Memories of Scotland

Megan and me at Culloden,
Can't you just feel the wet cold on that vast battlefield?

If you know me, you know I’m not a traveler. I’m just too content tucked away in my cottage with good friends coming to visit me. Oh, maybe before quarantine, I was a bit more inclined to get out, but quarantine worked a number on me when I saw how easy it was to stay home. But there’s another side to me—and that’s my ferocious love for Scotland. Believe me, in my younger years I traveled enough to see a lot of America though never Europe, and I loved many places. But the trip of a lifetime, for me, was 2012 when I went to Scotland with Colin and Megan, my two oldest children.

I don’t care what 23 And Me says about my having no Scottish blood about—I am a member of Clan MacBean, as was my father. And I’m proud that I have been to the MacBean Memorial Park above Loch Ness and that I have signed the clan registry at the Inn of Dores. In the fifties, Hughston MacBain, chairman of the board of Marshall Field & Company, was the MacBain of MacBain, and he used to call Dad and talk about how they were related. My dad loved every minute of it—and I love inheriting that tradition.

So in 2012 we flew to Edinburgh (the only time I stepped foot in England at Heathrow, which had too many escalators for my comfort). We spent a day in Edinburgh, including a wonderful bus tour of the city in a double decker. And then the next day we drove to Inverness, with a stop at Stirling to see the castle and hear the story of William Wallace, hero of the Battle of Stirling (and yes, I ate haggis). What impressed me was the contrast between the intellectual atmosphere of Edinburgh with the university that was the cradle of so much intellectual advancement in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century and the bloody history of Stirling. They don’t call if bloody Scotland for nothing.

What brings this all up now is that it was mid-May when we traveled, and now my computer is spitting up pictures of Scotland every day. I would repeat that trip in a heartbeat. But what dismays me is that many of the images on my computer are not jpegs but something called JSON which I can’t reproduce. So there are wonderful pictures, I can share with you—Megan and me in the door to the Inn of Dores, for instance.

But I can show you the two of us at Culloden, scene of the decisive battle between the forces of England and the followers of Bonnie Prince Charlie who sought autonomy for Scotland. The Scot were technologically outdoor, armed with claymores (swords) while the Brits had rifles and an amazing technique—they lined up three men at a time: one lay flat on the ground, the next knelt, and the third stood and they all fired at the Scots—the guy on the bottom knew not to raise his head or he’d be shot. The Scots had amazing heart and bravery but no rifles.

The display in the visitors’ center at Culloden was amazing—we walked down a corridor, with audio tapes playing on both sides depicting the troops readying for battle: Scots on one side, Brits on the other. Men muttering around campfires as they talked the next day. Then we saw a demonstration of the rifle technique and saw a video that absolutely broke my heart as all those brave Scots rushed to their death. Hero of the battle? Gilles McBain, who killed fifteen or more of the enemy before he was cut down. The Duke of Cumberland, British commander, was said to express regret at the death of so brave a man.

The day we visited Culloden was cold and rainy, and we never ventured out to walk the battlefield, though I would much have liked to. Today it is a peaceful looking, grassy plain, but stone pillars serve as monuments to mark the battlefield. It gave me the shivers and made an enormous impression on me. Note: I’ve heard Americans pronounce the name with equal emphasis on all three syllables, but the Scots emphasize the second: Cul loden.

If I were to travel again, I would go back to Scotland. My heart truly is in the highlands but I am okay with the memories of one glorious trip: eating haggis in pubs in small villages, taking a ferry from the Isle of Skye to the mainland, visiting a different castle every day including Urquhart which was blown up by its defenders to keep it out of the hands of the enemy (most dramatic end to a video I’ve ever seen), tasting Scotch at ten in the morning at a distillery (I am not a Scotch drinker!). It was wonderful, every minute.

Sláinte!

The Kentucky Derby and other unrelated things

 

Since before I can remember, I was taught to be proud of my Scottish heritage. For years I have regularly paid my dues to be enrolled as a member of Clan MacBean. When my oldest son and daughter and I went to Scotland, we visited the MacBain Memorial Park in the hills above Dores, with a glimpse of Lochness. The land is part of the original clan homelands, purchased as a memorial in the sixties by Hughston McBain of Marshall Field & Co. in Chicago and then the McBain of McBain. Colin, Megan (see? Their names are even Celtic) and I proudly signed the guest book kept at the pub in Dores.

That 23andMe indicated I have English and Irish blood but not a drop of Scot didn’t bother me at all. I know better. I am a MacBain, with a park in Scotland. I thrill to the discordant notes of the bagpipe and the beat of the drums—and I’d love some year to go to Tattoo in Edinburgh, though I think perhaps that ship has sailed without me.

Still, tonight, I watched the streaming of the memorial service for James Hughston McBain, late the McBain of McBain, who died at the age of 93. Bagpipers and drummers made a ceremonial entrance before the service. Probably James McBain had many non-Scottish friends in Tucson where he lived, but I noticed a few tartans thrown over the shoulders of some women at the service. The pipers and drummers wore a variety of tartans, though I don’t think I saw one McBain plaid. Even the minister had a plaid stole. Fittingly given the Scottish heritage, it was a Presbyterian service. A nice Saturday reminder of both my faith and my heritage.

On another odd note, I read an article today about the history of containers for restaurant to-go food. There is, for instance, a man who has the world’s largest collection of pizza boxes. They are all brand new and grease free. The most prized are those with the winking chef, a jolly man in a toque with dark eyebrows and mustache, his fingers raised in an okay sign. You’ve surely seen him on any number of billboards, etc. But where does one store an extensive collection of pizza boxes. And to me this just says some people will collect anything.

