Journey of a Fruitcake

Dan sat in his favorite chair, enjoying the quiet evening. He loved the holidays. Suddenly, his quiet evening was disturbed by the sound of the doorbell. Inwardly he cringed.
“Please not another gift from Aunt Nora.”
He grudgingly rose from his chair and walked to the front door.
“Good evening, sir. Got a package for ya; please sign here.”
Dan looked at the label and saw it was from Aunt Nora. He was half-tempted to refuse the delivery, but then Nora’s heart would be broken. As he closed the door, he let the package drop into a wastebasket standing nearby. He knew what it was; she sent the same present every year, Fruitcake!
Unfortunately, Dan’s son Calum found the delectable delight before the trash could be emptied. Calum was on his way to play football with his pals when he noticed his beloved pigskin was sorely lacking air. Needing a suitable alternative, he spied the conspicuous package protruding from the waste bin. He quickly snatched it up and headed out the door, unwrapping it as he went. To his delight, he found what looked like a flat Frisbee.
“If we can’t play football, we’ll play with this!”
After all, one flying object was as good as another, so off he raced to the local park to meet his friends. They had quite a time with the soft, round toy. Oh, it wasn’t quite as good as a real Frisbee, but hey; times were hard and something, even a soft mushy Frisbee wrapped in plastic, was better than nothing at all. After a few hours of rigorous activity, the boys grew weary of their newfound toy. Calum gave one last heave to the Frisbee fruitcake and sent it sailing off toward the pond, situated in the center of the park.
There it lay in the tall grass beside the small pond. In time, a curious duck came waddling up to the cast off cake. It pecked at the treat a few times until it created a small tear in the plastic. Pushing his bill in past the plastic, it tore off a small piece of the cake, then let out a loud quack. Shaking its head, it turned tail and ran quickly to the safety of its peers. The excited duck began quacking loudly, as if he was telling his harrowing story of the encounter with the foul tasting pastry.
There it lay, in the cold grass. It was getting late and most of the park visitors were gone. A lone man - one of the many ‘residentially challenged’ souls who frequented the area - was strolling along and nearly tripped on the fruitcake. Bending down, he picked up the pastry.
“I’m hungry, but not that hungry! Hmmm, it might make a nice pillow though.”
Off he went with his new sleep aid. Unfortunately, he never got the chance to try out his new pillow. It slipped from his grasp as he crossed the bridge that spanned the stream, flowing from the pond. Down went the cake, landing in the fast moving water. It bounced and bobbed, finally coming to rest in a clump of twigs and branches, deep inside a metal storm drain. There it remained until...

(October 24, 2295 A.D)
“Professor, over here, I’ve found something.”
It was a young man named Tyronius Thurston. He and his Paleontology classmates were out on a field trip and came upon a most unusual discovery. Professor Sortley turned his hoverplate 2000 and came gliding toward Tyronius.
“What is it Mr. Thurston? What have you found?”
“It appears to be some sort of metal tube. It has a strange undulating surface.”
“Oh come now, Tyronius. We have seen metal tubes like this before. It is what used to be referred to as a storm drain, I believe. Long ago, these primitive people used them to channel water to various destinations.”
“No sir, I’m not interested in the metal tube. Look here, through this rusted opening. Do you see it?”
Shining his light through the opening, a small round object glistened in the dim light.
“There, what is that?”
The professor knelt down and peered into the dimly lit tube. Without saying a word, he went to his Hoverplate and retrieved a mechanical device. He turned a knob and a long, snakelike arm began to emerge. At the end of the arm were four prongs with joints like fingers. The other end had a glove with a cable that attached to the rod. The professor slid his hand into the glove and began moving his fingers. As he did so, prongs on the other end mimicked his movements exactly.
Gently he pried the round object loose from the debris and hoisted it through the rusty hole, to the surface. Laying the object on the ground the students examined the curious find.
“What is it?” Asked one of the students.
The Professor shrugged his shoulders.
“I have no idea. Perhaps it is a cocoon of some sort.”
Carefully, the professor cut away the dirty plastic lining, revealing the contents within.
“It appears to be some sort of food.”
There was a label on the front of the object, which he wiped with his hand. He read the inscription aloud,
“Mrs. McDonald’s Premium Fruitcake…”
The Professor found out a profound truth, some things do last forever. So if you’re wondering what to get that hard to shop for person on your Christmas list, why not try a fruitcake. They have over a hundred different uses, and not one involves eating. Merry Christmas.

