HIGHLAND HIGHS

The Highland Games are the largest of their kind, south of Canada. Or so I've been told by my entire family. They are the gathering of Scots from every clan--fully bedecked in their tartan regalia--practicing the games of strength and skill handed down from that wee, cold rocky island. The Games also fill the coffers of the town of Lincoln, NH, which closely resembles Scotland. And, my family has been in attendance for over a decade.

This is mostly do to the soon-to-be-reigning matriarch of the Minns Clan: my next-in-line sister, the psychiatric social worker ER nurse, Ann. Since I "ran away" thirty five years ago (as my Mother states to anyone who will listen), Ann has come into her own in the family and the family has become accustomed to depending on her for more than her share of...well...everything. Ann has been Celtic obsessed from birth...even when all we knew was that we were mega-Irish. Now, years later, with research methods vastly improved, we have come to discover that on my father's side of the family there is Scot's blood. (The Kelley's, from my Grandmother, are all Irish, indeed.) But alas, "Minns" comes from the Scots' clan, "Menzies". So, we are even more "mutts" than first suspected. The line goes like this: Scottish, Irish, Norwegian, Canadian-French-Native American (mostly hidden and talked about in dim whispers--except by me, the Bad Seed...).

When all of this was revealed to me whilst I was living in L.A., I was sure my father would be mortified. Far from it! Like any good Scotsman, he embraced the bagpipes, the kilts, the tartans, the knobby knees and crotch-covering-sporin where all good Bravehearts keep whatever they can't carry in their socks and belts. (I nearly puked when my little cop brother, Kev, came down the condo steps, bedecked in the black and white plaid that my clan has come to prefer over the more common red and green plaid of basic wear or the tablecloth plaid of red and white. Settled in his crotch area was the full, stuffed and preserved head of a poor badger--now made into a purse attached to a wide leather belt-- across his hips.)
"Don't freak--Ann got me an otter head last year--but the badger head goes better with our tartan!" Kev grinned.

And indeed, all weekend, I saw not only otter and badger heads, but feet and other parts, cleverly made into wearables. Scots are known for their hardiness, practicality and thrifty ways. (I guess, much like Indians, if you need something, you make it out of what is available.) Still, I can't deal with little otter heads bouncing on the vital areas of large, hairy men in skirts. Nor badger noggins, either. But, then, I am "the runaway".

We arrived up in Franconia Notch en masse. Both my sisters, and my sister-in-law, and myself. Ann gets the same condo each year from my niece's old orthodontist. It's right on the river. Literally. (With the mountains rearing up crisp and green, the leaves at the very tips of the maples beginning to be sprinkled with gold, one could well imagine being captive in the legendary Highlands of yore.) Ann had assured me that no one expected me to wear much beyond my usual jeans and black tee shirts--I was "so Californian now" that all Celtic toughness had melted away. However, I did purchase an authentic Minns/Menzies clan black and white- five- foot- sash and wore it the entire time. I also bought a hand wrought silver "torque". It has wild wolves heads on either end of twisted silver bands, woven into a crescent and worn, open-ended, facing the world, around the neck. The artist was a Scot and gave me the words: " The wolves are protector guides; they are fierce and lead one both out and into the world...this torque is more than a piece of jewelry--but I can tell by looking at ya, Lass, you already know that!" Aah, he knew how to make a sale--and with my spikey hair, blue sunglasses and black tee, I was the Californian runaway member of the clan, for sure.

So, costumed in my own way, I followed my fast-moving family through the weekend. I ate several kinds of lamb; potatoes and cabbage; shortbread and hard-boiled eggs rolled in crushed sausage. I drew the line at haggis. The organ meat of a sheep, stuffed with oatmeal, is not my idea of fine dining--however culturally correct. My sister and sister-in-law toddled off to the whiskey tasting--toddling back at dusk, on high-heels and the cold winds of the mountains.

At one point, a giant hawk swooped down just a foot in front of Ann as she calmly puffed a Marlboro on the deck. Crows had dive-bombed the larger raptor. It was trying an escape dive through the oaks. Ann barely blinked, but I was enthralled. The next evening, Ann tossed the remains of my "grinder" into the bushes, below, at the river's edge. I know she was hoping for the legendary black bears that roam the hills up there. Instead, a tiny red fox munched the salami and peppers, looking up as if to ask for some Parmesan to sprinkle on the treat.

Chipmunks scattered as we sprinted for the shuttle bus each morning. Song birds sang as we hiked back down the hill at the end of the day. My family knew each other's jokes as well as each other's buttons. I got lectured on the way I turned the thermostats up or down; walking faster no matter where we were headed; doing too many loads of laundry; staying up too late and getting up even later. I also got accused of hiding under Ann's good graces and being treated "special", because of being so newly returned to the fold. I was not allowed to pay for a single thing the entire outing nor to drive nor to cook nor even to load the dishwasher. They all have those rites down. I am still the strange "guest". The alien in the soup. The "runaway".
"Give it time," peacemaker cop Kev assures me as he polishes off the jug of merlot.

As I munched pancakes in the railroad car diner on the last morning there, watching the model train scream its little course above our heads, puffing steam and carrying miniature people forever in a large oblong, I had to agree.

"Can I have your bacon if you aren't going to eat it?" Bren asked sister-in-law Laurene.
"Bren, I'll order an extra side for you--Laurene's only got one strip on her plate," Ann offers, reasonably.
"I don't want a side of bacon!" rail-thin Bren hisses at Ann as if Ann has suggested hemlock.
"You can have my bacon, " Laurene pushes the wrinkled strip at Bren.
"I don't want your bacon--thanks..." Bren shakes her head.
"Waitress--can we have another rasher of bacon, please?" Ann flags down the woman.
"Ann--I said I don't want the bacon!" Bren scowls, adjusts her Italian dark glasses, sighs.
The waitress returns with four more strips and plunks them down between the girls.
No one touches the bacon.
When the waitress returns with the check, she starts to comment on the untouched meat, then, wisely, merely smiles.

I'm sure Ann tipped her very well.