(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 0430 and could not get back to sleep, so I folded the now-dry laundry from last night’s pre-Front Page-suitcase-emptying drill. I debated leaving it in the corner, in case I was needed in the Midwest to support my son and his wife with the Christmas Baby. I had been planning to travel on Christmas Day when the roads were clear and no prospect of snow. Doing that would only complicate an emerging and important transition for the kids, so the bag is unpacked. Thankfully, her folks are in the area and available to help take care of things while she is still in the hospital. I am now considering myself to be on “alert fifteen,” the status in which the engines on the jet don’t need to be actually turning but the fighter is ready to be manned for immediate launch.

When confronted by dramatic events as I seem to be these days, the email seem to pile up. I looked blankly at ninety or so personal e-mails, most of which contained seasonal greetings which took some time to work through.

One of them required attention, and brought back memories of a Christmas and New Years in 2011. Mom and Dad passed the same afternoon on the third of January, 2012. Until this one, that was the strangest and saddet fo my life. This one is equally strange, but filled with hope and joy and new life. The email I read 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 Marlow’s 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 meal-times 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 Dad, the last man standing from George Romney’s ‘sensible spectacular’ design team at Rambler.

I have to tell you, it is thoroughly bizarre to be in a parking lot filled with shiny new-appearing Ramblers as the sturdy Mennonites in their horse-drawn carriages whirred by on the highway.

Dad was the headliner for several of them, the last of which was two years ago in the gentle sad process of the furling of his flag. I held the torch for him in Indiana that 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 Christmas, arriving inexorable and unbidden.

In a week we will be singing Auld lange syne, and giving thanks to Mr. Bobbie Burns. It is not the only time of the year I think of my Scottish forebearers, the Clendenins. They arrived arrived first on this continent after the disastrous defeat of the Highland clans in ’45 at Culloden Field. They would have to wait for the birth of James to strike back against the King’s oppression in 1776.

Jimmie Clendenin served with honor against the Redcoats in the Continental Army’s Third Pennsylvania Regiment of Foot. When he retired, he opened a saloon in Philadelphia near what became the sprawling Wannemaker’s Department Store. It was through research on his service that I came across something important: the Scottish tradition of Hogmanay, the day on which the doughty Scots commence activity 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 following Bank Holiday.

The droll and 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.“

Merry Christmas, Shipmates. Have a wee dram for all of us, but particularly for the newest addition to the Socotra clan. A few prayers with the whiskey also would be warmly welcomed! My grandchild was in a hurry to get to this Christmas.

I will be back at the Mac Showers chronicles right after the Bank Holiday…and if you catch a whiff of whiskey, you will know why.

Copyright 2016 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com