A Mighty Wind


That moment when our mind no longer reaches out to embrace new ideas
and experiences is the moment we first grow old. Despite a gray beard
and a lack of hair atop my funny looking head, in my 647 months of life
I have deftly managed to avoid growing up, never mind "old". My
latest splash about in the fountain of perpetual youth involves
learning to play an unorthodox musical instrument, the bagpipe. As I
struggle, happily, to expand my paradigm and include this new skill it
occurs to me that my learning curve is not so dissimilar from that of a
new boater.

There's a language and tradition to piping, just as there are terms
and traditions that one must understand to converse in a meaningful way
with other boaters. Nautical terms that seem so commonplace to
experienced boaters are probably as quizzical to neo-salts as
taorluaths, leumluaths, birls, doublings, and throws appear to a
beginning piper.

Like close quarter maneuvering with a boat, much of piping consists of
a series of deceptively simple elements which are embarrassing when
performed badly, gratifying when done reasonably well, and extremely
dependent on skill developed through continuous practice. There are
only 9 notes on a bagpipe. Differences in technique separate a poor
piper from a master of the instrument. The devil is in those
differences, and he's loath to be exorcised.

Learning to boat well is an endless process. The boater who proclaims
to "know it all" displays ignorance and arrogance that will be
readily apparent to the majority of very skillful boaters who are too
wise, too experienced, and too humble to brag. I was not surprised to
learn that my bagpipe instructor has a teacher, and his teacher has a
teacher, and that good pipers strive to improve throughout a lifetime.
Unlike boating, bagpipers have developed a general ranking system to
allow students to measure progress against a set of standardized
objectives. The very finest pipers are included in Grade 1, extremely
advanced musicians might be considered Grade 2, accomplished performers
are Grade 3, those advanced somewhat beyond a beginner status are Grade
4, and elementary players are included in Grade 5. (No ranking exists
for my current bumbling performance, but on a scale of 1-5 I'd
probably be classified a 7).

Learning the basic, isolated techniques and special fingerings required
to play the bagpipe is like learning navigation skills. The individual
steps initially seem foreign and almost arbitrary. As the first few
simple elements can be arranged into a meaningful exercise with an
observable result, the mystery is somehow diminished at the same time
the student begins to appreciate how little he or she knows and how
much there is left to learn.

Despite all the high tech, mechanized and computerized
"improvements", the most enjoyable aspects of boating are still the
oldest experiences. Observing the winds, the currents, the tides, and
making plans to work in conjunction with, rather than at cross-purposes
with nature is highly satisfying. Most of my musical experience has
been with keyboard instruments, many of which depend on electricity to
make even the slightest sound. The bagpipe is an organic instrument- it
absolutely matters how one holds the instrument, and breathes. The
sound is created by the musician through the pipes, rather than created
almost entirely by the instrument with just a bit of direction from the
performer.

Bagpipes can be cantankerous, much like a boat. There is a reed in the
chanter, and three more in the drones. Any or all of them can act up
without warning, and a pleasant experience requires that each pipe (or
system) must coordinate properly with the rest. A piper, like a boater,
must be prepared to make quick adjustments when equipment acts up.

All boaters can recall humbling experiences. Some of those humbling
experiences are usually far more recent than most of us would be eager
to admit. So far, my chanter practice has not been heard beyond the
walls of our family home or my teacher's studio.
Nevertheless, I have been humbled. Beginning boaters have friends and
gawking strangers to offer wisecracking remarks or helpful suggestions.
As a fledgling piper, I have been humbled by Oscar.

Oscar is my 20-pound, jet black tomcat. When we're both at home, he
is seldom more than a few feet from my side. He'll stretch out on the
office floor while I'm typing, curls up at the foot of the bed at
night, and "helps" me snooze through television shows by going to
sleep on my stomach. (I guess I need to harden up those abs). Jan has
been too polite to comment, much, on my new musical hobby but Oscar has
clearly expressed his feelings. As I summon a mighty wind to practice
grace notes, doublings, and learn to avoid "crossing sounds", there
are times when the general noise must resemble somebody strangling a
heron. After the first few bars, Oscar typically retires to a listening
environment he considers appropriate. He spends the remainder of my
practice session in his litter box- (not doing anything, mind you,
just sitting there).