The article went on to a discussion of Chinese take-out boxes, those intricately designed, folded things of waxed paperboard with a wire handle. Those were designed in the late nineteenth century and have changed little since then. When I was a kid that’s what every Chinese meal came in, though how I know that is a mystery, because my British father, a beef and potatoes man, would never have eaten Chinese. Today those boxes have a pagoda on them and printing that is meant to look like Chinese calligraphy. We won’t discuss authenticity.

And finally there are sushi boxes, which must wring the heart of every environmentalist. If made of wood, they might be priceless designs. Not so much so, made of plastic. Today’s black sushi boxes, often with red and gold flourishes, are an imitation of the artistic Japanese lacquered dishes with mountain scenes, flowers, and brocade. Think about that the next time you pick up sushi at the grocery store.

Jean and I watched the Kentucky Derby tonight and cheered mightily for the longshot who won but who obviously did not like being in the winners’ circle or his blanket of roses. I am always a bit on edge watching that two minutes, fearing that someone—mostly some horse—will go down. Today’s race was without incident, and I am glad. The build-up to the show was not as much fun as I expected—when I wanted the camera to pan the crowd and show us all the crazy hats, instead we got a lot of meaningless talk. And one time when they did pan the crowd, we got  a group of men who had obviously had too many mint juleps. But the race itself was exciting, and we were pleased for the winner.

Kentucky Hot Brown

My Kentucky Hot Browns were not as good as I hoped, though Jean is always an appreciative audience for my cooking experiments. Doubt I’ll try that again. Anyone want some leftover Mornay sauce?

Sweet dreams, and Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there—and all the many women who have taken on the mothering role though it was not biologically theirs.

 

 

Scottish heritage

I'm a Scot and proud of it, an enrolled member of Clan McBean (only my father spelled it MacBain). Today I brought home a piece of Scotland that I'd taken to a metal shop to have polished. I'm not sure what to call it--I think my parents called it a trivet--but it's a solid brass small stand. I think it was meant for holding your mulled cider in a heavy glass mug as you sat by the fire and, when not in use, tilted upward. You can't see it in the picture, but the MacBain Clan Crest is in the center--Touch Not the Cat Bot a Targe (Touch not the cat without a glove, or beware of messing with the MacBains). I've had this whatever-it-is for years, getting more tarnished by the year. When Jordan and I rearranged the living room, I decided it should sit by the fireplace in the living room and took it to be polished. They put protective lacquer on it, which is the reason, I think, that the crest is hard to see.
The crest shows plainly, however, on a hooked wall hanging that my mother did when she and Dad lived in North Carolina. Hooking, the old fashioned way with a punch needle, was one of the things she took up in retirement. One of the prizes in my house is a quilt made by my oldest son, Colin, who ordered the MacBain plaid fabric and a gold crest from Scotland, and his wife who did all the tedious work of quilting. I proudly hang it in my living room, amidst the mostly southwestern/territorial theme of my house. It's hard to see the plaid in the picture, so there's a close-up of it. (I'm getting more pictures than text.)

One more picture if I can figure out how to fit it in. It's a drawing portraying Gillies McBean at the Battle of Culloden when Bonnie Prince Charles and his Highlanders were soundly defeated (slaughtered is a better word) by the English who had rifles--they had only their claymores. Gillies, however, was a hero/martyr and reportedly slew fourteen men before he was killed. An apocryphal quote from the British general in charge (his name escapes me) is that he wished his men hadn't killed that brave man. The print hangs in my bedroom. Scotland the Brave--forever!

 

Omigosh! I look like a MacBain!

The MacBean Clan Plaid

 

Don't get me wrong. I'm inordinately proud of my Scottish heritage and my membership in Clan MacBean. My house is dotted with Scottish items--a rug in the clan plaid, two hangings featuring the clan crest, a picture of Gillys MacBean who was a hero/martyr at the Battle of Culloden in the 18th century. But my aunts and grandmother had a definite MacBain look, and while I loved them dearly, they were not particularly attractive women--their faces long, with bags under the eyes. An air of sadness or resignation hung over them and showed on their faces. They'd had hard lives--my grandmother gave birth to five children, saw four survive to adulthood; an Anglican minister's wife, she moved her family from one parsonage to another every two years and probably they were as poor as church mice. I have few memories of one aunt, but warm and wonderful ones of the other two--one was crippled in her twenties by rheumatoid arthritis and lived a pain-filled life, a spinster until probably her sixties when she married the widower next door who helped her turn faucets and jar lids that her disfigured hands couldn't handle. I spent more time with the third aunt--I called her Ha, though I don't know why. Ha took a cynical attitude from her difficult childhood but she married a sophisticated fun-loving man, enjoyed life, and one summer when I stayed with her for two weeks, treated me more as a friend than a child.
That MacBain look worked well on my dad--a man of great moral certainty, a leader with great self confidence, strong liberal leanings, and an inbred sense of right and wrong. Even the jowls looked okay on him. But I didn't want the MacBain look and yet I find it on my face more often as I age.
This all came up today because I was trying to take a picture of Jacob and his anteater project with my new iPhone 5s that I don't really understand. He took it from me and took about twelve videos of himself, which I managed to erase. But the phone was stuck on that mode where it tried to take a picture of me, rather than what I was looking at. If the phone is just below your face, it's not an attractive look.
Jacob and I practically fought over the phone, with him assuring me he knew how to fix it--he didn't. I finally wrested it from him, switched its focus, and got a good picture of him with his project. It really is impressive, depicting the habitats of anteaters--forests, swamps, and grasslands.

Hard to settle down to homework after all the hilarity with the camera. No, I'm now showing those pictures.