Manning did likewise and we played the same note for several seconds. Then he held up his hand with his middle three fingers outstretched to form the letter E. I was catching on.
I followed his lead as he continued up and down the scale while he listened for the difference between our reeds. They were obviously off, so he stopped blowing, as did I, and he held out his hand. No words were necessary. I pulled out my chanter and placed it in his outstretched hand. He put the chanter to his mouth and blew an E on the exposed reed. With his teeth biting down on the base of the reed, he pushed it deeper into its seat, sharpening the note. When he satisfied with the tone he handed it back to me.
I reset my chanter, blew up, tapped off my drones and waited for his next command. I followed Manning’s lead up and down the scale, now in perfect tune.
Then, without a word, he turned away and moved on to the next piper. This fellow has a great ear for tuning, I thought. Minutes later, with the last player in tune, Manning moved to the center of the room.
“Circle up,” he called out.
I watched as all the pipers formed a circle so I followed their lead and joined in. An observant piper next to me noticed my slowness to respond to Manning’s command and tapped my shoulder.
“Follow me,” he whispered.
“Thanks, I’m Ian MacDonald,” I said.
“Sean Lyons,” he replied.
Sean was not a tall man, less than six feet, but he had a strong frame. Not a muscleman sort of build, but more like that of a farm hand or a mason. His jet black hair was short, in a crew-cut style, and his eyebrows were so dark, they almost looked penciled in. A five o’clock shadow graced his square jaw. I was thankful for the guidance from this obvious senior piper. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I had been taken under the wing of one of the finest pipers in Ontario, and without question, the second best piper at Queens University next to Terry Manning.
The other pipers stood at the ready, heads up, backs straight. Their heels were together, but their toes were spread apart at a forty-five degree angle. Again, I followed their lead, and stood with my pipes up on my shoulder, blow pipe in my mouth and my chanter held in front of me.
Pipe Major stood silent and motionless in the center of the circle, his eyes fixed straight ahead. We waited for a command but none came.
Then, suddenly coming to life, Manning barked out his orders.
“Band ready, pipes up! From an E. “Going Home!”
Everyone blew up their pipes and played an E. Manning pumped his foot up and down three times and we began to play the tune. Manning made his way around the circle, listening to each chanter and adjusting the reed of those that weren’t perfectly in tune.
Satisfied with what he heard, he had the band stop playing and called in big Dan McKee and the drummers to join the circle. He told McKee that he wanted the band to play “Scotland the Brave” twice, starting with a three pace roll. Dan acknowledged the request with a nod.
In a concert or in practice, the pipe major usually calls cadence, but there are those occasions when the pipe major requests the drum major to call the tune.
On the street, the drum major calls cadence: “By the right! Quick march!” This command tells the marching band members that they should “dress right,” or keep their line straight, formed on the member farthest to their right.
“Quick march” tells the band what type of march to expect, and the speed at which the cadence is called sets the tempo for the drum section which, in turn, sets the tempo for the tune and the speed of the march.
McKee stiffened. “Band ready!” he yelled. “By the right...quick march!” The bass drum pounded out its beat and the snares growled out their three-pace rolls. The pipers blew up, first striking in the drones then following with a short E before playing “Scotland the Brave.”
I quickly noticed that Sean and all the veteran pipers were watching Terry Manning. Not the man himself, but his fingers. As his fingers moved, so did theirs.
Those in the circle who weren’t focused on Terry’s fingers were, like me, “new meat” and tried desperately not to look lost.
I noticed one fellow in particular. Lean, blonde, and well dressed, he was obviously well off. But most striking to me were his pipes. They were a piece of artwork with sterling silver engraved furls and tuning pins, even the chanter had a silver base. They must have weighed a ton, but to me they were the most ornate and handsome pipes I had ever seen.
