Ohio Scottish Games 2012

The hum­ming of hun­dreds of bag­pipes filled the air and blew crin­kles into kilts at the Ohio Scot­tish Games at the Lorain County Fair­grounds over the weekend.

The rea­son for the over­whelm­ing turnout by the Scots and their descen­dants was twofold.

First, the OSG was a real oppor­tu­nity for peo­ple who belong to some­thing small, like their blood­line, to be able to be tied to some­thing huge, like the his­tory of an entire country.

That his­tor­i­cal tie-in was also wrapped around camp­ing, bag­pip­ing, danc­ing, eat­ing, and gawk­ing at fash­ion and style that only hap­pens at fes­ti­vals for some.

Sec­ondly, the plaid-drenched occu­pants were there to find out how their her­itage should progress, as first-generation born par­ents are now rais­ing sec­ond, and sec­ond soon rais­ing third gen­er­a­tion born Amer­i­can children.

How long will the kilts and clans be remem­bered and hon­ored tra­di­tion­ally, before each new gen­er­a­tion asso­ciates with an Amer­i­can his­tory and past?

Under beer tent one, two U.S. Navy vets sat, sep­a­rated by 20 years of life. The younger man, Bill Kennedy, was joined by his teenage daugh­ter, both wear­ing kilts. The older man, Richard Smith, sat in a wheel chair wear­ing jeans.

“I was a com­bat cam­era­man in the Navy. One of the cra­zi­est times was going down­town Port-au-Prince (Haiti) dur­ing their car­ni­val. Being a cam­era­man, I got to go off base and be on the ground. I was the last with a 45 cal­iber. I only had 18 rounds, wouldn’t want to get into a fire fight with that. It was wild there, but not as wild as the Scots,” Kennedy said.

As Kennedy’s daugh­ter, Erin Kennedy, grows, her mem­ory, although filled at the OSG, will be of war sto­ries her father had while serv­ing the United States, not Scotland.

Out of beer tent one, and across the grand­stand by the tracks, the Royal Cana­dian Legion Ladies Drill Team was assem­bled and ready to per­form. Shortly before they took the stage erected under­neath a grove of mas­sive black wal­nuts, two national songs were played.

“Flower of Scot­land” came bel­low­ing out of the pub­lic address sys­tem first, behind the crack­ling and spit­ting of the fair speaker sys­tem. Half the crowd stood up, placed hands over hearts, behind backs, saluted. When the “Star Span­gled Ban­ner” came on, how­ever, it seemed to assert itself over the crowd, as every­one rose, and heard grow­ing silence over noise.

Wedged between a long-necked wal­nut and a tent, Carl Stu­ard stood slanted, and in full view of the stage and fes­tiv­i­ties, fully armed.

“My targe (shield) was his­tor­i­cally researched. There is a targe­maker web­site that does the research for your name and makes you the exact one. You see here on the back, it’s red deer (fur), native to that area of Scot­land. I have a spike too, you just take it out of the boss, and then flip it and screw it back into the boss (cen­ter metal cir­cle on targe),” Stu­ard said, as the shield had become an offen­sive stab­bing weapon.

“Clan Stu­art of Buke. I’m a Stu­ard because when they came across and got to Ellis Island, they changed the name from Stu­art to Stu­ard, make it easier.

“Clan Stu­art of Buke is from the island off of Scot­land. My grand­mother, who was a Wal­lace, is a descen­dant of William Wal­lace. You’ve seen ‘Brave­heart,’ right? Well she’s from that clan. She just passed away. She was 97, and she would wear a Wal­lace broach from that clan,” Stu­ard said.

Along with the kilt, targe, and Clan Stu­art shirt, Stu­ard also pos­sessed two knifes. The shorter one, around four inches, was tucked in along his waist­band. The longer hung along his leg.

“My Dirk knife is Dam­as­cus steel, spe­cially made by Micheal O’Machearley. It’s got the dou­ble edge on top and it’s long. I wore this whole out­fit in a picket line in Toledo when the com­pany locked us out,” Stu­art said.

From the Wal­nut groves past the fair-food ven­dors and beside the barns, a Bor­der Col­lie was herd­ing sheep. The dog’s owner was explain­ing how his­tor­i­cally the Bor­der Col­lie herded live­stock and sheep along the Eng­lish Scot­tish bor­ders and how the dog knew tens of commands.

No mat­ter where the dog’s owner walked around the sheep ring, the col­lie would cut off angles, direct, and herd the sheep to his feet with total effi­ciency and speed.

Next to the gated-in sheep, kickstand-leaned two rows of Nor­ton, BSA and Tri­umph motor­cy­cles. A man was star­ing at the small gap between a gas tank and a seat.

“The S-type, the tank sits rel­a­tive to the seat, but this one, tank sits too far for­ward. The crank tube has too much rub­ber on it,” said Nor­ton rider Larry Loucka.

“My first bike was in 1970. It was a junker and when I brought it home my wife promptly named it ‘The piece of (crap).’ I love the old bikes, that’s why I now have an eight-car garage,” Loucka said.

“It’s an odd sen­sa­tion rid­ing a (motor) bike. When I was a kid, my dad said I never learned to ride a bike, I just got on and did it. But a motor­cy­cle is a dif­fer­ent feel­ing. Used to go to Brook­side park, it’s no longer open, and speed around the S-curve. When you fell it didn’t hurt because you were so close to the ground,” Loucka said.

In terms of his culture’s his­tor­i­cal iden­tity, Loucka said, “In 1903 my dad was born in the Czech Provence of Moravia. They used to call me Lawrence of Moravia. So I’m from there, but also a Czech. But I’m an Amer­i­can now.

“It’s not like the Slo­vaks, they decided not to stay with Czecho­slo­va­kia, it was the total sum of their aggra­va­tion,” Loucka said.

A younger man from Clan Ech­hardt, while watch­ing the ham­mer toss, saw his friend in a tight shirt and said, “Aber­crom­bie called, they want their ‘swee-dium’ sized shirt back.”

The friend replied, “What are you talk­ing about man, your arm is bleed­ing. Go get a Band-Aid.”

“I’m an Ech­hardt, we don’t clean wounds,” said the Ech­hardt mem­ber, and he con­tin­ued to watch the ath­letic events while his blood seeped onto the white bor­der fence.

Near the exit gates, John Black­e­mon was explain­ing to observers, with a red-tailed fal­con on his arm, how 500 years of Scot­tish fal­conry had been passed down to him.

“You know Robert the Bruce, well I am a direct descen­dant,” Black­e­mon said.

Kids were allowed to come up care­fully and pet the fal­con, “Just pet it with one fin­ger, nice and easy,” Black­e­mon said.

To which the mother of Liam and Mor­gan McAdams said, “Pet with one fin­ger, leave with five.”

Brake lights and dust poured out of the fair­grounds at the con­clu­sion of the games, where the sons of Scot­land cel­e­brated their her­itage, and the Amer­i­can sons of the sons of Scot­land were left won­der­ing how their her­itage would be cel­e­brated 500 years from now.

by ADAM FOX

Enter­prise reporter

Posted by Adam Fox on Jun 28 2012. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS Feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.