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Gilles MacBean
Martyred hero of the Battle of Culloden
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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.