Rocky moves on

Man’s Best Friend, My Best Friend

It was early morning, and the October chill permeated everything, including me. As I labored at my task I could feel it; not the chill, it was something else. A sadness, a feeling of being empty. With every thrust of the shovel I felt it pressing down on me, like an ocean of memories. The task I had set about was to provide a final resting place for my best friend of sixteen years, Rocky. Tired and breathless, I glanced over my shoulder and there he was.

Time had certainly had its way with my beloved friend. The beautiful tan and black markings that had adorned his visage, and which gave him a stately appearance, had given way to white and gray lacings around his jowls, back, and legs. He looked as though he had drunk deeply from the milk pail. His strong and youthful stride was absent, in its place were the trembling, unsure movements indicative of one who has lived far past his prime. His final years were marked by an ever decreasing ability to see his surroundings. Life and time, it seems, are extremely cruel taskmasters. As if trying to steal his very essence, they attacked with vengeance, first stealing his ability to see the beauty of life and then his quick puppy like agility. As a final blow, these cruel villains took from him the ability to hear the magical sounds around him. Left with his sense of smell only, he wandered aimlessly.

What a strange and macabre scene it was. I was digging the grave of my best friend while he gazed on in ignorant bliss. It reminded me of scenes from a Hitchcock movie. Reluctantly, my mind was drawn back to another October morning. There was Guess, my beloved German Shepherd following me around as he always did. As with Rocky, I was spending my last few hours with my friend.

Guess? Who names their dog Guess? He was apparently named after Guess jeans, like that made it a more sensible a choice. He too was a beautiful specimen, but had sealed his own fate when he lunged through the fence and grabbed a visitor’s arm, tearing a gash in it. Who knows the reason for his aggression. Perhaps he was just guarding his home, or it could have been the beginnings of Hip Dysplasia, toying with his fragile psyche. Whatever the case, he could no longer remain on this mortal sphere.

A short trip to the Vet and he was no more. That is a story for another time. The days passed, and it seemed increasingly difficult to manage my way through the day. I’d look to the backyard and all that greeted me was emptiness.

It was while picking up my daughter from her friend’s house, that the miracle took place. As I waited on the front step, two large hounds came bounding up the walk toward me. One was a large white mutt with shaggy hair. He looked horrid and smelled worse. My attention was not on him, however. I was gazing, with rapt attention, at the beautiful German shepherd who had thrown his lot in with this stinky white mongrel.

“Excuse me, whose dogs are those?”

My Daughter’s friend’s mother had come out on the porch and so I posed my query to he.

“Oh, those mutts? They have been running around the neighborhood for at least two weeks now. I ought to call the Pound”. That they were homeless mutts was clear, however only one of them fit the description of a mutt. As I approached the two dogs, the white mongrel ran for the hills, but the German Shepherd simply cocked his head to one side, eyeing me with interest.

“Come her boy, come on.”

It took little to persuade the animal to respond, as he bounded toward me, tail wagging. As I scratched his ears, I was appalled at his physical condition. His skin was stretched tight across his ribs, making him appear to be a victim of the Holocaust. From what I saw, it was obvious he had not eaten in weeks. I bid farewell to my daughter’s friends and put the poor animal in the back seat of my truck as we headed for home. On the way, we stopped at the store and purchased a few cans of dog food.

I remember how incredible it was, watching this poor, half starved, animal devour those cans of food. He was a beauty. I canvassed the neighborhood looking for his owner. Signs posted on poles, and questioning residents, yielded nothing. Finally, we decided he must be a Jacob. He was ours.