My thoughts were broken by a deep booming voice coming from behind an opening door. Into the room burst an imposing figure waving his arms and yelling.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” he shouted over the deafening sound of twenty pipes and drums. The pipes groaned and whined to a stop and the drums tapered off.
“If you don’t want to play together,” the man said, “then leave and play solo on some street corner for two bits! Now, let’s try it again, but this time together!”
Without hesitation, Terry snapped to attention.
“Gentlemen,” he called out, “‘Scotland the Brave.’ By the right... quick march!”
The drums rolled and the pipes struck in and we started the tune again. I thought we sounded quite good. But halfway through the tune, the visitor apparently thought otherwise.
“Enough!” he wailed. The band stopped disjointedly.
“I expect better from you, Terence,” he reprimanded. The man had a distinct Scottish brogue, which along with his deep, resonant voice, perpetuated his image. He carried himself erect, and with one thick eyebrow slightly raised, this gave him a strong commanding air of superiority.
He walked into the circle and surveyed the group, stopping his gaze only momentarily on the new pipers. Manning moved next to the man who stood waiting expectantly.
“Gentlemen, for those of you who are joining us for the first time,” Manning said, “May I introduce our pipe instructor, Victor Matthews.”
Matthews’ eyes were hard and analytical. Scanning the newest pipers in the group, he took a quick glance at me and began to move my way. I braced myself and expected the worst.
“Name,” he snapped.
“Ian MacDonald,” I answered, almost too quickly.
“MacDonald, hold your chanter parallel to your body, squarely in front of you. Don’t play it into your belly,” Matthews said pragmatically. “And you’re over blowing. Don’t blow to hear yourself.”
His appraisal completed, Matthews then moved onto the next newcomer. I breathed a sigh of relief, as inconspicuously as I could, lest he turn his attention back to me. Wow! I had expected a thrashing and instead got some great, sound advice on how to make myself a better piper.
Matthews went around the group giving critiques to pipers, mostly new, until he came to the fellow with the ornate pipes. The young man had taken his heavy pipes off his shoulder and was holding them more comfortably under his arm. He apparently had not noticed that everyone else was still at attention with their pipes up.
“Name!” Matthews barked, his eyes glaring.
“Patrick McDill,” the young man responded, fidgeting uncomfortably.
“I don’t recall hearing anyone call pipes down McDill!”
The reaction was swift. McDill’s pipes popped back into the proper position, drones on his left shoulder, chanter at the ready and blow pipe squarely in his mouth. He stood at attention hoping he could recover from this blunder in protocol.
“Blow up and strike in!” Matthews commanded.
Now it should be noted that when a piper blows up a bag the drones will come in at different times. To avoid this unpleasant sound, a piper can strike the bag with his right hand. The strike should not be too firm, about as firm as one might slap a baby’s bottom at birth. If done correctly, this slap jolts all three drone reeds and they come in at the same time.
McDill blew up and struck his bag, but because he was anxious under Matthews’ constant glare, he slapped his bag just a wee bit too hard. The result was the drones coming to life a
long with a faint squeak from the chanter. It was not a godawful squeak–in fact, it would have gone unnoticed by the man on the street–but it was an affront to Victor Matthews’ ear.
“Stop!” Matthews said. I expected him to unleash his fury on the young piper, but he didn’t. Instead, he simply held out his hand and said, “Chanter.”
McDill obediently unseated his chanter and handed it to Matthews. The pipe instructor looked at the reed with no change of expression, then he raised it, reed first to his mouth.
I fully expected him to blow out the scale or play a brief tune while adjusting the reed in its seat. Instead, he bit down hard on the reed as though it were a small carrot or sprig of celery. The crunch was clearly audible throughout the silent room, and it made every piper grimace and cringe.
Reeds were expensive. If you had a good reed, chances are you grew very fond of it. Many pipers even form a sort of bond with their favorite reed, and when it finally cracks or grows too weak to play, they will save it long beyond its usefulness.
