Metro Pulse/Gamut/Scottish Society

Comment
on this story

Burnsing it up with Knoxville's Scottish Society

by Scott McNutt

Scotland, January 25, 1759: In a cottage called Auld Clay Biggin' in Alloway, Ayrshire, a son is born to tenant farmer William Burns and his wife Agnes.

Scotland, 1801. In the same cottage, nine men gather for a supper tribute to the short life and remarkable works of William and Agnes' son, Robert. Haggis (a dish largely consisting of the insides of a sheep) is central to the menu.

Knoxville, Tennessee, January 26, 2002. I'm at the Downtown Hilton, seated at a table amid 200 members of the Scottish Society of Knoxville (many in full Highland regalia), watching a small procession of men with bagpipes, swords, and bottles of whiskey conduct "the Piping in of the Haggis." All the while, I'm wondering, "How come I don't know who Robert Burns is?"

But there's no time for self-reproach. The spectacle continues, with the dramatic performance by Dr. Robert Valentine of Burns' poem "To a Haggis" at the climax of which Valentine plunges a knife into the heart of the defenseless haggis, and leaves it there, quivering.

Then dinner is served. Haggis is part of the feast, as has been traditional at Burns Suppers for 201 years now. I find it has a texture like finely ground meatloaf, and a taste not unlike chicken liver. Also served with supper is an excellent Scotch, McClelland Single Malt, which is described as of "medium body, some smoke...a touch of peat...[and] a warming sensation..."—a description with which I couldn't agree more, especially the last part.

As I later learn, the supper follows a precise ritual: the Pipers' Call to Supper, the Welcome, the Invocation, the Grace (usually, as in this case, the "Selkirk Grace": "Some hae meat and canna eat/ and some wad eat that want it/ but we hae meat and we can eat/and sae the Lord be thankit," often attributed to Burns, but the authorship is disputed), the aforementioned Piping in of the Haggis and reading of "To a Haggis," dinner, the Address to the Immortal Memory of Robert Burns, the Toast to the Lassies, and the Lassies' Reply.

An intermission follows, and the program is less traditional, perhaps, after that. We do sing "Auld Lang Syne" (another Burns' composition) at the end of dinner proper, as is traditional, but in between and after there are a variety of entertainments, including the singing of ballads and folk songs by renowned Scottish folk singer Carl Peterson, sing-alongs with Peterson, humor (of Scottish derivation) by Valentine, dancing (to music provided by local Celtic music duo Drops of Brandy), and a poetry award presentation. (Marilyn Kallet, this year's recipient of the Terry Semple Memorial Prize in the Robert Burns Poetry Award contest, happens to be one of my dining companions. Of the award she quips, "I'm probably the first Reformed Jew in Knoxville to recite poetry in the presence of bagpipes.") A grand evening, all in all.

All well and good. But the question remains: Who is Robert Burns? For that matter, who are all these people? Why are they here? And why do they venerate Burns so?

The plain answer to my first question is, in his brief lifetime (1759-1796), Burns was a farmer, a tax collector, a drinker, and a womanizer; but foremost he was a popularizer of his beloved Scots culture and Gaelic language, and a composer of many famous poems and songs in the vernacular. Hailed as the premier preserver of Celtic culture, it seems only natural for Burns to be revered by organizations which, in part inspired by Burns, continue to celebrate that heritage. Today he is recognized around the world as Scotland's National Bard, and every year on the anniversary of his birthday, thousands of Burns Suppers are held in his honor.

A brief "History of the Scottish Society of Knoxville," an informal document written by past president Gene Ellison, provides the bare facts of the local organization's beginnings: The society's initial meeting occurred in July 1986. Sixteen friends met to consider forming a Knoxville-based organization so that persons "claiming Scottish heritage could express by affiliation their pride in mutual ancestry...[B]efore [the meeting] was concluded a steering committee...was appointed and a name for the organization, Scottish Society of Knoxville, was chosen." Within a few weeks, membership had risen to 50 and by year's end to 224. In a phone conversation before the Burns Supper, Ellison tells me that the society now has more than 200 family memberships, which represent more than 500 individuals. Besides the Burns Supper, the society sponsors about 10 events each year, including a Valentine's Day party, a spring fling, a fall picnic and a Christmas party.

Such is the official raison d'etre for the Scottish Society of Knoxville. But what are the individual stories? Is everyone at the Burns Supper single-mindedly dedicated to keeping the heritage alive? The answer, perhaps surprisingly, is "yes," at least for the people with whom I spoke. However, and although never stated explicitly, there appears to be an additional motive: These activities are simply fun.