The years raced by, and Rocky was faithful through them all. He was the most intelligent animal I had ever seen. He responded to voice commands as if he actually understood the meaning of what I was saying.

“Go get on your rug”, or “Rocky, go Downstairs”, yielded a quick and obedient response. Off he would go to fulfill my stated commands. Oh, he wasn’t perfect; he had a definite attitude, especially when he wanted something. He would find a way to get it, no matter what. Hmmm, that sounds a lot like me.

It was shortly after the demise of my business and our eventual migration to Utah that it happened. I had constructed a most excellent home for Rocky out of the trailer we brought from Vegas. It was the Ritz Carlton of dog houses. It had an enclosed section in the front, with wall to wall carpeting, Microwave, Sleep Comfort bed, the works. It had wood rails along the sides and back that allowed for casual viewing of his surroundings, yet prevented his escape.

We had gone out for dinner and returned to find blood all over the back of the trailer, well drops of blood anyway. What had happened? Was anyone hurt? It seemed all was fine. That night, Rocky slept beside our bed. As I reached down to stroke his face, I felt something hard.

“Rocky, are you eating a bone? You know you don’t eat in here.”

I turned on the light and looked at him but there was no bone to be found. Upon closer inspection, I discovered what had peaked my attention. He had dislodged his main tooth and it was now sticking out perpendicular to his face. It all made sense; the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place.

Rocky had become extremely agitated at our absence, and in a terrified fit, he hooked his upper tooth on one of the boards of his new home. He tried to use his tooth as a wedge to pry off the wood plank. He succeeded in creating a hole big enough to exit through, unfortunately, he also succeeded in pulling his tooth from its socket. The swollen gum prevented the tooth from returning to its original position. One Vet trip, and $90 later, we had our happy puppy back, sans one incisor tooth.

Such were the events that made up this animals existence. My mind slowly returned to the task at hand. The hole was nearly complete. I looked at my watch and realized time was vanishing. I quickly finished the grave and went to look after Rocky.

It is one of the oddest paradoxes in life that things work fine when you take them in to be fixed. How many times have you taken a vehicle to the mechanic, only to have it work perfectly. So it was this morning. As I brushed his fur he wagged his tail and gave my face a lick. He was happy; I was miserable.

That it had to be done was beyond discussion. He could barely move; his eyesight was gone as was his hearing. Winter was on its way. He could not negotiate stairs and so had to be carried in and out of the house. Once inside, he paced around with his tail between his legs, shaking and trembling with fear. He wouldn’t even go in the garage. It rained and hailed yesterday and he sat in the rain and sleet with a look of misery that broke my heart.

So it was and now the final hour had arrived. As I fashioned a wooden marker for his grave, I could feel the hot tears run down my cheeks. They blurred my vision and made the work so much harder. Finally it was time. I walked Rocky to the Bronco and hoisted him into the rear compartment. Again, his puppy like demeanor returned. It was as if I could hear him say,

“Oh boy, oh boy. Where are we goin Bob? For a fun walk in the park? Maybe for a walk in the Canyon? Oh, boy…”

I knew of course that it was just the joy of doing something different, but that did little to ease the pain I felt. I closed the back door, and slowly pulled from the driveway. It struck me hard that this would be the last time my Rocky would set foot in his home. I gazed in the rearview mirror and saw his excited gaze; again I felt the familiar pain and tears begin to flow.

Like a Hearse slowly winding its way to the final resting place of its passenger, so it was with me. I drove slowly and cautiously. Rocky was standing and a fall would only add more pain to the drama. It seemed to take hours, even though it was only five minutes away. At length, we arrived and I again hoisted Rocky from the truck. As before, his ears were alert, listening for any sounds of potential fun and excitement. His eyes darted back and forth in a futile attempt to take in some shred of movement. I patted his head and he turned quickly to look at me and licked my hand, as he had done countless times before at the beginning of a fun experience. This would not be that experience, however.

