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Bagpiping at Memorials - Through the
Honor and the Tears
By William Don Carlos
I have played the great Scottish Highland bagpipes for
hundreds of memorials over the years. It might seem like
a depressing or morbid endeavor, but for me, it is a
distinct honor to dignify someone's memory by performing
this noble music. The mourners always recognize me
first. There is no place to hide when you are the only
one in a crowd wearing the Scottish kilt. I enter this
ritual event employed and invited to witness a person's
final chapter. I have the privilege to play a role in a
moment that is about more than just music. By just being
there, the piper lends comfort and strength in moments
of grief.
To begin with, my arrival in Highland dress with a
strange-looking instrument usually provides a welcome
moment of levity. There are probably no piping jokes
that I have not already heard. I recognize their value.
Oscar Wilde had some superb quips about piping.
Sometimes I share one that I remember. I have often
exchanged a joke with formidable grown men wearing
suits. They slap me on the back with a smile and offer
me a glass of water or a stick of gum; later, they weep
like little children as I play "Amazing Grace" alongside
their dad's casket. Human nature does not change. In the
ancient world funerals were attended by professional
mourners who loudly wailed to encourage others to
release their own emotions. In Europe until the
beginning of the 20th Century, another important
profession associated with funerals was that of the
Mute. The Mute stood silently as a type of symbolic
protector of the deceased; normally stationed near the
door, wearing black clothing and a melancholy
expression. My role as piper is an enduring part of that
legacy: to dignify the service by standing silently;
when called-upon, to give voice through the pipes to the
grief that is felt, enabling the survivors to begin to
let go.
There is an almost typical, recurring pattern to most
memorials, like a script, but there are also those
exceptional situations. I remember some beautiful
services where doves were released, filling the blue sky
with an explosion of white wings while I piped. I recall
a particular service that was held outdoors at night. On
that occasion I played "Amazing Grace" followed by the
famous pipe march, "Scotland the Brave." At the start of
the march, over a hundred people individually released
large white balloons which seemed to shimmer in the
darkness, rising in a symbolic farewell. More
challenging are sudden tragedies like the death of a
child. One such day lingers in my memory. The parents
leaned against each other as if piled in a heap next to
the little coffin in the children's section of the
cemetery. The wind came up as I played. I felt objects
knocking against my ankles and strained to look down for
a moment as I kept playing. The wind was blowing toys
from the other children's graves around my feet,
entangling me. It was so bizarre that I wondered
afterwards whether or not I could ever do another one.
That was many years ago. My job, like that of the people
I serve, is also to keep going and to let go. In all
types of weather, you have to know how to set the reeds
and maintain your instrument. You have to know things
like how long to keep playing as the widow leans against
her son after casting one last rose upon the casket now
nestled in the open grave below. When I pipe for Jewish
funerals I stroll behind the slow-moving hearse, playing
as it courses a short distance to the grave from the
cemetery chapel. The pipes truly belong to all cultures
now. Much of the job of piping for funerals is standing
patiently and waiting while loving tributes seem to flow
like a never-ending stream. It is also my privilege to
stand silently while the American flag is crisply folded
for one more final presentation, on "behalf of a
grateful nation." Seeing tears does not make me happy,
but I am pleased to think that my pipes are really
singing well, that I am doing a good thing. At the end,
I cradle the pipes in my arms and gently put them back
in the case. I close it up, like a little casket that
contains what I love so much along with my own memories
of this passing moment, this final 'Goodbye.'
The author is a professional bagpiper in Southern
Arizona.
His web site: http://www.wdoncarlos.com, e-mail william@wdoncarlos.com. |
