Robert Burns, who is most famous for his recasting of the traditional folk poem “Auld Lang Syne,” was born in Alloway, South Ayrshire, Scotland, the son of William Burness (1721 - 1784) or Burns (Robert Burns originally spelled his surname Burness, but eventually dropped the 'ess'), a self-educated tenant farmer from Dunnottar, Kincardinshire, and Agnes Broun (1732 - 1820), the daughter of a tenant farmer from Kirkoswald, South Ayrshire
I rose at 0330 and could not get back to sleep, so I folded the now-dry laundry from last night’s pre-Willow-suitcase-emptying drill. Part of the frantic hurtling across the Rust Belt I looked blankly at ninety or so personal e-mails, most of which mean nothing.
One did. It was an account of a journey to assist in the transition of a parent by an old shipmate. It included a trip on the train, making the trifecta of Planes, Trains and Automobiles from their island outpost in the Florida Keys to the Rustbelt of Indiana.
I was struck by how similar the chords were in our holiday wanderings. On the East and West legs of the out-of-time railroad experience they spent mealtimes with Mennonites. I actually was in Shipshewana last year. The local chapter of the American Motors Car Club- a quirky bunch of people in their own right- had named their summer rally after Raven, the last man standing of George Romney’s design team at Rambler.
I have to tell you, it is thoroughly bizarre to be in a parking lot filled with shiny Ramblers as the sturdy Mennonites in their horse-drawn carriages whirr by on the highway.
Raven was the headliner for several of them, the last of which was two years ago in the gentle process of the furling of his flag. I held the torch last year, but missed the rally this last summer. I will attempt to go next year, if they continue to honor my Dad.
Sic transit gloria and all that, I am afraid.
So we lurch toward our nightfall, doing what we can for those who will go before. Another New Year, arriving unbidden.
Auld lange syne, and a thanks to Mr. Bobbie Burns. It is the only time of the year I think of my Scottish kin, the Clendenins, who arrived first on this continent after the disastrous defeat of the Highland clans in ’45 at Culloden Field.
One of them was Jimmie Clendenin, who served with honor against the King in the Continental Army’s Third Pennsylvania Regiment of Foot. Until this morning, I wan’t familiar with Hogmanay, the tradition of the doughty Scots that commences with a wee dram in the early evening of New Year’s Eve and (apparently) ends only when they run out of alcohol after the Bank Holiday.
The curiously amusing Scots humorist Craig Ferguson has summed up the confluence of my Celtic genetic heritage thusly:
“Hogmanay… is a time when people who can inspire awe in the IRISH for the amount of ALCOHOL that they drink decide to RAMP IT UP a notch.“
Happy New Year, Shipmates. And have a wee dram for all of us! I will be back right after the Bank Holiday…
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com