The Purpose of Piping

The Purpose of Piping

As a wee lad, Clarence crashed headlong into every task non-stop. There were few jobs the red-faced, panting, sweating, and sometimes even grunting boy couldn't accomplish, though some did exhaust him. His uncle, Angus, kept telling him, "Lad, the entire universe is based on the principle of rest and activity. 'Tis never all rest nor all work: Winter's followed by Summer, night by day, and on it goes. The wise follow the principle and Furgeson's are wise. So after you've done a chore, m'boy, at least for the sake of them Above, ya need to REST."

It took Clarence his entire life to get that one down, and the truth is he never fully mastered it. Still, he was respectful of the relative that had taken him in after the capsizing and did the best he could to raise him. But all who knew the red-haired lad didn't expect him to integrate the advice overnight. The boy was simply too compulsive, too much a workaholic.

Angus did the best he could. He took his nephew onThe Cod Fish, his fishing boat, and it served as a good school for the boy. The vessel and job offered a regimen: one time to drop or haul the nets then take a break, another to sort the fish then take a breather, still others to unload, hang the nets, mend them, nail the boxes, swab the deck so fish slime wouldn't throw a man-over-board the next day, all punctuated by rest. But Clarence's temperament often kept the lesson at bay: he wanted to work every second.

"Lookie here," chuckled Angus, "God even gave us a tool to ensure resting between tasks."

"And what would that be, now?" asked the nephew. "The watch?"

"No, boy," smiled Angus. "That's for reminding us of time. God's gift is the pipe itself."

"How can a bag pipe ensure rest, Uncle, when it takes effort, now?"

"No, lad, not the pipes. I mean the smoking pipe. God gave it expressly to force us to sit and rest. Have you ever seen a man puff and work at the same time?"

"I cannot recall the likes, Uncle Angus."

"That's because you can't do the two simultaneous, boy. I'm telling you,

God gave us the pipe to make sure wesit. And there's the rest I'm talking about as clear as the nose on me face."

But with all his uncle's words and use of his own burled pipe as a model, still Clarence did not take the rest part of rest and activity to heart.

After Angus Ferguson died and the boat and business passed to Clarence, the boy worked the nets his way, which was with non-stop vigor. It took no witch or crystal ball to see where he was heading. At forty-two, Clarence Ferguson suffered a heart attack.

Had the uncle stood over the hospital bed, his nose hairs twitching behind the fisherman's wrinkled grin, certainly he would have said, "Now you see, laddie, you're a-lying there simply because you violated the universal principle of rest-activity, now. And I thought you'd learned her long ago!" But the gnarled-knuckled, old salt wasn't there. So Clarence had to put the pieces together for himself: with some help from the well-meaning doctor, nurses, and Uncle Angus' gnarled pipe as well.

Now there are some Scots in Aberdeen who live to ripe old ages. There are others who marry late. And there are still others who claim that number one is dependent on number two. Whether the connection is true or not, Clarence Ferguson married in his forty-third year, just after he'd recovered at St. Andrew's, and thereby began the second phase of what turned out to be relatively lengthy life. And, surprising at it may seem, he attributed every day of those eighty-three years not to his heart attack that putsomesense into his blazing red head, not to Jenny who did indeed take care of her dearly beloved tenderly, nor to the three sons he fathered who did the lion's share of work on theCod. The truth be known, this formidable Scot, Clarence by name, gave credit to his long and full life to nothing else but smoking. More accurately, to the pipe of his very uncle.

So the sons of Clarence -- Duncan, Brian, and Cameron -- they were hearty lads who worked full days and then some. Strong-armed and full of Furgeson endurance, the three stuck together like an eternal syzygy and thereby never overworked. Which was not always easy since the eldest, Duncan, was much like his father. ButTheCodaged, prices and demands required larger catches, so after considerable debate, not all of which was as cool as the waters of the North Sea where they fished, the new generation of Ferguson fishermen decided to purchase a second vessel.

"The Halibut,no other name to call her," pronounced Clarence, the last to agree to the purchase: he knew it meant more work.

