November 27
by Vivian Sheperis

1950 was a year I’ll never forget.  I learned to ride a two-wheeler with our neighbor Mr. Edsel Kinsley holding me up by my ass and running alongside. He was out of breath, but the old pervert wouldn’t let go. If mother had seen it, Edsel would have found his beer laced with cyanide on the next neighborly visit and his hand clamped in the rusty vise she kept behind the breadbox for such purposes.

It was also the year the Black Watch Bagpipers marched into town. It seems they had been searching for warm woven pipe bags and heard that we had a little Scotsman weaving about. Unfortunately, his weaving wasn’t the kind they were looking for. Besides, Macduffie only weaved in the dark on his way home from the Ian Ale House, breathing fumes so thick you could cut them with a dirk*.

Well, the noise of the bagpipes was so loud that the homeless people in Restover Park couldn’t find any peace and started a riot of protest, taking old shoes and pineapples from their homeless bags and flinging them at the Black Watchers.

Luckily, the musicians misread the street sign pointing to the next town of Etonbrock and gleefully scampered off down the road to what they thought would be Edinburgh, and we all breathed a sigh of relief.

To this day, the faint wailing of the pipes can still be heard after midnight by Highlanders on the bar stools in the Ian Ale House.

*Name of Scottish dagger worn tucked away in the sock. Not to be confused with Scottish “dick” which is tucked away under the kilt.

(with thanks to Jack Douglas – My Brother Was An Only Child)
Read about Vivian on the Writer’s Bios Page