donal_mac_r

The Baroness says I should put long posts behind a cut. This time I will comply with her wishes. Below is my account of this Thanksgiving holiday.

This morning I went to take part in the funeral of one of our parishioners who died suddenly last week. The church was filled to overflowing. It IS a small church, but it's clear that this gentleman had friends in many walks of life.  Most of them were not Anglican or Episcopalian, so as cantor I had to tell them when to stand and sit. The decedent was a Navy veteran so at the end, I sang the Navy Hymn. I was hoping at least some of the attendees would join me but it wound up being a solo.  I stayed to help clean up after the service, including vacuuming up the leaves and flower petals from the many bouquets displayed in the church.

When I got home, I undertook quite a different project.  In our shed, we've been storing the pavilion parts on a plywood slab on sawhorses. Any time we bumped them, they'd shift and threaten to dump the load. So today I installed some shelf brackets on the wall and lengths of 2x4 as legs for the front. Three each, so it won't sag in the middle (it's 8 ft long). More usable room and it's much stabler.

Although no rain showed on the radar, a shower passed over as we were about halfway through the project, causing us to hurriedly get the cloth parts back under cover.  But is was a kind of false alarm; by the time we got everything in, the rain stopped.

Seeing Lance Armstrong in third place on the Tour de France victors’ podium a while ago reminded me of an observation I’d made during one of the recent Olympiads.

Look at the expressions, the attitudes, of the various medalists. The gold medalist, of course, is generally all smiles. He or she has, after all, reached the pinnacle of his or her sport. One of the few exceptions was the winner of an Olympic equestrian event who spent the whole medal ceremony berating himself for his stupidity in almost missing a jump. Even though he still won, he believed he should have done better.

To the left of the gold medalist stands the bronze medalist, who is usually also happy with his lot. The bronze medalist, after all, is the one who just got there. His is the lowest score to make it to the podium. And after all, to be a medalist is no mean feat. Whether the Olympics, World Championships, Pan-American Games, or whatever; there are not that many who can call themselves medalists. Armstrong was a notable exception to that. Being a multiple winner, third place must have felt like . . . well, like kissing your sister.

But over on the other side of the podium, it’s frequently quite a different tale. Why are silver medalists often so dour?

The “run for the gold” is often a two-horse race. Two champions vying with each other for the top spot. Chances are, the two have traded victories in the past, or that second-place finisher has been a close second in another competition. While the bronze medalist may be happy to be on the podium at all, the silver medalist was hoping, working, striving for the gold, and his disappointment is due to his falling short of that goal. It must be especially painful if the margin of victory was small, and they often are in modern athletic competitions. The swimmer might think that he could have breathed differently, the weight lifter might wish he had moved that extra centimeter for balance, the gymnast might think that if she had pointed her toes just that little extra bit . . .

They COULD take some solace in knowing that recognizing the second- and third-place finishers is a modern innovation. In the ancient Games including the Olympics, the winner got the laurel wreath and no one else got anything. Second place was literally the first loser.

Gold doesn’t tarnish. Neither does bronze. Silver does. Coincidence, but somehow appropriate.

Saturday, we drove up to Richmond to take the Engineer to a party thrown by one of his Governor’s School classmates – the one who showed up in a lot of his pictures. There were supposed to be about 7 kids there but only three actually showed up: One from the DC area, one local, and one (the Engineer) from Hampton Roads. 

The young lady lives in a gated community – the real deal, where the guard asks your business and records your name and license number. The house is not huge but verra verra nice, an eclectic combination of traditional (mostly in front) and contemporary (mostly in back). Its driveway is so steep that the Artisan made a crack about locking the hubs. After dropping him off and chatting with her parents for a short while (they’re both civil engineers), we three went off to find use for our time. 

A friend had told us of an interesting cemetery, Hollywood Cemetery, so called because of the holly trees growing there. We found it and spent about an hour driving through it with occasional stops. It’s a place of historical interest, the resting place of a couple of Presidents, the President of the Confederacy, several Governors of Virginia, and a good number of Confederate soldiers and officers (in separate sections). In the Confederate Area, where a Confederate Flag (the Third National) flies from a tall staff, there are many of the standard military style gable-topped gravestones, as well as different styles donated by relatives. There is also a large pyramidal cairn, about 90 feet high and to all accounts, built entirely of irregular dry stone, except for a dressed stone bearing an inscription on each side and a shaped capstone. There must have been some very skillful cowans involved in its construction. It was built in 1869, so bringing all those stones to the site and lifting them must have been pretty arduous – I wonder if they used steam power to hoist them into place.

Overall, the cemetery looks like a Victorian set piece, though it’s active and has quite a few fairly new graves. Being in a hilly area, it has numerous mausolea set into hillsides. And there are many family compounds with tall obelisks, sculptured tree trunks, and broken columns – and so forth. There were several areas with sculptured benches and so forth. And one area has an excellent view over the James River – around there, it is all shallows, rapids, and scattered boulders. It was a pleasing sight.

