During our time in Georgia, my family would always look forward to October and the Stone Mountain Highland Games near Atlanta. We would watch the highland athletic games and dance competitions, falconry and sheepdog herding demonstrations, and pipe and drum bands competing from all around the country. At least once in your life–on a grassy field in the middle of a beautiful evergreen forest–I hope you get to hear Amazing Grace and Scotland the Brave played by a massed band of hundreds of bagpipers and drummers. The drones will give you goosebumps, and the chanters will bring a tear to your eye, they will.
Massed Bands at the Stone Mountain Highland Games
Deep into the woods, past all the colorful clan tents displaying their crests and tartans, we were always drawn to the music stages. With a canopy of blue sky and pine boughs overhead, and a nip in the October air, Celtic music rang from the likes of Clandestine, Alasdair Fraser and Natalie Haas . . . and from Alex Beaton.
Alex Beaton at the Stone Mountain Highland Games in 2007
Alex cuts a dashing figure on stage, with his wavy salt and pepper hair, gray mustache, and a broad smile hovering above his white Polo shirt and tartan kilt. When he begins to play, the music flows from his fingers, through the acoustic guitar around his neck, and out to his rapt audience. (For some reason, the first several rows of folding chairs in front of Alex’s stage are always packed with smiling women of all ages.) In between ancient warrior ballads and bawdy pub tunes, Alex often tells stories from olden-day Scotland, like the Massacre at Glencoe in 1692, or the First Jacobite Rebellion of 1715. Those well-told stories always end with a sideways glance at the audience, a grin, and in Alex’s powerful baritone brogue:
“I remember it well!”
The people of Scotland and Ireland share a common Celtic ancestry, and they share a common musical heritage. Born to a Scottish father and an Irish mother, Alex Beaton is a guitar-playing folksinger and storyteller who has been entertaining audiences all around the world for over forty years. I’ve had the pleasure to listen to Alex perform live at the Stone Mountain Highland Games, and to shake his hand and tell him how much I enjoyed his music on several occasions. I listen to one of Alex’s many CDs almost every day, so I still feel a connection with this gregarious Scot.
About a year ago, it was with great sadness that I learned Alex had fallen at his home near Nashville, and suffered a severe spinal cord injury. After a long stay at the Shepherd Spinal Center in Atlanta and more rehab work near Augusta, I understand that Alex has returned to his home and is even doing some traveling, although he’s still confined to a wheelchair and working hard to regain more and more movement. If you feel moved to send Alex a card or note, a few dollars to help with his mounting medical expenses, or drop by his website and buy a CD or two, I know he and his family will deeply appreciate your kindness.
Do you have a favorite Scottish or Irish folk musician or favorite tune? If I had to pick, mine might be Alex Beaton’s rendition of Maggie. I’d love to hear about your favorites, too. And if you happen to drop Alex a card or a note, please give him my best wishes for a swift return to the stage. I, along with all of his many fans, miss him most dearly.
Rob at the Cal Erin Forge, Stone Mountain Highland Games
Stirring first, I eased back the light covers and slowly swung my feet to the warm, wooden floor. A light breeze from the open window above the bed brushed across my bare back, the last vestiges of night air mixed with the warm promise of a perfect August day.
Two salt and pepper shadows trailed me through the living room, past the darkened pane of glass that would only later be allowed to connect me with the fire and brimstone of the outside world. The coffee pot had awakened to its task as I was finishing with my sleep, and the steamy aroma of the rich, black liquid silently drifted across the kitchen. The boys even ate their kibble quietly. No one seemed to want to interrupt the stillness.
Hot cup in hand, I slid the heavy glass door open and stepped down to the terracotta patio that runs across the back of the house. To my bare feet, the irregular tiles were rough and cool, having given up the previous day’s heat to the night air. Barely lit from the left, I could just see shaggy outlines, as the boys trotted to the far edge and hopped down to the narrow strip of recently mowed grass that separates the patio from the garden. Shoulder to shoulder, they disappeared down one of the vegetable-lined paths. Beyond the garden, morning light glinted off the upper windows of the outbuilding, where the end of Dillon’s story waited to be written, vying for my attention with the half-finished harvest table in the workshop below.