Bearded and bespectacled, Tom Davis looks entirely at ease in his kilt and tuxedo coat, if not entirely like a Scottish dance enthusiast. That is, however, one of the activities he pursues through the society. A member of the society for two years, his interest in Highland culture was first piqued by a simple acquisitive impulse: He wanted a kilt. He began Scottish dancing as a social activity, and says he developed a sense of belonging in the dancing group. Davis calls the society Knoxville's "best-kept secret," and says the dancing is a dying art. "If I can carry it on, I want to do it," he avers.

Marilyn Kallet is apparently not of Celtic descent. Still, I ask the English professor and poet her opinion of the society and the Burns' Supper tradition. She observes that while the event is a good thing, nonetheless it is an unusual custom. "How often," she asks, "do this many people come together to honor a poet?"

In the book, The Fellowship of the Ring, upon hearing a Dwarf speak, Sam Gamgee exclaims, "A fair jaw-cracker dwarf-language must be!" I feel much the same way when Shay Steel gives me a lesson in the Gaelic names of articles of Highland garb. Steel, with her statuesque build, pale complexion, and auburn hair, must do her Scottish ancestors proud. She patiently explains to me (several times) that the woman's version of a kilt is called an arisaid. The kilt itself can be either a feileadh beag (little wrap) or a feileadh mor (big wrap). The cloaks thrown over men's shoulders are known as plaids (pronounced with a long "a"). And the furry object that men hang in front of their kilts is not, as I thought, some type of sexual fetishistic device, but a sporran (purse), and as such, the Scottish precursor to the modern-day fanny pack, which is not a Scottish term.

Steel's interest in Highland culture goes back through her attendance at various Highland games for the past 10 or 12 years. But it was not until she was working as a park ranger at Fort Loudon and was instructed to assist some historical enthusiasts with their re-enactment of a battle of the French and Indian War that Steel became enamored of Highland costume. "I thought if I was going to have to deck myself out in 18th-century clothing, I'd like to at least incorporate some of my heritage," she says. Since then, she has become a Highland garment re-creator and a stickler for accuracy in that recreation. Of this avocation she says, "It's a good way to pass on part of their culture" and "acknowledge and pay homage to it."

Betsy Hooper, half of the Celtic music duo Drops of Brandy, says she first became interested in Scottish music during a tour of Burns' homeland in the late '70s. Around 1980 she took up Scottish dancing and "got hooked on the music." Besides playing fiddle in the Scottish style, Hooper can play in Scandinavian and other international styles. She plays two different types of bagpipes, as well. Although not of Scottish extraction and not a member of the society, the slender, frizzy-haired musician claims playing Celtic music keeps her sane.

Jim Frazier, a man of ruddy complexion and sparse white hair and one of the first members of the society, amiably professes to remember few specifics of his activities in it. I learn from him that society members march in the annual Dogwood Arts Parade. But when asked how many members participate, Frazier answers with a shrug and "I don't know." Thereafter, most of my questions are genially answered with "I don't know." I thank him and move on.

Though red-haired and pale-complected, Marybeth Boyanton, affiliate director of the Scottish Society of Knoxville, member of the Burns Supper committee, and editor of the society's bimonthly newsletter, the Tartan Times, was not aware of her Scottish roots until five years ago. At the Gatlinburg Highland Games, she learned her maiden name, Polk, was a derivative of Clan Pollack. Her husband, Terry Semple, had often talked of joining the Scottish Society, but had never followed through. After learning of her heritage, she urged that they do so, and together they joined in 1997.

Boyanton's husband passed away in 2000 at the age of 56. The Robert Burns Poetry Award Terry Semple Memorial Prize (which is sponsored by the Knoxville Writer's Guild, but celebrated at the Burns Dinner) was born out of Boyanton's desire to pay tribute to Terry. Recalling that he had always kept a book of Burns' poems by his bedside, she felt a poetry contest would be most appropriate. "I wanted it to be an ongoing celebration of him," she says. She also expresses hope that more people with Scottish ancestry will take an interest in their heritage and learn about the Scottish Society of Knoxville through this article. With a limited budget, advertising the society's events has been sometimes difficult, but Boyanton wants it known that "nothing we do is limited to 'Members Only.'"

Finally, what of me? How come I didn't know who Robert Burns is? Honestly, I can't explain it. I feel triply sheepish, because I have (1) a Scottish heritage, (2) a degree in creative writing, and (3) a degree in history. With that background, I should know Burns. But I didn't. It is a failing I will do my best to rectify.

In fact, I am preparing to redeem myself. At the end of our conversation, I asked Boyanton if she had any last comments. She thought for a moment and said, "Yes. After you finish this article, I want you to fill out [an] application for membership, put it in an envelope, and mail it in."

By both tendency and trade, I am an observer rather than a participant. But in honor of the Immortal Memory of Robert Burns, I'm going to do as she instructed, lest new acquaintance be forgot. If you would like to do the same, contact Gene Ellison at (865) 691-5670.