Near the Confederate area is a memorial to John Marshall High School. I was puzzled about American rather than Confederate flags flying over the memorial stones. Turns out that it was not a Civil War memorial, but a memorial to all the alumni of the school that had fallen in four wars. Probably WWI, WWII, Korea, and Vietnam.

Leaving the cemetery, we drove along several streets, and at one point saw an interesting barbecue place, Buz and Ned’s. Most of the seating is on picnic style tables under a “Costco garage” style tent in front of the building. The barbecue sandwiches were stacked high and the “sides” were interesting. I got hush puppies and a marinated onion-and-cucumber salad. It was good eating, though the Artisan didn’t care for the potato salad.  The hush puppies were even good cold.

Dinner finished, we strolled along the other side of the street and window-shopped – there was a used-motorcycle shop and a store selling reconditioned pinball machines and similar amusement devices. The motorcycle shop seemed to feature mostly Vespas, though I noticed a BMW and an old BSA.

Making our way back towards the party site, we stopped for ice cream (the barbecue was pretty spicy) and checked back in at the gate. We found them in the great room watching “Robin Hood – Men in Tights,” which they – and we – found hilarious. After the movie ended, we chatted a bit and then made our way out.

The partyers had gone to a big park where there was a small zoo and nature trails, and then had pizza. The pizzas were so big that even the Engineer got full. Then they came back to watch the movie. 

Sunday we all slept in, worn out from Saturday. We went to fighting practice at Mt. Trashmore just after noon. There were only two other armoured fighters under arms, so I made the critical third (We have an unwritten rule that if three show up at practice, we will fight.). Got hammered into the ground by Mungoe’s mace, being foolhardy enough to take my mace in against him; and managed to tag Sir William a few times with glaive. Then I fought each of them again with sword and shield. By the time we were done I’d had me a good workout.

Although it was too hot, in the Baroness’s estimation, to cook; she did anyway, preparing a hearty Sunday dinner for us – although in the evening, not at midday.

And so went the weekend not at Coronation.

CB’ers have nicknames for many cities, and Pittsburgh was called Smoky Town during the time I was active on that network.  It’s a legacy of its days as a steelmaking center, now long in the past. The name lingers, though, along with Iron City, Steel City, and probably some others.
 

On Friday (the 14^th) we piled into the big van and headed up to Smokey Town for a wedding.  The Baroness’s little brother has one daughter, and for her wedding they pulled out all the stops.  She’s in grad school in Pittsburgh and her husband lives there too, so instead of marrying in West Virginia (where both families are from), they decided to wed in – actually just outside – Pittsburgh. 

The other night, we heard seven fairly rapid reports in a steady rhythm.  From the timing and the sound, both the Mechanician and I concluded that it was a gun.  I called the police again and got the same response.

Doesn’t seem like someone was shooting AT anyone; more like they just fired off a magazine more or less at random.  Still, it’s unsettling.  The bullets go somewhere.  And the police can’t really do much unless someone saw the shots being fired, or unless someone or something gets injured or damaged.

I hope it doesn’t continue, though. 

The Governor’s School session ended Saturday.  They had a closing ceremony, with the director giving certificates of appreciation to the teachers, and the teachers giving certificates . . . not really diplomas . . . to the students.  A few had had to go home early because of the flu, but most of the 160 students came up to receive their certificates along with a handshake, hug, or back-slap.  Quite a diverse bunch.  Every colour, every size, every style that you might expect from kids that age.  Some were more or less dressed up but most wore the same casual clothes they usually wore – a lot of them wore the session’s T-shirt, with a Superman-style logo bearing the letters MST.  The Engineer’s floor in the residence had developed a certain esprit de floor, and had adopted a t-shirt design of their own bearing the Spanish expression Piso Trés (Floor Three).  They were all hand-painted.  The fourth floor had gone farther, having shirts made professionally with the name “Cell Block 4” with their nicknames and numbers.  The numbers, I learned, were based on their ages. 

One of the other students had been impressed by the Engineer’s telling about the SCA; in response to his request I brought my armour up to show him and his parents.  They live in Gloucester and I think they own horses.  If they get involved with the group over there, it will be a boon for all.  Nice people, and they all seemed interested.

After getting everything packed upWe went to brunch at IHOP, where the Engineer ate everything in sight.  Curfew the night before had been later than usual, and a lot of the kids had slept in that morning and missed breakfast.

This was our third trip up to Lynchburg.  The first two times we had not done any sightseeing, but the Baroness had learned recently about a house connected with a DAR founder.  A big early-19^th century place called Point of Honor.  The name apparently derived from the location at one time being a favorite place for duels, although it wasn’t called that at first.  We had a bit of adventure finding the place, and figuring out where to park.  The staff was all of two women, who conducted tours of small groups mostly.  They said the number of visitors would vary from two to twenty a day, unless a tour group came by.  The house was elegant but not huge, and it was a pretty interesting tour.  Even the Mechanician, who had wanted to wait in the van, seemed to enjoy it.  The docents were pleased to learn about the DAR connection and mentioned that there was a DAR plaque on the grounds. I found it near the corner of the lot and pictures were taken. 