We walked into the hospital and took a seat. It only took a few minutes and then we were off to the next stage. The excited and playful demeanor of my best friend had quickly fled. In its place was that familiar trembling I had seen so often as of late. I could tell he was trying to be brave. However the smells and sounds around him sent home the message “something evil this way cometh”. I held him close as he was weighed, then it was off to the room that would be his final destination. Waiting for the Doctor was a brief experience, thankfully. Rocky decided it was time to lay down. I laid down behind him with my arm under his head like a pillow, my other arm cradling his body and soothing his trembling muscles. He was panting heavily, mostly from the fear of what was happening. I am sure his panic was exacerbated by the fact that he could see nothing, and hear even less. All he knew was that he was in a place that smelled bad; it smelled like death.

The team entered and shaved his leg and set the catheter. They were extremely kind and gentle, which helped greatly. As I sat and stroked Rocky’s head, my mind was again taken to the past. How many times had he fallen asleep in my lap, in this very same way.

The doctor finally entered and administered a sedative and pain killer. As Rocky drifted off to sleep, I felt his pulse slow, his breathing relaxed, he was at peace. Absent were the subtle tremblings of muscle and bone. Then the medication; clear with a purple hue. It seemed like so much to be put into a small dog’s body. Slowly she injected the liquid into the waiting vein. His breathing slowed, slower, slower, then… nothing. He was gone.

In less time than it takes to stand, Rocky leapt effortlessly from this mortal sphere to a loftier plane. He crossed into the next world effortlessly, to be met by Guess and a host of others who would now be his guardians and care givers. Like a ship departing and then coming home again, my loving dog had completed his journey. His lifetime of faithful service would be rewarded by an eternity of peace and happiness. Yes, he was at peace, I knew it. The pain and burden of going on was with me alone, he was free.

I loaded his lifeless body into the truck and set out for home. I was sad to be sure, but not inconsolable. I laid his remains upon a towel in the bottom of the hole. Gently I covered his face and body and proceeded to replace the dirt that would be his tomb; it was done.

In an effort to heal my heart, I struck in the Pipes and played. The melody carried high into the air, strong and loud. The Irony was, he actually hated the pipes, but it wasn’t for him anyway, was it? No, it was for me. I need the healing balm of the Celtic strains. Like a miraculous balm, the tones lifted me up and eased the sense of loss. Life would go on; wounds would heal; for now at least I had the pipes.

The Old Man and The Pipe

"Let's see, it's been a long time since I've been asked that." responded the old man, as he gently stroked the long gray hairs of his burly beard. He sat in the old rocking chair on the porch with his two lovely granddaughters at his feet, staring at him with wide eyed anticipation. After a few moments of silent reflection, the ole piper began,
"I guess it all started the day I found that old journal left to me by Great Grandpa Meiklejohn. He was a character, that's fer sure. He was one brave Son of a .... uh... ahem, what I mean is he sure had the pioneer spirit."
The old man looked down at his beautiful Granddaughters, Emma and Ethnie, with an awkward embarrassment. He was cut from the old cloth, and sometimes slipped when it came to social etiquette and proper speech.
"What was it you wanted to know.... Oh yes, I remember. What made me decide to learn the Bagpipes. Well, as I was saying, Ole Grandpa Meiklejohn was a true Scott. He lived a hard life. Why, when he was just a little older than you two, his father just up and died. There he was, the oldest of the family, and only thirteen years old. He did what he had to do. "
The old man paused a moment and looked again at the two beautiful girls at his feet. He reached down and caressed each of their cheeks with his large calloused hands. In his mind he struggled for the words that would express the deep feelings he held for his Grandfather, and for the cultural legacy that was passed down to him. After a moment he continued,
"Ya know, a wise man once said, 'Ya can't know who ya are, if ya don't know where ya been.' Do you know what I'm talkin about?
The two young girls simply shook their heads. Perhaps they were two young. In time, they would come to know of what the old piper spoke, but for now it was enough just to be together, so the old man decided to save his reflections for a later time. Reaching down, he scooped both girls up and plopped them on his lap.
"Let's just say that I'm a Scott, and playin the bagpipes is what Scott's do. Ya want ta know a secret?"
Both of the girl's eyes grew as big as saucers as they nodded their heads enthusiastically.
"Well listen close then."
The girls leaned in close as the old piper whispered, soft and low,
"You two are Scottish lasses too! Never forget that. It's what makes ya who ya are."
The old man held the two close and gave them each a kiss on the cheek,
"Off with ya now, there's more important things ta do than listenen to an ole fool tellin stories."
As he watched the two bound off into the yard, full of the overflowing exuberance that was youth, he felt a warmth and a pride in his heart. A pride born of a grand heritage and a noble posterity. He was content.

