In the summer of 2000 the largest
massed band of bagpipers in the world to date would be gathering in Edinburgh,
Scotland.
Of course we had to go.
Three of our four children were members of a
bagpipe band when we were living in New Jersey; Andrew as a snare drummer and
Kathryn and Olivia were Highland dancers. The opportunity came for us to
go as a family to this huge event, and we invited Mum and Dad to join us.
Arrangements began nearly a year in
advance of the excursion. The band was working with an efficient travel
agent who came to the weekly practices to give status reports, deadlines, cost
breakdowns and rooming assignments. At EVERY single meeting, she stressed
the importance for everyone to check their passports and make SURE there was a
six-month window between our travel dates and the expiration date. We had
just applied for our 6 passports (our first overseas trip as a family!) and
eagerly anticipated their arrival with photos and official seal. We were all
set. For those who already had passports, a quick check with this much-repeated
and far-in-advance notice gave everyone ample time to make sure everything would
be in order.
Mom and Dad traveled from Canada to
our home, and caught their breath for a day before we headed to the airport,
just a 25 minute drive away. Stephen had reserved a stretch limo for the
eight of us, and it was an impressive sight as it arrived to collect all of us.
Feeling like celebrities, everyone giddily toyed with all its luxury features
during the drive to the airport. There we unloaded, gathered our bags and
approached the ticket counter where over a dozen of our band members were also assembling.
Ahead of us in line was a piper, who set his luggage for check-in, carried his
bagpipe tote for carry-on, and presented his passport and ticket. The agent
opened it, looked at the photo, and handed it back with a disappointed
look. "I'm sorry, sir, " she said. "Your passport
has expired, I can't process you through."
Our band-mate stood taller, opened
his wallet and pushed it and the passport back to her. With classic New Jersey
attitude and bluster, he pulled out his policeman’s badge, jabbed at it with his finger repeatedly, and exclaimed, "But I'm a COP!!"
With professionalism and a stoic
expression she delicately pushed the badge and the passport back towards him and said, "I don't
care. Your passport has expired. NEXT!"
Those waiting behind him in line –
who of course had months ago followed the stern advice of the travel agent and
had current passports – watched as he left the airport, with his suitcase in
hand and his travel anticipation, like his bagpipes, completely deflated.
Our
processing went flawlessly and we were off to security at our boarding
gate. This was long before 9/11, and the agents were quick and friendly,
and sent our items through an X-ray machine, while asking a few questions about
unrecognizable items that were scanned. "I'll take your bag,” the
large, authoritative man in uniform gently told my mother. She sent
through her recent purchases at the airport novelty shop, and stood
nervously. Again, the agent asked for all her carry-on belongings, and
gestured with a nod of his head to her pocketbook, which was strapped over her
shoulder and held by a death-grip under her arm.
She shook her head and nodded back
to the sack that was now passing on the conveyor belt, indicating that was
her bag. The patient agent then directly pointed to her pocketbook, and
said, "Ma'am, your PURSE bag." My mother laughed out
loud. She was so concerned about airport bandits robbing unwary travelers
that her pocketbook had become one with her person. She realized her
uptight but unconscious grip, and visibly relaxed her arm, and exclaimed to the
officer, "OH THAT! I wasn't even thinking about that bag, I call it a
pocketbook!" She continued to hastily explain as he nodded his head and
peered inside for anything unauthorized. While he looked she continued to
explain her concern for thievery, and cheerfully dismissed the idea that there
were any incendiary devices inside saying, "It's not like I was
trying to hide a bomb or anything!"
We all immediately hushed
her. She turned to us wide-eyed, and loudly exclaimed, "Well, I don't
have a bomb!" The forgiving fellow smiled with understanding, and
sent her through.
After a long flight, and several
cocktails, we approached the first leg of our trip at Heathrow airport.
The captain's reassuring voice came over the loudspeaker, and in its typical
crackle of intermittent transmission, described how we were circling above the
airport and made a few more unintelligible remarks. The flight attendants
continued with their familiar routine, advising passengers and guiding them
through the procedures of tray tables, drink disposal, etc., while the captain
again came on the loudspeaker saying something to the crew that we couldn’t
quite catch. I understood there was an undercurrent and we were prevented from
landing immediately, but the flight would continue to circle the control tower
until they gave the go-ahead for a safe landing.
The hubbub in the cabin became
increasingly louder. People sat upright, became alert and attentive, gathered
their belongings, started speaking to each other urgently, and several asked to
speak to an attendant. I couldn't feel turbulence from any undercurrents
and so I pretty much shrugged my shoulders and sat back with closed eyes until
we began our descent. I didn't know why everyone else was so agitated, it
was just a minor delay -- people just need to relax! After about twenty
minutes, and several trips around the control tower, the captain again
addressed the people. We were approved for landing!
It wasn't until after we
disembarked that I learned that the captain had been advising that the UNDERCARRIAGE
ENGAGED light had not displayed, so the pilots didn’t know if it had
deployed for landing. The reason for circling the control tower was to
get a visual confirmation from the people in the tower that the wheels were actually
down and the plane could land! I'd misheard undercarriage for
undercurrent and we were actually being advised that we might need to make an
emergency landing....without wheels. I'm glad I was completely unaware.
Once safely in Scotland we avoided
the tourist tour-bus packages and rented the largest car that would fit 8
people. There isn't one in all of Europe. We were able to obtain a
6-passenger 'van', and since the girls were still young, they shared a very
tight seatbelt with Mum and me in the back. Dad sat in front with Stephen, who
was driving for the first time on "the wrong side of the
road". Dad was white-knuckled every ride we took.