Matthews spat out the broken reed onto the floor with disgust. McDill was stunned. His mouth dropped open, and I thought for moment he was going to tear up and sob.
Matthews then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a new reed seating it firmly into the chanter. He handed the chanter back to McDill and said, “Blow up, strike in, and give me an E.”
To his credit, Patrick quickly recovered and did as he was instructed. He struck in his drones, they came in cleanly with no chanter squeak. So far, so good. He blew harder and gave a squeeze to bring in the chanter reed and...nothing. A puzzled look came over his face, he blew harder and squeezed harder. Still nothing. Then he blew with all his might, growing visibly red in the face, his neck and cheeks puffing up like a bullfrog.
The chanter chirped momentarily, but his efforts were pointless. The reed was as hard as Victor Matthews’ gaze.
The room was quiet and tense. The seasoned pipers avoided Matthews’ gaze and were looking down at the ground. I sensed that they had seen this performance before and they knew what was coming next.
Matthews marched over to the door and hollered down the hall, “Sheila, Sheila Lougheed, please!”
Several moments later a young, attractive woman came in the door. I had seen her on campus several times before. She worked for the band as a scheduling secretary and a requisition officer while attending Queens for nursing. Sheila was about five-foot-five, with brown hair and large soft brown eyes that twinkled more often than not. She had a bold toothy smile and laugh that would erupt like a volcano, very loud with no inhibition. I was instantly attracted to her.
“Yes, Mr. Matthews” she pleasantly responded.
“Sheila,” Matthews said, “this young man is having some difficulty with his bag pipes. Take them from him and play ‘The Biddy from Slio’ for us.”
Her warm smile went flat as she looked at Victor Matthews with disappointment.
Matthews’ hard voice softened with the request. “Please,” he said.
Sheila gently took the handsome pipes from McDill, looking into his eyes briefly with an apologetic glance. Up to her shoulder went the pipes, and she blew up quickly and looked straight ahead, almost in a trance.
Three quick breaths and the bag was full of air and ready. She struck in the drones, and without any obvious effort began to play this snappy jig clearly and strongly. Aside from my amazement and appreciation for this talented piper, I felt badly for McDill and his obvious embarrassment.
Sheila finished the tune, clearly stopping and handed the pipes back to McDill. “Nice pipes,” she said with a weak smile.
As she turned and exited the room, she gave Matthews a stern glare. She had obviously been used by Matthews before to humiliate cocky new pipers and did not appreciate the awkward position it put her in.
Matthews walked over to the dejected McDill. ”Weak reeds make for weak pipers, and pretty pipes a good piper do not make,” he said, for the benefit of the whole room. “McDill, work on your lip and wind and do not shave that reed!”
As he turned and walked out of the room, he said loudly, “There is only one real musician in this room and he’s leaving.”
And with that parting slap he was gone.
McDill was visibly rattled, but to his credit, kept a semblance of composure. Terry Manning broke the uncomfortable silence. “Don’t take it personally McDill, he did the same thing to me. Just become a stronger piper.”
I wondered whether Terry was just trying to sooth Patrick or if it was true that he, too, had been on the receiving end of Matthews’ hard lesson. But before I could think about it too much, Terry addressed the room.
“You new pipers will do just fine,” he said. “You all know how to play so I’ll suggest this to you now–don’t settle for good enough. Learn the band tunes, and come prepared to our next practice.”
Then he called, “Pipes down.” With three quick drum rolls, all of us lowered the pipes from our shoulders and tucked them neatly under our arms.
“Dismissed,” Terry said, and the band began to scatter.
Sean Lyons, who had been standing beside me the whole time, leaned toward me and said, grinning, “That went well. I think Victor likes you, eh? Your reed is almost as soft as McDill’s.”
Whatever the reason, I had somehow avoided the public humiliation that had been doled out to McDill and received the message from Matthews loud and clear.
“I don’t suppose the band has any stiffer reeds on hand, eh?” I sheepishly asked.
