The immortal memory

This time of year, with the glow from the spirit of the Christmas season slowly fading to be replaced by the chronic glare of the computer screen, my inner being is buoyed, always, by a single thought: the end of the month will find me dressed in five pounds of pleated wool, an heirloom dagger stuffed into the top of my gartered hose and my palate eagerly anticipating the peaty burn of neat single-malt scotch. Trenchers of gushing entrails will be carted into a ballroom for several hundred septuagenarians (and some far fewer youngsters) to bear witness to an imported Scotsman address a plate of spiced minced meat as though 'twere ambrosia.  Which assumption is far from wrong.

The skirling, droning wail of bagpipes will unleash itself in an aural cavalcade of emotion, and plaided lassies will step with light toes o'er and 'tween the recumbent blades of crossed claymores to that same ancient noise.  We will shake hands and exchange pleasantries with a few men whose faces are known only once a year, but wherein is found a strange, small fraternity, the fostered flame of which glows dimly throughout the year so that it may blaze so bright this single night in homage to the man whose life was lived with such ardour for his too short time.

I know we will leave the ballroom with a glow only marginally attributable to the beverages lifted in successive toasts and we will repair to a smaller - more intimate - gathering in one final effort to revel in the camaraderie and the sense of having participated in something fleeting and increasingly rare and, thus, to be treasured all the more. 

The last drink of the night will be port - it always is. 

We will pass around the evening's programs and sign them so each man may add his to a growing collection whose only variation has been the colour, the menu and the placement of the same signatures year after year.

The dregs will sit in the bottom of the port glasses and the blaze of the early evening will again subside to a glow of anticipation for the next year as our camarilla of Burns revellers goes separate ways, sated for the nonce, but tinged with regret that the aura of the evening cannot be woven into a cloak and so keep travellers warm and comforted on the dark journey home through a winter's early morning.

Comments

[Grandpa]

The Bard himself could not have written your lament more eloquently.

[Mark]

Great description of a grand tradition. We all should be so lucky to have a yearly event to anticipate with such glee.

I said glee, and I'm leaving it.

[rna]

There's meat and music here, as the fox said when he stole the bagpipes.

Now for your commonplace buke:

"For that is the mark of the Scot of all classes: that he stands in an attitude towards the past unthinkable to Englishmen, and remembers and cherishes the memory of his forebears, good or bad; and there burns alive in him a sense of identity with the dead even to the twentieth generation."
Robert Louis Stevenson 1894

"I am not yet Scotchman enough to relish their singed sheep's head and haggis... the last, being a mess of minced lights, livers, suet, oatmeal, onions and pepper, enclosed in a sheep's stomach, had a very sudden effect upon mine...."
Tobias Smollet, 1771

[Tal]

Kilts are hawt.

Also, LOVE the banner. It had me laughing right out loud today.

[Simon]

Grampa, thanks. January 25th is an inspiring day each year.

Mark, glee is a perfectly acceptable word and works quite nicely in this scenario. I don't think less of you for saying it -- I couldn't possibly. :)

Rick, I'm feeling thankful that I keep my brown ink-imbued Lamy with me at (nearly) all times, for my lunch hour will now be spent with more poignant prose to pen for posterity.

Tal, kilts are 'hawt' in more ways than one. If you'll pardon the lascivious implications, I'm always happy to doff mine when I get home, not least because I'm tired of keeping my knees together all night. I love wearing a kilt but it also increases my appreciation for pants all the more.

[TerriTorial]

You describe it in such glory. Makes me "ALMOST" want to enjoy a bit of haggis myself. ALMOST.

I remember my Brother-in-law wanting a work kilt. Apparently it is great for holding tools. Who knew!

[Simon]

Terri, I can say with complete and utter seriousness that my Red Fraser of Lovat kilt holds my tool quite admirably.

[TerriTorial]

ROFLMAO!!!! THAT is not the tool I was talking about...goof!

[Moksha Gren]

Never worn a kilt...never had haggis. However, I'm very glad that you so thoroughly enjoy both. I did, however, have some fun doing a bit of research on your clan history. Had a bit of a moment when I read that Simon Fraser was the head of the Clan...then I realized there are exactly one gazillion Simon Frasers through the history of Clan Fraser.

Anyway, if the Gren's had such a distinguished history, I'd probably take more pride in it...even if it meant eating haggis.

[Linda]

Oooh Mr. Fraser, ye gif me the goosebumps, lad. Ahnd ye blend yer brilliant words like a tartan woven of the finest wool. Aye cud read yer recountin oe'r and o're agin. All the regalia, the sights, the emotion of it, aye ken almost see an' feel.
But just one thing, Fraser, me fine man. What the hellisa "trencher of gushing entrails"? Ahnd is it as bad as it sounds??(It's hard to do Scottish and not sound like a bloody pirate...)

[Edmonton Jenn]

One of the few things I miss about living in Regina is the Burns Night celebrations. I was a wee bit horrified to discover that women are not welcome to the evening of kilts, bagpipes and sweet sweet haggis here abouts. I've not tasted haggis in near 7 years now, and I've been banned by my husband from stinking up the house with my attempts to make it on my own (not to mention the fact that my kitchen is the size of a small bathroom).

[Moksha Gren]

Oh, speaking of Clan Fraser, I'm curious about the travelin' Frasers over on your blogroll. I had thought at first they might be your folks...but they keep mentioning their son, and it ain't you and you keep mentioning your folks, and it ain't them. Aunt and Uncle? Cousins twice removed? Coinicidentally named but unrelated travelers? Just wonderin'

[Simon]

Linda, the trencher o' gushin' entrails is the very haggis which I love so much. The haggis for the head table every year is piped in on a large trencher, preceded by a set of bagpipes and warded on either side by very old men wielding naked swords. Heavens, no! its not as bad as it sounds! It's a rare treat that I lament I only enjoy a small number of times a year, though the scarcity doth whet my appetite all the more.

Jenn, your poor husband obviously knows not what he's banning. I mean, the thought of stuffing minced meat and innards mixed with oat and suet and onions and spices into a sheep's stomach and set to boil sets my own mouth to slavering!

Moksha, there is certainly no lack of Frasers, 'tis true; and plenty of us Simons as well. I'm in good company. As for the traveling Frasers, it's my dad's older (retired) brother Bill and wife Brenda as they hie themselves about North America, having bought an RV for the purpose. They're in Texas now and will stay in the south until that bitch Winter yields its stay on this northern clime, at which point they'll summer in the Yukon (mebbe Alaska) and, hopefully, swing by these here parts on the return journey east to Ontario and home. They have only one son, my first cousin, whose mid-twenties and I've not seen in going on 15 years or so. Kinda sucks living so far removed from them geographically.

Whew! Long comment...

[Mark]

Whereabouts in Texas be yer kin in that RV?

If they aren't brave enough to actually meet people you know only via the Internet, then they can at least slow down enough for me to get a pic for sharing.

[Simon]

Mark, they're somewhere near Big Bend National Park... wherever that is. They're on their way to New Mexico (better than Old Mexico!) and are taking a few days to cross Texas. So, uh, how's that relate to where you are? I could google it, but I'm lazy and it's nearly midnight and I have to go to bed anyway.