Tales Of A Grandfather
Dunnottar Churchyard Autumn 1793 “… these auld withered hands will frame a stane of memorial, that your name may not perish from among the people.” “Old Mortality” An aal chiel’s chippin steen, a younger een files spierin, takkin notes, as lang ago as gars ye winner foo aye yet ye’ll hear their clinkin vyces tellin tales that mith be tint owre years o clouds an haar, sic tales as cut awa thae years o moss, birdshite an the foost that’s aawye roon aboot. Fit else? For it’s a seemetry. Wi twa folk newsin. Nae mair. An yet at’s foo it’s ayewis been - an aaler an a younger man baith lettin tales tak shape atween them, baith fair mindit tae be mindfu o fit’s lang past, een takkin tent files t’ither’s makkin fit’s lang kent spleet new. Clouds pass abeen, haar inatween, The chisel cuts awa. An aal chiel an a younger een Ye’ve files been there anaa. The sternness o his Gweed Buik set aside I’d ask him for a tale an he’d lach oot files, wild as water tummlin doon a brae retells itsel tae steens it’s clatterin owre. Gweed behere, he’d say an t’wis, as ayewis, aa roon aboot in aa the tales he tellt. The table pit awa, we’d range some cheers richt doon its length, mak on it wis a train wi his aa steamed up, heids aa packed wi tales an tickets pleasin, hunkies waved like flags, his bunnet noo a peakit cap, steam fustle blawin peepin toot toot tootin hootin howlin oot last meenute signals, man an loon thegither. An lachter, tears o’t trippin’s wi a queerlike freedom, far we were lowsit fae time an place, far we’d set aff stravaigin. An ilka traivel wis a tale or mair, at ilka stop strange folk wid come aboard ilk een weel kent bit ayewis new, spellt oot on an aal man’s tongue an shinin in a young loon’s een. We’d gang agate baith seated er, i kitchen hine awa, fae Mintla Station, Maud an aa the wye fae there tae onywye i tale wid tak’s, ootowre ayont we’d ging, tae far he tellt, tae far Kate Barlass files wid tak my airm or ens we’d mak a salmon lowp o faith richt owre tae jine MacGreegor on his rock syne Stirlin Brig wi Wallace far we’d see at double hannit sword near twice my size files on owre Rannoch Moor tae dark Glencoe far treachery lies in wait, neist border lans far Bothwell shaks bleak Hermitage’s nieve at aabody or ense Black Douglas follaein his hert, still mindin at June day far we’ve aa been. An files that’s fan he’d spik aboot the Bruce. On tip taes me, I’d stan up in stirrups, nae kennin fit a palfrey wis or carin, bit I cwid feel the heft o that great ex, the rochness til its grip, its wecht an hear, aye feel asweel, the clangin dunt at split his helmet, bowld de Bohun, his heid anaa o like a walnut he wid croon an tell me foo his broken ex wis aa Bruce rued. Time an time owre again we’d ging aye back tae mak richt siccar we cwid mind it aa, till, wun hame at last, we’d dover by i fire still raivelt wi oor traivels an oor tales. Clouds pass abeen, haar inatween, The chisel cuts awa. An aal chiel an a younger een – Dis’t ivver ging awa? An were they true? Dis’t maitter? They shape ye as ye shape them, tales like at, for gweed or ill. Fit wye’s MacGreegor lowpin owre i Dee? At muckle sword the Wallace nivver eesed? They’re lees we tell wirsels an ken they’re lees bit tell them still an, mair nor at, believe them files we dee’t. At broken ex still shines inside my heid tho fit we mind the maist isna the tales but fa twis tellt them til’s - a chisel cuttin steen or waterfas o lachter at gar the tears come shairp intil your een. An aal een an a younger, heids thegither, Yarnin lachin lang syne in their een, The shadda o mortality hingin owre wis aa Is keepit back a whilie mair by siclike dreams.