During our stay, we took a few day trips, but one of
the most memorable was to Castle Campbell, near Dollar. Secluded and set far
away on a winding country dirt road, we parked the car, and saw no other car or
person anywhere about. Mum and I stayed back and sat on a wide grassy
knoll while everyone else went to explore. It was a lovely afternoon, and
Mum's stamina faded fast, so we sat quietly and enjoyed watching the sheep
grazing on the far hillocks in the bright warm sunshine. I had an orange
I'd saved in my pocket from breakfast and a flask of whiskey. Since we
were both hungry and thirsty, we were all set, and shared both equally.
After quite a while, to our surprise, a couple appeared from behind us on a small
footpath. Until that moment, it felt like we were the only two people on
earth in our secluded idyll, sent back in time among the castle ruins. We
greeted each other, mum asked if they were locals, and we visited for a few
moments. When she asked if they had advice for a place for our large
family to enjoy supper, they gave an enthusiastic recommendation for the
Tormaukin Inn, and described a route for us to find it. Delighted by this
serendipitous encounter, Mum was eager to share her new knowledge, and when
everyone else gathered we were off to supper under her direction and renewed
energy.
The Tormaukin Inn
The day's menu featured venison haggis and rabbit stew.
That culinary experience was novel, delightful, and delicious.
On
another day when we were visiting Edinburgh, we sought a quick lunch stop and
all piled into a fish and chips shop. It wouldn't be proper to have
visited Scotland, my ancestral homeland, without tasting authentic fish and
chips wrapped in paper, generously salted and doused with real malt
vinegar. Taking the rare opportunity to visit a bathroom in the chip
joint, my mother and I descended the precarious stairway to its dark recesses and opened the door to find 'the worst toilet in Scotland'.
When the fry-cook came down the stairs in his filthy chef's jacket with a filthier plunger in hand, we surmised that the sanitary conditions in the kitchen might be just as sub-standard, and decided to seek another fine eating establishment. We suddenly weren't quite so hungry or our bladders too full.
On the
day of the great massed bands, the crowds were fantastic. We'd all
decided to split up and meet at a designated spot and time in the Princess
Street Gardens. Keen to be prompt, I was the first to arrive, but didn't
recognized the distinguished older gentleman sitting in the spot where I'd
expected to meet my family. After a second and still third look, it took
a moment for me to realize it was DAD! He'd been to the shops on Princess
Street and completely outfitted himself in full kilted regalia, right down to
the flashes on his knee socks.
As the crowds swelled even more, and we noticed an unusual number of security personnel, we asked one of them what was going on. Prince Charles was expected quite soon, and he showed us a cordoned-off area where the prince would be meeting the public.
Eager
for a brush with royalty, I hurried the kids over to the line-up explaining we
might meet the Prince. I maneuvered Kathryn and Olivia to be just behind
the ropes and in full view of the Prince of Wales, the future King of
England. As he approached, I got giddy with excitement and Stephen
captured one photograph after another on the new digital camera he'd purchased
just for the trip. As Charles's entourage cleared the way for his
passage, I realized he'd soon be stopping right in front of us, and eagerly
poked at Kathryn standing next to me, telling her to wave and capture his
attention, gently pushing her forward, nudging and prodding as he came closer
and closer.
Kathryn quickly grew frustrated and
irritated with me as she scanned the royal parade of people, seeking the sight
of her soon-to-be husband prince. It was now or never, so I pointed and
called out "THERE!! He's right THERE!" and exuberantly waved
and nodded and confirmed he’d seen us. Kathryn followed my pointing
finger and was crestfallen once she saw Prince Charles. "Oh!"
she tsk'd disappointingly, "That's the OLD one." and immediately lost
all interest. She was anticipating meeting Prince Harry or William, not
their DAD.
Olivia, next in line to be married,
was my next target. She extended her hand just as Prince Charles was
passing us, and he took it and they shook. She told him she was from
America, and he welcomed her to Scotland. He did not propose. But
Stephen captured many photos of the two, hands clasped and engaged in
conversation before Charles was urged to continue on.
As the crowd dispersed we all
gathered to recount what just happened with Mum and Dad, and Stephen set the
camera to review all the digital shots he'd just taken. There were none.
Regrettably, the camera chose that exact moment in our picture-taking history
to encounter a glitch in its programming, and the entire vacation’s photos were
suddenly “no longer on file.”*
Later that day, Prince Charles met
with Andrew's bagpipe band, the Atlantic Watch. A few band members,
including Andrew, had a short chat with him in a small group in the park.
That scene – and the back of Andrew's head – was captured on the front page of
the newspaper. The Prince was scolded by the press for not dressing
appropriately!
Prince Charles visits with the Atlantic Watch (including Andrew).
We watched the massed bands
converge and parade down the Royal Mile and Princess Street. Quite a
spectacular event. Dad yelled out his traditional "ATTA BOY, ANDREW!"
as they passed, and mum and I wiped a tear as we were both filled with pride
and love. It was a big day – it was a big trip.
Thanx for watching.
Oh! You`re still here? Then you'll enjoy this part, too:
Many years later, Dad had started
another chapter in his life after my mother died. He moved out to WallyAnna
Farm, where he and Anna now have a happy quiet life together. A few years
ago, renovations were being made to the 125-year old farmhouse. Stephen and I
took some of Anna's son George’s artwork from a room being redone, and took them to a shop
to be professionally framed while the walls were being repaired. One
watercolor was a castle scene, and Dad frequently remarked that it reminded him
of Castle Campbell, from that summer day years before. When George was visiting
the farm Dad asked him about it, and George confirmed that it was, indeed,
Castle Campbell. He'd seen a photo in a book about castles of Scotland, and
liked the scene so much that he rendered it with his own paints – years before
Dad had even met Anna.
*Casio quickly sent us a huge
apology – and their newest, most advanced camera, as a consolation – when we told them of
this unbelievably frustrating loss.
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