From the house, we could see a geyser-type fountain and decided to find it.  It’s actually in the river on a stone structure.  The water jet shoots up about 80 feet or so, and depending on the wind, it makes some fascinating patterns.  The Baroness got some shots of a rainbow it created.  We explored the immediate area – discovering a small skateboard park – and then turned for home.

Lynchburg is called the City of Seven Hills, but I wonder if they didn’t mean Seventy.  The town is very three-dimensional, with streets as steeply sloped as San Francisco’s.  Many, in the old residential neighbourhoods, are extremely narrow. Picturesque, but a real challenge to drive on.  I can only try to imagine what it must be like when it snows. 

 On the way home, we stopped for dinner at the same barbecue place near Petersburg that we had discovered on the first return trip;  and then for ice cream at a Dairy Queen in Windsor for ice cream.  When we pulled in to the DQ, we found a concert in progress.  A local band, consisting of a half-dozen good ol’ boys and one teenage girl – probably the daughter or niece of one of the guys – was having a grand old time in the parking lot, playing to an audience sitting mostly in folding chairs or in their cars.  We only caught the last few selections, but it was a wonderful little scene, under a starry sky with a half moon, and at one point a train roared by on the tracks that run parallel to most of  Rte 460.

And so back home.

 Jeb is the name my parents bestowed ( I sometimes say inflicted) on me at birth. When asked, they would tell me there were several reasons for the choice. One was that my father, a history buff, was a strong admirer of Confederate General James Ewell Brown Stuart – J.E.B. Stuart. Another was that they disliked the tendency people had to shorten names into nicknames and so gave me a name so short that it couldn’t be shortened. Another was that they wanted to give me a distinctive name.

But that name was fraught with problems. First, not surprisingly, a lot of people were skeptical that “Jeb” was my real name when I was growing up. I was frequently asked, “Is that a nickname?” “What’s it short for? “What’s the rest of it?” and so forth. When I was university, some people didn’t want to believe it even when I pulled out my driver’s license and my military (NROTC) ID card.

Another downer about it was that it made people think I was a Southerner, or some kind of hick. I used to say, in reply to the question about being from the South, “I’m from the Southern Tier of New York State!” Yeah, I’m very much a Yankee. My wife (from West-by-God Virginia) used to furrow her brows at me and hiss “Yankee!” in a very good Scarlett O’Hara channeling, and didn’t understand for some time that it didn’t offend me. It didn’t help that there was a popular sitcom during the time I was growing up entitled “The Beverly Hillbillies” about the family of a “poor mountaineer” who accidentally struck it rich and went to live in Beverly Hills. His name was Jed, but people always got his name and mine mixed up . . .

That’s another problem with the name. People used to always get it mixed up with Jed or Jeff. Many thought my name was short for “Jebediah,” but as far as I know, there is no such name.

And there’s the connection with the General. Many people seem to think he was called “Jeb Stuart,” but everything I’ve ever found goes against that. He was a Victorian Southern gentleman, and such were not much for nicknames. In those days you might know someone for years before you started calling someone by their first name. I’ve read that Gen. Stuart’s closest friends called him “J. E. B.”, but it was strictly the initials, not compressed into a name.

I contemplated changing my name when I was about 18. I wanted to take a first name (like James) that started with J and an additional middle name that started with E. My middle name starts with B, so I’d be J. E. B., like the General. Those who knew me as Jeb could still have called me that but I wouldn’t be handicapped in later life by that unusual name. My mother talked me out of it, saying it would have broken my father’s heart. So it goes. I sometimes think I should’ve gone ahead and done it. I think it would be a good thing if everyone had the option of taking a new name somewhere between ages 18 and 21.

In my senior year in university, I discovered a historical re-creation group called the Society for Creative Anachronism. I sent in a membership form within a day of learning about it. In the SCA you get to choose your name, and I initially chose Donalbain an Seoladair. Within about a year, I realized how incorrect that construction was. I had pulled the name Donalbain right out of Shakespeare’s Scottish play and later learned that it was a corruption of “Donal Ban,” meaning fair-haired Donal. But that was the name of a historical character, so I couldn’t adopt that, as appropriate as it was. “An Seoladair” means “The Seafarer.” I went with Donal, though, with the patronym “Mac Ruiseart,” based on the Gaelic form of my father’s name. At the time I took the name, the nautical connection made sense. I was to be a seafarer when I graduated. My SCA coat of arms has four anchors on it. I’ve been known as Donal Mac Ruiseart for over 30 years in the SCA, and quite a few have observed that the name Donal suits me better than Jeb.

I never acquired a nickname in the Navy. It’s less common for officers. At one place I worked, some of my colleagues called me “Jebster,” partly, I think, because I had a reputation as something of a walking dictionary.

One thing for sure, I did not want to pass that name on. My sons are both named for other ancestors – both of them have ancestors on both sides that have or had their names.