“I’ll fix you up,” Sean laughed. He went to his case and returned with a medium strength reed which he handed to me.
“Several of the fellows are going for a beer at The Portsmouth Inn. Why don’t you join us?” The Portsmouth was a pub located on the edge of campus that was a popular hangout for Queen’s students. It was known to be smoky, crowded, and boisterous. I happily accepted the offer. It was a quick walk over to this establishment where the atmosphere was loud and inviting as we opened the door.
Dan McKee, Terry Manning, and Drum Sergeant Bill Lewis were already at the bar with a beer in their hands, so we wasted no time joining them. Sheila’s laugh rang out above the barroom buzz and I felt glad that she had joined us.
The conversation drifted from politics and war, to professors and band business. The latter included some brief laughs at the expense of Pat McDill. I quietly realized that dumb luck alone had spared me from McDill’s fate and felt thankful for that.
I complimented Sheila on her piping and innocently asked why someone with such obvious talent wasn’t playing for the pipe band? The conversations of most of the group stopped and they all stared at me waiting for the response from Sheila that they all know too well.
“Girls aren’t allowed in the pipe band,” she said simply. “It isn’t considered proper or lady like.”
“It’s a bunch of crap.” Dan said quietly turning back to his beer.
“It is what it is,” Sheila said with a shrug of her shoulders, and turned the conversation to a new topic.
I felt bad that I had broached the subject, but she seemed to be okay with it and I didn’t mention it again. As I nursed my beer and watched this group, it occurred to me that somehow and by some stroke of luck I had fallen in with this elite group of talented band members. I knew that I had my work cut out for me if I wanted to remain in the inner circle.
KINGSTON, ONTARIO, 1916
My family hadn’t heard from Alan in eight months and we feared the worst. Although we scanned the newspapers daily for any word on the fighting, he seemed to have vanished. That cold emptiness in our lives only made the onset of winter that much more harsh.
The winters in Kingston are normally bitter cold and, because of its location on the east end of Lake Ontario, the city has frequent snow and constant wind. Kingston rests on the western banks of the St. Lawrence River near the head, and is separated from the United States by a large island called Wolfe Island. There is a ferry servi
ce provided by the municipality of Marysville on Wolfe Island at the cost of 5 cents. The ferryboat is a sturdy old tub called “The Wolfe Islander”. She can carry about six cars and fifty people and operates most of the year. However, in the winter the river freezes over and ferry service becomes impossible.
Because Wolfe Island is a large farm island, six miles wide and twenty-one miles long, it provides goods and services to Kingston and vice versa, so it is essential that there is movement between the two.
The three miles of water between the island and Kingston freeze to a thickness of several feet at times and provides an adequate, though nerve-wracking, ice highway for commerce. The danger of crossing the ice is offset by the need for trade, so the risk is equal to the reward.
Even though most people cross without incident, occasionally a truck or wagon falls through the ice which heightens the reality of the danger. But it is a risk accepted by those who chose to participate in this perilous practice.
I was one of those cavalier people who crossed the ice without reservations. Instead of a wagon or truck as my choice of vehicle, I had something much faster and safer. As a young man, I had constructed an iceboat. The boat was capable of carrying three people and some stores or one person and three to five hundred pounds of supplies.
The boat was well-suited for the St. Lawrence with deep skates for ease of passage over frequently snow covered ice. The skates were also longer than most and angled up high in the front to accommodate the uneven surface of the river ice. It wasn’t uncommon to be whisked along by the brisk wind at as much as fifty miles per hour. On weekends, I would make runs across in my iceboat to visit friends, run supplies, or simply to entertain myself and clear my mind. You can’t appreciate the bone-jarring, pounding exhilaration of racing across the ice at high speed until you experience it. The cold wind bites your face and your eyes water uncontrollably in protest. This makes it almost impossible to see where you’re going while you’re going far too fast to get there.
The Last Lady from Hell Page 3