Well, here is the long awaited video of my Second place showing at the Utah Scottish Festival, Solo Competition. It was a beautiful day with excitement in the air, not to mention flying haggis. As I waited for the judging to begin I felt a wee bit anxious. After all, this was the first such competition I had ever attempted. My mind was a swim with doubts, Am I really going to try to pipe in front of this guy? What if he says I suck? or worse, what if my fingers freeze and refuse to move. What if my drones don't strike in properly?

These were just a few of my fears as I waited for the nod of the judges head, signaling my time had come. My first competition was the Piobairaechd, (the ancient style of bagpipe music, played by the original pipers of the 1700's). My judge was a colorful gentleman in his late sixties. John, I think was his first name. They said he fancied himself to be a pirate. He was an excellent piper of over forty years. Aaarggghhh.

He smiled at me, and said, "Whenever you're ready." Oh sure, easy for him to say! Just as I was about to play a light rain began, as if the heavens were exclaiming, "Think you're a piper, do ya laddie? Well, here's some good ole Scottish weather to help ya on!" With trepidation, I blew the wind that would power my waiting pipes. The drones sounded, steady and true. After a few seconds of last minute tuning, I turned and faced the judge, and nodded. He smiled and nodded back. The game was afoot! I played "Sir James McDonald of the Isles, Lament" as my selection. It went fairly well, until some piper decided it was time to tune his pipes right behind where I was playing.

I didn't let it rattle me too much. I turned in a fair performance, placing fifth out of eight pipers. Not great, I sure hoped the remaining two events turned out a wee bit better. I Nodded, thanked the judge and exited the spot to prepare for my second event, the 2/4 March. This event is a challenging one, because the song must be played while you march in front of the judge. Wow! This is like a drunk driving test, Sheesh!

As I walked to the second event Tent, there behind the table sat Aaron Shaw of the Wicked Tinkers. I knew him a little so I decided to check in and see if I could talk with him.

"Hi Aaron, where is the judge?"

"Hi Bob, I'll be judging this one, the normal judge couldn't be here."

"Oh, I see. Well, are you ready for me?"

"Almost, just give me a few minutes."

So, I did just that. Meanwhile, I am beside myself. It's bad enough to have this be my first competition, but to have Aaron Shaw as my judge? Wow, no pressure there.

"O.K. Bob, go ahead" came the lilting tones from the judge as he so glibly bid me to my doom! Again, I turned my hopes to my friend and ally, Llieam (That's the name of my pipes), and once again, Llieam came through. I played "The Siege of Delhi", a march written by the Scots Guard while occupying Delhi, India. I completed the piece and stood to recieve my just critique. Aaron indicated that I played it well, especially the fourth section. "It's very hard to do without crossing notes, and you did if perfectly". Wow! Really? Thanks, I thought. Well, I did a wee bit better in this event, coming in 5th out of 18 pipers. Hey, it got my name on the board.

Then it was on to my final competition, the Slow March. Well, by now the pre-competition jitters were pretty much gone and I felt comfortable. You can refer to the video above for how it went. Unfortunately, Laura's phone went off near the end of the song so you won't hear the whole thing, in it's entirety. I played "The Mist Covered Mountains". I came in 2nd out of 18 pipers and won the silver medal, Whoo Hooo!

