. Lonna looked interested, so he demonstrated how to play them. I had to keep from smiling as she nodded solemnly and listened attentively to him. She took the set, laid the drones across her shoulder, filled the air bag, and played Scotland the Brave faultlessly.
As I sat listening, I felt so proud of my little sister. At the same time, I wished it was me who was the center of attention, basking in everyone's admiration. However, it had been two years since I had played the pipes, and I could not have put on nearly as good a performance. I felt gratified that Lonna had followed in my footsteps, and happy that we had shared this delightful moment in Scotland, our ancestral home.
***
When I look back on my high school days, I think how serendipitous it was that I, with my Scottish heritage and silly romantic notions, attended a high school that had a Scottish theme. While I loved playing the cello in the orchestra, playing the pipes added a very unique experience. The pipes symbolized the fierce fighting spirit, defending the homeland, respect and honor. Playing them made me feel closer to my Scottish ancestors, and I felt exceedingly proud.
In addition, the uniform was bitchin'.
Author: Laura Nicol
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