Whatever would be its name, the purchase presented a dilemma. A

predicament sweet Jenny cared not to face, but now she was her husband's protector, knew she must: who would man the second vessel? Since it took two to work a boat, and Clarence was but half the man he was when he fished with his gnarled-knuckled Uncle Angus, it meant he would have to fill in as half of a team.

"You expect your dad to kill himself working shoulder-to-shoulder with you lads?" asked Jenny. "Think on it, now. Who among you is willing to do double-duty to compensate for your father's infirmity?"

"Duncan, that's who, and not just because I'm the eldest. Because I'm the strongest, as well. If I can't take care of the boat and me dad too, nobody can. We need a second vessel and I'm ready and willing to do what it takes to operate her."

And soThe Halibutdipped her bow into the sea with Brian and Cameron aboard, while Clarence and Duncan decided to crew theCod.

As fate would have it, the two fisherman manning the new boat were of like mind and constitution. They didn't need a pipe as an excuse to rest between demanding chores. It was the operators ofThe Codthat were wanting, for both father Clarence and son Duncan were two peas in a pod, both workaholics, both compulsive. And that meant that neither understood, deep down, the full meaning of the word rest. For in spite of the endless hours of lecturing from old Angus and the pipe he gave his young shipmate, it took some time for Clarence to heed the lessons.

But in time, aging Clarence slowly changed. More and more, Nature obliged him to rest, and though he occasionally felt like a race horse behind a gate, his fingers that went all a-tingle and toes he couldn't feel reminded him what heshoulddo.

Now what's an old timer to do in such a situation? He couldn't help butthinkwork, so how could he sit back idle? Think one way but talk another? Clarence Ferguson was not a hypocrite, I tell you. His inner nature, his constitution, his very life-blood demanded that his thinking and acting be in accord. But the words of his uncle didn't fully sink in until he saw his own blood overwork as he always had.

"Aye, Duncan," philosophized Clarence, hoping to keep the lad from suffering a heart attack as he had, "Your Great Uncle, Angus, there was a man! He taught me the most important lesson, though I must confess I haven't followed her to the letter these many years."

"And what would that be, Father?" asked the son, though saturated by the old man's lessons. He was respectful to the core.

"The all-important balance between rest followed by activity.

"Really, Dad? How do you figure, now?"

"Well, son, take me as an example. I might look like a soggy newspaper covering a cod, but Iusedto be likeyou. Can you imagine the likes? Head strong and back sturdy, I could work the nets all by meself. And did, for many a year. But look at me now, Duncan. You want to be like this in twenty, thirty years? Do you want to be half-cripple? Do you want to have all the desire but no ability? Answer me that, Duncan Ferguson, answer me that!"

The son didn't have to answer because he knew the question was rhetorical. The father wastellingthe son.

"Aye, lad," continued Clarence, "and I've got the very thing to help you make it through to old age before you overwork and acquire an infirmity like mine." Digging in his shirt, he passed a gift to his son.

"What's this, now?" asked Duncan.

"What the likes of you and meneed, lad. And she's a beauty too, eh?"

Duncan inspected the pipe. It was well used, a beautiful dark burl.

"Belonged to your Great Uncle, it did. Smoked her till he was eighty-three and would have longer but he fell overboard and drowned. She's yours now, lad, and may you be consoled by her at least as long."

Duncan fondled the relic, then fitted the stem between his teeth.

"She looks good on you, she does," smiled Clarence. "But you can't keep her till you swear the Pipe-Owner's Oath."

"Oath, you say? I never heard the likes."

"Oh, she's as real as the very pipe you're holding, son. She goes like this: 'I swear I won't raise a finger when I have the pipe in me mouth.' Swear it now, son, or the relic's not yours."

And so dutiful Duncan swore. Then he lit the pipe. And all the while he puffed in and blew out he not only sat still but never thought of work.

Now, it's written in the family records that Duncan lived till he was ninety, and more than one attributes the fact to smoking the pipe of old Angus. That is, the pipe and the Oath Father that Clarence obliged his son to take.

Like all men, in time Duncan died, too, but not before he passed the pipe to his son with the traditional words of the Furgeson fisherman of Aberdeen: "Rest and activity, lad, and the pipe's the thing."