I sat at the round, mahogany table and gingerly set my cup down, still trying not to make a sound. My eyes drifted closed, and other senses took in the gifts of a peaceful country morning. Sunlight filtered through the trees across the field to the east and bathed the side of my face with a hint of warmth. My fingers traced the smooth edge of the table, softly rounded with my router years before. The air moved and brought cut grass, coffee, and green smells from the garden, pleasant reminders of so many summers now past.
In the stillness, my good ear strained to hear the first faint sound of the day. As it grew to a familiar whisper, only my eyelids moved, rising ever so slowly. An arm’s length away, a beautiful hummingbird hovered in the air, studying my careful smile. Her ruby head and green body were iridescent in the magical morning light, her beating wings almost invisible. My tiny visitor stopped time for an all-too-brief moment, and then she was gone.
As if on cue, the boys raced out of the garden and bounded onto the patio, demanding their morning treats in a chorus of barks and whines. With the silence duly shattered, a perfect August day was fully at hand.
Now that I’ve shared what my Glory Morning would look like, I’d love to hear from you. In your heart of hearts, how would you choose to start each day?
Have you ever wondered why we humans form such strong bonds with our animal companions? Here’s a simple thought-experiment to illustrate one possible reason:
Put your spouse / significant other and your dog in the trunk of your car. When you let them out several hours later, which one will be happy to see you? (Seriously, this is only a thought-experiment. Do not try this at home, or anywhere else, for that matter!)
The unconditional love of companion animals, coupled with their unique ability to listen to everything from our superficial complaints to our darkest fears–without uttering a single judgmental word–is a beautiful thing. Here’s a brief look at just a few of the many animals that have touched the hearts of my family over the years.
Jocko the Spider Monkey
My dad grew up in rural Ohio, the youngest of several siblings. Along with the regular farm animals, horses, and hunting dogs, he and his brothers had a few more “exotic” pets. About once a month, a traveling salesman Pop described as a self-important little bald guy in a sweat-stained suit would come around to take orders for feed and grain. One particularly hot summer afternoon, the salesman walked, uninvited, into the barn to get out of the sun. From the hayloft, Jocko silently dropped onto the little man’s back and wrapped his long tail around the man’s pudgy neck. I’m sure my dad and his brothers were hooting with laughter as the salesman ran from the barn, screaming about the huge snake that was around his neck, about to strangle him.
Rumor had it that there was also a six-foot-long alligator living behind the warm stove in the kitchen of that farmhouse, too. Someone had brought it back from Florida as a baby. Family legend? Maybe. Maybe not.
The Old Farmer and His Pigs
I heard this story from my grandma, a wise and illiterate woman who emigrated from Romania to America in the early 1900s, babushka and all. The old farmer that lived across the road raised pigs to supplement the family income during the Great Depression. Every year, the farmer would sell two pigs to the local butcher, and every year, he would cry his eyes out for three days afterwards. Grandma thought he was a silly man, but I think those pigs must have listened to the old farmer’s darkest fears. If you’re interested, The Dictionary is a short story about my mother growing up in Grandma and Grandpa’s house with only two books, and you’ll know why the house I grew up in looked a lot like a library.
Wilbur and Molly, Two Shaggy Horses
These two horses put in their time on my other grandparent’s farm, plowing and pulling wagons. My dad grew up with them, and he loved them dearly. A few years after he’d gotten married and moved to his own house, Pop brought my mother and my older brother by the farm for a Sunday family dinner. He parked his pride and joy, a shiny black 1952 Chevrolet, in the yard, under the shade of a big tree near the house. After dinner, my brother and his cousins went outside to play, while the men smoked and drank coffee, and the women chatted in the kitchen and washed the dishes.
It was early evening when Pop walked out to his car, and the low sun highlighted the deep scratches running the length of the Chevrolet’s hood. As the story goes, Pop started yelling for my brother, sure that he was somehow responsible for the damage, and ready to mete out a harsh punishment. Just as my brother came skidding to a halt next to him, unaware that he was in deep trouble, Molly reached her head over the fence next to the car, and continued to scratch her itchy chin along the hood, the rivets in her halter peeling paint off with every stroke, as Wilbur stood beside her. Confused, my brother watched the expression on Pop’s face go from dark to light, as he started to laugh. He was still laughing when he walked over to hug Molly and Wilbur’s necks and scratch Molly’s chin, a safe distance away from the hood of his favorite car.
