Hope It Tastes Good

   Hope It Tastes Good

Suzanne Marsh

I was a smart mouthed teen when I informed my parents that I wanted to learn to play the bagpipes. My mom was okay with the idea, my dad was flabbergasted. I already played the accordion and piano. It was the summer I turned sixteen. Little did dad know, just how involved with the bagpipes I would become. Dad, talked to the gentleman that was going to teach me, we made a date for dad and I to go over to the pipers home to begin lessons. The lessons were not going to cost anything; I would be teaching the piper’s daughter to play the piano. My first lesson went well, I borrowed a practice chanter to begin to learn. I progressed rapidly, it was nine months later that I got a borrowed set of bagpipes, while mine were being made in Scotland.

Coordination is nor has it ever been my strong suit, I can’t walk and chew bubble gum at the same time, without tripping over my own two feet. When I began to practice with the pipe band, the first thing that almost made my dad hysterical was when I hit the pipe sergeant in the head with the large drone. I think if dad could have hid under a table he would have. My first parade was a giant fiasco. Back then there was an item of clothing called petti pants, I had a pink pair. I had no clue what to wear under the kilt, so the petti pants seemed like a good guess. Right? Wrong! We were marching down a hill in Port Colburn, Ontario when I began to slide down the hill on my cleats, if that was not bad enough, I was trying to get back into step. My kilt began to slide off, as I attempted to keep the kilt up and play the pipes at the same time. Much to my chagrin, the pipe major turned for the double boom, boom to end the tune when she noticed my awkward position. She gave a signal as the band formed around me. I quickly got the situation under control. Dad, had gotten pictures of my being out of step.

When the parade was over the pipe major informed me not to wear petti pants under my kilt but shorts. I did not need to be told twice. Dad sent those pictures to be developed, when they came back sure enough there, I was out of step. Dad had been a Warrant Officer during World War II, he simply could not understand why I could not stay in step. Dad, therefore, decided that I needed to learn to march in step. Ergo, right after supper, dad, me and the bagpipes went outside into the backyard. I would strike in the pipes, and in his best Warrant Officer voice he began:

“Your left, your left, your left right left.” He would have done better attempting to get the bagpipes to march. Every night out we went after supper, we always had an audience; with my playing and following me around yelling your left, your left, your left, right, left. The second parade I marched in the pipe major put me in the middle, hoping I would stay in step; dad took pictures of my marching. Once again, I was out of step. This was becoming a real challenge to dad. Finally, after the third set of pictures, dad was getting frustrated:

“If you can stay in step for the entire parade, I’ll eat my hat!”

There is nothing I like better than a challenge, I could just picture my dad eating his old gray fedora. That week, I managed to practice with dad and stay in step half the time; guess dad figured he was safe from having to eat the gray fedora.

During practice the following week, one of the pipers got mouthy with me, I broke a chanter over his head. Dad, the following week made one to the specs that he had gotten from my instructor. Dad had a terrible time explaining how I had broken a chanter over some other pipers head; after he and the instructor were through laughing. Time went by and the next practice the other piper really aggravated me, I broke the new chanter right over his head again. Dad finally made one of aluminum, that one would not break. Once again dad declared:

“If you can break that one I will eat my hat.”

Dad did not have to eat his hat I still have the chanter it is fifty-seven years old now.

The pipe major, once again decided it would be more prudent to put me right in the center of the marching line. She hoped that somehow, miraculously I would stay in step. Dad and I still went outside each evening to practice my marching. I guess coordination will never be my strong suit. Finally, I began to stay in step for several minutes before I was back out of step. That summer I spent every night outside marching and playing, with the same net result, a frustrated dad and a very uncoordinated teenager, who was equally as frustrated. I was getting it from the pipe major and from my dad I had to stay in step...end of discussion.

The order to march was called:

“Pipes and drums quick slow quick by the right quick march.”

That order meant we would play Scotland the Brave, Skye Boat Song and Barren Rocks, easier said than done, at least for me. I think the part of about the right quick march did it, I started on my right foot when it should have been the left foot. The pipe major had put me right in front of the bass drum, hoping to keep me somehow in step. I heard the double boom, boom and stopped. The bass drummer plowed into me. It was a Kodak moment. You guessed it more practice marching, it had become the principle of the thing to dad and me.

The last parade of the year, I surprised everyone, somehow I managed to stay in step for the entire parade. Dad, had the pictures to prove it. When we arrived home, I went to the closet, being the smart mouthed teen and handed dad his old gray fedora:

“Hope it tastes good dad.” He didn’t eat the fedora, he smiled and we both laughed.