Finding a Diamond Amongst the Pebbles

     What evil lurks in the hearts of men? I can tell you, it is the cruel desire to find that special bargain. Oh I hear what you say, "But Bob! How could you take advantage of a poor innocent Ebay'er like that? Wait I am getting ahead of myself. Let's go back a few steps.

      It was a hot dry day in the suburbs of Phoenix. The excitement permeated the air like a freshly cooked Turkey on Thanksgiving. The fairgrounds were flooded with the bright hues of the various tartans as the Celtic gala began it's two day extravaganza. We had traveled there to ply our trade, to satisfy the voracious appetite of the waiting throng for the healing strains of the pipes.

All around us were the eager masses. We played and they cheered. It was a wonderful spectacle.

      In the band competitions we took first place in both events. We were reveling in our victories as I glanced down at my beloved Llieam (That's the name of my Naill bagpipe). That's when I saw it, leering up at me. It was a spider like crack making its way into the lower section of my bass drone. A sudden horror gripped my heart. If there was one, there could be more! Frantically I examined my friend from top to bottom. Aaagggghhhhh, I found another! This one was in the top section of the outside Tenor drone. Damn you Arizona! Your dry atmosphere and low elevation have exacted a painful price from my helpless pipes. Numb, I slumped into a chair, unable to comprehend the gravity of the attack on my poor Llieam McNaill. The once pristine pipes were now horribly flawed, (well not really, but hey, this is drama!) OOps, I have to go fix dinner, I'll post this much and be right back to finish my tale.

      Ok, I'm back. Where was I? Oh yes, The heat was stifling as I smoldered in a quagmire of despair and agony. As I languished the thought struck me, "What if Llieam becomes incapacitated? I'll be stranded, I'll have no pipes to play at all! The horror!" With my livelihood on the line I resolved to find a companion for my beloved Llieam McNaill. What better place than to look on Ebay. Oh there were many would-be suitors, but it had to be the right one.

      There were cheap ones with exotic sounding origins, like Pakistan and India (Ahhh, aaahhh craapp!) Sorry, had to sneeze. There were pricey hoity toity ones claiming royal bloodlines dating back to such nobility as, Henderson, Robertson, Laurie, and others. Unfortunately, to avail yourself of such company you had to be born a Duke, or a Prince or something. No, such pomp and peacockery could not be the lot for companionship to one so flawed, as my Llieam. Llieam may have been born in the high class English countryside, but upon migrating to the United States, he forsook that destiny for a menial life of toil and strife. He became servant to Piper Bob, and as such, found himself in sub-zero temperatures and scorching heat, struggled to sing his Celtic song. Such travail ages a pipe, as Llieam found out.

      Though barely six years old, he looked as though he were over a hundred. His stark black lines and crisp shiny accouterments were now marred and yellowing with tarnish. His bag was limp, (Watch it!) and his once smooth, silky-white, projecting mounts were soiled with chips broken out from one to many knocks on the side of doors or what have you. And so here he was, cast aside whilst Piper Bob (myself) set about finding a suitable companion for him.

"Companion, hmmph!" Thought Llieam. "More like a geriatric nurse-maid I'll wager!"

      Meanwhile, I continued my search. While doing so, a rare find surfaced. There were a few of them actually. The first was a vintage set of "Peter Henderson" pipes, complete with a Black-wood chanter. I began to salivate as I prepared to bid on the old man. Unfortunately, I let show my hand too early. The bidding ramped up far past my meager funds. The prize was lost. I then turned my attention to the next old boy up for auction. Skeptically, I reviewed the advertisement. The picture looked exactly like all the other Pakistani contenders, yet there was a diference. The Ad stated this old boy was born in the home of one "Hugh MacPhearson" early in the 1970's. My interest was peaked, but many claim such grand heritage; could the claim be proven? Aahh, there's the rub!

      I began my due diligence. First I researched all I could about the famed pipe maker, Hugh MacPhearson. It turns out, Hugh was not a pipe maker at all, but rather simply a dealer in Celtic paraphernalia. He and his family lived in Canada and he began a retail outlet which did quite well selling Scottish oriented goods and merchandise. He did so well, in fact, that he contracted his brother to continue running the operation in Canada, whilst he moved back to Edinburgh and opened a similar shop there.

      I suspect he simply longed to be back in Scotland, anyway, He wanted to provide a top quality line of pipes to compliment his other offerings. He enlisted the work of one, Willie Sinclair, to make the pipes for him and he would then brand them with his name (actually quite a common practice of the day). Well, I digress a wee bit, back to the story. I, examined the history of William Sinclair bagpipes and studied, at length, the Sinclair combing and beading and the cut and style of the ferrules and such.

      After some considerable work, I determined that this was indeed an authentic set of vintage bagpipes and watched the bidding. It started out at a modest $300.00 As the auction progressed, I held my peace having learned a critical lesson from the afore mentioned "Henderson" Auction. In the last 30 seconds I made my move. I bid $700.00, the most I could afford. Up like a rocket the price soared. $400... $500... $600..., I began to sweat. It looked like the bidding might go past my maximum bid. But then there was a lull. The price continued again, $630, $640, and then nothing as the final seconds ticked by. At last I saw what I had been hoping for,

      YOU ARE THE WINNING BIDDER AT @640.00

      Breathlessly, I awaited the arrival of my new friend. Llieam sat in the corner, pouting and trying to look abandoned. The box finally came and I whisked it inside. As I opened the box, I was in heaven. There, cradled in old newspaper, sat my new friend, Llieam's companion. I gingerly took out the paper and looked at it. It was an actual newspaper from 1971 in Edinburgh Scotland, (by the way, if anyone wants to know what was happening on January 15th 1971 in the city of Edinburgh, I'm your man.) Talk about credibility, these pipes were the real deal! I anxiously assembled them and tied in an old bag I had laying around. I popped in my kinnaird drone reeds and put in one of my chanters and blew.

      Slowly, the old man began to come to life. As it turns out, this would be the first blown in air these pipes would have seen for over forty years. That's right, the previous owner had tried to learn the pipes and became frustrated. She re-boxed the pipes and set them on a shelf where they sat for over forty years. As I examined them, they looked brand new. There was not a mark, a scuff, a crack, a blemish anywhere. The immitation ivory mounts had yellowed with time, but that is what they do.

      Anyway, as I said, the old man began to come to life. Suddenly, there was a squawk from the drones, a brief hesitation, and then a symphony of sound. I quickly tuned the old man and blew again. This time the drones rang true and loud. The effect was magical. There was such a wonderful blend of tenor and bass. It was full and round and sounded akin to a pipe organ. As I played them I was instantly transported back to the highlands and the sound was intoxicating.

      Meanwhile, over in the corner, Llieam stared on with obvious disdain. How he loathed the old man, these pipes which had come to upset his Nirvana-esk existence. Soon, however, he came to love the old man. He found that he was still taken out and played with frequency, and loved to sit at the feet of the ole pipe, whose name was now "Angus MacPhearson". Llieam and Angus are best of friends to this day, in fact, many find it hard to tell which is the older pipe. Ha, ha, such is life. And so the saga continues.