So now you know that it’s no coincidence that shaggy little horses named Wilbur and Molly play a prominent part in the story of An Irish Miracle. I only said that any resemblances to actual people were purely coincidental. Some of the horses? Well . . . not so much.
Cricket, My Family’s First Schnauzer
There have been a lot of Miniature Schnauzers in our family over three generations, but Cricket was the first. I was a first-grader when we brought her home, supposedly a puppy for me. But it wasn’t long before we all realized that she was my dad’s dog. He would make her wait by the garage when he went to the mailbox, and when he came back, she greeted him like he’d been gone for half her life. Cricket rode everywhere with Pop in his pickup truck, her head poking out the window right below the pipe clamped in his teeth. When he got out, he taught her to wait on the seat. When he clapped his hands, she would launch herself straight into his arms. On the rare occasions it happened, Cricket hated to be left alone. To this day, I still don’t know how she reached those high curtains, but they were shredded and tattered when we got home.
Pop has been gone for over thirty years now, although I still hear his voice with a hello or a word of encouragement from time to time. Cricket has been gone even longer, but I’ll bet she’s still riding on Pop’s lap, with her fuzzy face in the breeze. And I’ll bet that pipe is still clamped in his teeth, too.
Corky and Yankee Joe
Yankee Joe was a sweet, seventy-pound Dalmatian (all ‘a’s, no ‘o’s) and big brother to Corky, my immediate family’s first Schnauzer. At fifteen pounds, Corky was the boss, and Yankee was happy to go along. His joy in life was to run at top speed until something solid got in his way. He took my wife lawn-skiing on several occasions. An unlikely pair, Corky and Yankee got along famously, despite their size difference.
We adopted Yankee Joe from a Dalmatian kennel owned by Karl and Barbara, and in turn, they adopted us. (As a gift, I photographed their daughter’s wedding, even though I was more nervous than the lovely young bride.) Karl and Barbara invited us to bring nine-month-old Yankee Joe and go with them to the Dalmatian Club of America’s national show in Fort Collins, Colorado. Four-hundred-and-fifty spotted dogs in one extremely well-run Holiday Inn was a sight I will never forget.
I won’t ever forget the eager-to-please, sit-in-your-lap Yankee Joe and his little-tough-guy buddy, Corky, either.
Bandit and Murphy, My Writing Companions
Bandit is around thirteen years old now, still very healthy, although going a bit deaf. He’s the sweetest, most gentle Schnauzer I’ve ever seen. Three years ago, the amazing veterinarians and students at the University of Georgia Small Animal Hospital pulled his little behind out of the fire for us, after ten days in intensive care. The clinic was ninety miles from our home, and the vet or the student taking care of him called me twice a day, every day, without fail. They took as good a care of me through that ordeal as they did my sad little Bandit, and for that, I am forever grateful.
Murphy is the eternal puppy. Even though he’s fully grown, at seven years old, he’s about half the size of a “normal” Miniature Schnauzer. I thought his litter mates looked a little odd, and when we brought him home, he fit in the palm of my hand, but by the time we realized we only got half a Schnauzer, he was too entrenched in our hearts to even ask for half of our money back. Everyone still asks if he’s a puppy, and they say he’s really cute. My response to that is always, “He’s cute alright . . . ’til you get to know him!”
I could go on and on about these two, who listen to me, and never judge me, but if you want to, you can read more about them in my post entitled My Writing Companions.
The strong bond between humans and horses is a recurring theme in the story, An Irish Miracle. As you can see, we Mahans love our animals. If you read this entire post, I know you love yours, too. Please feel free to comment and leave a story about a special animal companion in your life.
Good night, Nippy, Cricket, Gabe, Muffin, Bucky, Daisy, Yankee Joe, and Corky. I love you guys.
In recent years, sweet Bandit and little Murphy have both passed away peacefully in my arms. My original writing companions, I miss you two immensely. We had a lot of great and quiet adventures together.
Now, Jenny, a most times sweet and always pretty white and gray rescue kitty and Jake, a smart and bitey little black Schnauzer puppy have come to live with us and brighten our lives. They are learning to be friends, and one day soon, they will also become good writing companions, too.
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