Thoughts on Father’s Day

Gilles MacBean

Martyred hero of the Battle of Culloden

As I think about my dad today, I realize he was many people in one—a physician, college president and hospital administrator, a lifelong progressive, a staunch Methodist, a devoted gardener. But the side of Dad that most brings a smile to me is fascination with his Scottish ancestry.

My maiden name is MacBain, and Dad was a member of the McBain Clan (there are countless ways to spell it). Once, a native Scot said to me, rather condescendingly, “One of the lesser clans,” but I was quick to counter, “Maybe, but a part of Clan Chattan.” In the bloody days of Scotland’s history, Clan Chattan was an amalgamation of clans united for protection against such larger marauding clans as the Campbells.

I’m not sure how Dad’s fascination with Scottish history and ancestry began, whether it had to do with his being Canadian or not, nor do I know if my grandparents shared his interest. But Dad read about Scotland, studied its history, collected fat file folders labeled, “MacBain.” He had a MacBain plaid tie, though he never went so far as to don a kilt. A sword passed down, so I was told, from the War of 1812 was one of his treasures.

It was probably in the late ‘50s or early ‘60s that a gentleman named Houston McBain was the McBain of McBain, the chief of the clan. He was also the chairman of the board of that iconic department store, Marshall Field & Company. I think Dad’s friendship with Houston began by letter, progressed to telephone calls, and eventually resulted in one or two meetings. Dad used to joke that if Houston McBain wanted to tell him they were related, he was all for it. By serendipity, Houston’s daughter married a student at the osteopathic college where Dad was president, giving them yet something else in common.

Houston purchased a part of the original McBain homestead in the hills above Loch Lomond. It was just a small part, but he complained that people don’t realize it’s as difficult to get a Scot to part with his land as it is to part him from his money. The memorial park established on this land is not a cemetery but simply land dedicated to the clan. Although there is a surfaced parking lot, it is essentially in its steep and natural state. Houston once complained that tourists were stealing the heather—several varieties grew on the land.

Mom and Dad visited the memorial park, and someplace I have the pictures that Dad, an addicted amateur photographer, took. It was a thrill for me in 2010 to travel to Scotland with my two oldest children and visit the park. We climbed one of the hills to a sitting area with a bench where we could see a tiny patch of Loch Lomond. No wonder Dad always liked to play “The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond” on the piano. When I was a kid, I knew all the words so I could sing along with him—neither of us ever able to carry a tune.

From the memorial park, Colin, Megan, and I stopped in the pub in the village of Dores, outside Inverness, and signed the McBain Memorial Park guest registry. We paged back and found my parents’ signatures, and one of the kids wondered aloud if someday they would bring their children to sign the  book and look back for our signatures.

The sense of strong Scottish identity is one of Dad’s gifts to me, just as the trip to Scotland was a highlight of my life. We rented a car and drove from Edinburgh to the Isle of Skye, and then made our way back by weaving through various villages, stopping to eat in pubs, spending the night in B&Bs.

Today I have a trivet and a wall hanging with the clan crest, a marvelous handmade quilt with alternating squares of plaid and plain fabric and the crest, in gold, in the center—Colin and Lisa made it for me. I long ago outgrew the one McBain plaid kilt I had, but I have a square from the plaid carpet that Houston McBain ordered woven. And my couch sports lap blankets in the McBain and Stewart plaids. Colin as the oldest child, has the sword, the MacBain tie, and a miniature bagpipe. These memorabilia make me feel that Dad is still close.

Sláinte, Dad! I miss you.