Pipers Without Underpants:
Jean & Leslie Look for the Regiment in Enumclaw

text & photographs by Leslie Strom

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People really get into the dress-up aspect of the Highland games. Blue face paint and Ancient Wallace tartans adorn red-haired babies in Smurf strollers. Every kind of plaid walks by, men get to wear kilts, and girls in dance competitions get to wear nifty dresses and the world's coolest shoes. The rest of us tourists might get away with a tam or a sash to go with the jeans and polo shirts, but tartans are a tricky business. I'm not of Scottish descent as far as I know... there's a tentative connection to Harris (of clan Campbell) but nothing I could prove if tried by a jury of Men in Skirts. Even if I were of Scottish heritage, I'd have a 3 in 4 chance of not having a clan affiliation. I do have one workable deceit that I employed this year: my first name, Leslie, is also a Scottish surname, complete with a nice selection of tartans. Unaffiliated people with a yen for pattern can honorably wear a Stewart or Black Watch plaid (apparently the Free Agents of the tartan world), adopt a location tartan like Glasgow or Edinburgh or one of an absurd collection of registered tartans for the US, for Washington state, schools, provinces and labor unions.

Our outfits argued to death, we promptly donned t-shirts and jeans, and went on a sunny Saturday. Jean, who can rightfully wear the MacFarlane t-shirt, regaled me with horrific legends of her clan. The stories start out by explaining that the full moon was known as "MacFarlane's Lantern" because it gave them enough light for their routine plundering of lands close enough for a day-trip. Then there are stories of revenge, mutilation, and feuds, of a lover's severed member served up on a dinner plate by a jealous husband to his straying wife. Usually story hour wraps up with how all the other clans finally ganged up and took away all the MacFarlane land and money and stuff which probably started out belonging to someone else anyway, and finally subdued them to behaving like a good 12th century citizen.

The sound of bagpipes yowling hits you from across the dusty parking lot. There is a big sign near the entryway telling the musicians to pipe down. "No piping or drumming?" I squeak. "Isn't that the whole point of this thing?" Even the Scottiest Scots probably have moments when they want a little peace and quiet to go with their haggis.

We start out looking at the dog events, which features bewildered Scotties trying to figure out the impracticalities of ratting after a rat that is plainly behind a protective screen. A covered raceway winds around to the end where there is a rat to entice the Scotty.

"We want to get them used to going into a closed space after rats with some enthusiasm," one of the Scotty people explains. Having lived with a Schnauzer ( a magnificent ratter in his own right) for 20 years, I recognize the look on the dog's face. "The rat's not running. The rat's already in a cage. What exactly is it that you want from me again? I mean, come on, ask for something sensible." I think that letting the dogs go after a free-range rat would be a much more sporting demonstration all around. Squeamish viewers could simply move on to the sword dancers. A few teenagers express concern for the rat's safety. The Scotties could have consoled them: "I'll kill you a rat if you want, but if there's no rat to kill, I'll sleep on my tartan doggie bed and dream. I'll dream of maybe killing chipmunks instead."

Next there is the Massing of the Bands. Big old bagpipe parade. It's hair-raising to have that wall of bagpipe and drum music coming at you, washing right over the top of you, and creating a vortex of sound that can actually create a breeze substantial enough to raise a few kilts and reveal the secrets of those Going Regimental as we did last year when a naughty drummer flipped up his kilts accidentally on purpose revealing his lack of trou.

Secretary of State Ralph Munro, wearing his Munro tartan and a tasteful pith helmet, presides and announces the various bands. A very long prayer goes on to memorialize Scots who have passed away the previous year (including Munro's mother who lived to her late 90's). Since we don't know any of these people and the prayer goes on for some time, we look around from the bleachers. Jean nudges me. "Highlander in Deep Thought," is the title of the vision she points out. A young shirtless man in kilts stands, earnest hand to furrowed brow, nobly praying with all his might. He is a figure for a romance novel paperback cover. He could knock the stuffings out of that upstart Fabio. Lovely as he is, he just doesn't seem right there, in all his muscular, tanned perfection, amid the scratchy woolen robust families.

These same scratchy woolen robust families populate the clan parade, a fun-loving bunch of people marching behind their tartan flags and name signs. It is like Seattle's Fremont Solstice Parade without the flock of naked cyclists. When the Macfarlane troop comes by, I point at Jean and yell to them. They all start waving at her to join the parade, which she doesn't because of a sprained ankle, but I imagine next year it will be hard to keep her out of the midst of Her People.

Next we wander over to the inevitable Highland Games events. The original Highland Games took the place of warfare, a testosterone- soaked way to get guys together to piss on turf with a minimum of actual harm.

We happen to catch an event I'd never seen before: Hay Bale Pitching. Now, this one actually makes more sense to me than the other events. It is a skill one could actually use. If you look at the Hammer Throw, they swing a big iron weight between their legs and up and over a crossbar. It is not without a bit of cringeing that I notice that with an errant swing, they could easily whack themselves in the testicles with the iron weight. Likewise the Caber Toss makes little sense except that the skill of balancing a pole then throwing it might really wow a foe.

Our hay-pictching hero shows us the technique, power and heft required to win this event. It seems to go in several steps: first the pitchfork is positioned carefully into the canvas bag (20 pounds, I believe) so that the sack won't roll off mid-lob, or get stuck on the tines during the launch. A few swings, then the throw so that it goes up and over the bar which is set at 17 feet. So the bale has to go up, come off the fork, and then go over the bar (rather than just up and down), and land with the stuffings intact. Making a qualifying pitch isn't enough; it has to exceed the height of the rival's throw.

We watch the oddly compelling sport and Jean points out the shirtless Highlander guy again. Long hair flowing, knee socks perfectly taut, chest glistening, he could have been the haybale toss cute cheerleader. Though we don't see him throw anything, we bet that the burly guys in tank tops and sunburns probably could throw HIM over the 17 foot bar with a pitchfork. In a way we'd have enjoyed seeing that.

We end our visit to the games with a visit with some people we met from Alaska They adopt us for cheering their band, and show us all kinds of bagpipes at their tent. We express a particular interest in some smaller pipes, which they described as being quiet enough for an apartment. I like the instrument, as it made a sound that would no doubt drive off the vile neighborhood cats as well.

We leave the games for home, and it occurred to me I forgot to tell anyone my favorite Scottish joke:

A Scottish soldier in full dress marches into a pharmacy to speak to the druggist. The Scot opens his sporran and pulls out a neatly folded cotton bandana, opens it to reveal a smaller silk square which he unfolds to reveal a condom. The condom has a number of patches on it. He holds it up.

"How much to repair it?" the Scot asks the pharmacist.

"Six pence," says the pharmacist.

"How much for a new one?"

"Ten pence."

The Scot folds the condom into the silk square and the cotton bandana, places it in his sporran and marches down the aisle and out the door of the pharmacy. A moment or two later a great shout goes up, followed by an even greater shout. The Scot walks into the pharmacy again, and back to the pharmacist.

"The regiment has taken a vote," the Scot says. "We'll have a new one."

Author Leslie Strom will marry the next nice man she runs into with a good-looking tartan. She's very picky, you know.