Overall it was quite exciting. I liked it so much I am competing again in the Payson Scottish Festival, In July. So ends the saga, Tara the Noo!

Old Scottish Blowhard strikes again

Ok, ok, don't soil yersel, but I am finally writing in my blog agin. There hasn't been much exciting to write about lately, but then along comes the Utah Scottish Festival at Thanksgiving point, Yee Haa! My favorite time of year, alas it is far too short.

Well June first marks my two and a half year mark on the bagpipes. I decided it was time to go Legit! Therefore, I entered the Solo Bagpipe competitions at the annual Highland Festival (You all know me, I am not one to start small and work up. No I just jump right in there)

This is a picture of me piping on Memorial Day at a local

Cemetery

So anyway, I decided to enter three events; The "2/4 March", "the Slow March", and the "Piobairaechd" (That is Gaelic, it simply means pipe music, and is the ancient music played back in the early 1700's). Well the fateful day arrived, and so, I donned my Celtic garb, laced up my Piper Gillies, and headed off to do battle with more than 17 other accomplished pipers, most of whom have been playing far longer than I. I don't need to lay before you the awful scene of fear and trembling that was the embodiment of my feeble frame. Nor will I attempt to describe the odeous emmitances that came from my fear gripped.... Ok that might be a bit of a stretch, let's just say I was a wee bit nervous.

As I approached the first judge, (Piobairaechd) I managed to say the name of my tune. "Hi, My name is Robert Jacob and I'll be Playing...." Oh no! Not now, come on brain, don't do this to me. Don't retreat into the recesses of the mostly empty cavern of Bob's scull to hide, not now! "I am playing... Oh ya, Sir James McDonald of the Isles, Lament" Whew! That was close.

"Ok, whenever your ready", Said the judge, as if he were simply ordering a pizza. As luck would have it, the angry dark sky decided to display its resentment to my forthcomiing offering, and began showering us with a light rain, Oh Great! I played on despite the angry mob forming off by the trees. I played on despite the glowing torches arrayed in mass to thwart me.

And so it went, After all three events were concluded, and all was said and done, oh wait, one more little interesting fact. As I walked to the small tent to perform my 2/4 march in looked for the judge and saw instead a sight that froze my heart. There seated in the judges chair was none other than Aaron Shaw, the piper of the Wicked Tinkers. This couldn't be, I must have the wrong spot. I walked up to him and asked if he was judging the 2/4 march and he said he was. Oh Great! As if it being my first competition wasn't bad enough, now I have to be judged by the greatest piper I have ever seen.

It actually was a real treat. Aaron and I had become friends over the past three highland games and he was really happy to judge my performance. He had some great tips as well to help me.

Well, when all was said and done this is how the competition shook out:

1. Piobairaechd 5th place

2. 2/4 March 5th Place

And finally, (drum roll please)

3. Slow March 2nd Place (Complete with silver medal) Whoo Hooo!

That's the news, I will post the video of my Slow March performance soon. Bye all.

Hot off the Presses (Well almost)

At last the long awaited work has hit the presses, well not yet, I am still trying to raise the money to have it published, but it is available for download by request. Yes, those masses that have been screaming for the release can now enjoy the full story in all it's glory, simply by requesting an electronic copy via email. Send your requests to rjacob@q.com and I will gladly arrange, for a nominal fee, for you to recieve your own first addition copy of Azorea, The Piper o' the Glen.

This is the first in a three set trilogy. Hurry as this offer may expire soon, (not likely). For those of you who are more purist in nature, you can wait for the actual release of the book, sometime in June or July of '09, hopefully. Well, that's it. enjoy.

I Made the Cover Of GQ

My book did a lot better than I hoped. I guess you will all be eating a little bit of Crow, eh? That's right, read it and weep. I made the issue of Gentlmen's Quarterly. Yup, Jennifer Aniston called, wants to do lunch, told her sorry, too busy. Stephen King asked to meet with me next friday, I'll try to squeeze in a moment for him. Sheesh, life is too hectic.