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The Color Plaid
At Christmastime, when I was just a lad
Of eight or nine, my aunt would bring me gifts:
Some books of course, and shirts—but always plaid.
I’d little sense of tartan, clan, or rifts
There might have been among those Scots back when
They’d sooner fight than speak, and merrily
I’d don my shirts by turn, begin again
Once they’d been washed and hung, and verily
Not care if they should fit a size too loose
Or clash with socks and trousers. There I’d go,
One day a Stewart and the next a Bruce,
Buchanan, Campbell, Gordon or Munro.
Though many years have passed, I still believe
In legacies I once wore on my sleeve.
.
.
More than Tobogganed For
To snow I give a big resounding NO!
The same I give to molded plastic shovels
Designed to spoon it off. A year ago,
Knee-deep in drifting flakes, I blamed my troubles
On global warming and the network shills
Who earn a living telling us what we
Already know: too soon for daffodils,
Too late for summer squash. A Christmas tree
Is kindling going by another name,
And wreaths of holly are the special tinder
Ensuring we will get to light a flame
Beyond all expectations, come December.
The fundamental sacramental fluids
Are wine and brandy, vodka, rum and beer.
When sober deacons act like Celtic druids,
We’ll know it’s time to start another year.
.
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C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India. His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.
Love the closing lines of “The Color Plaid” – the poem brings back all the times my Scotch-Irish grandfather took my siblings and I to participate in the Scottish Highland Games.
“When sober deacons act like Celtic druids.” – that’s a great line! I think one gets the sense from Patrick’s poetry than he could be a merry fellow.
I’m glad the Scottish theme resonated for you, Jeremiah, but who is Patrick?
Oops! I guess mentioning my Scotch-Irish grandfather got me mixing my histories – St. Patrick.
I wasn’t aware that St. Patrick wrote poetry. I’d like to read some of it. I, too, have a bit of Irish ancestry.
Kip,
I just happened to see these. Superbly done, for me the first is very deft at weaving those random memories of childhood into a bigger point. As for “Tobogganed,” I actually laughed out loud at “A Christmas tree/Is kindling going by another name,/And wreaths of holly are the special tinder…” I don’t remember the last time that happened.
The last time you laughed out loud, Stephen, or the last time you observed the incredible blaze a dried-out Christmas makes when ignited?
I keep trying post this comment, but it says it’s a duplicate:
Kip,
I just happened to see these. Superbly done, for me the first is very deft at weaving those random memories of childhood into a bigger point. As for “Tobogganed,” I actually laughed out loud at “A Christmas tree/Is kindling going by another name,/And wreaths of holly are the special tinder…” I don’t remember the last time that happened.
Thanks, C.B.; these are fun! The title of the first one made me laugh, and made me anxious to read about “the color plaid.”
There you go, Cynthia.
I love the first poem. There are nearly 5,000 recognized tartan plaids in Scotland, all of the most intricate beauty. Strictly speaking, Kip’s title is a kind of amphiboly or uncertainty — “plaid” is not a single color, but a complex crisscrossing of various colors. I looked up the Anderson tartan after reading this poem — it’s a lovely mix of deep blues and greens in varying shades. And some clans had both a dress plaid and a hunting plaid.
I remember plaids being much more common in the 1950s than they are now. Women has plaid skirts and jackets, while schoolgirls always wore pleated plaid skirts. Men had plaid dress jackets (though always of the more subdued dark colors).
Think of the many rhymes for “plaid” — lad, bad, sad, mad, fad, pad, gad… but not “dad” or “cad,” which have a variant “a” sound to my ear.
And thank you for these two lines:
The fundamental sacramental fluids
Are wine and brandy, vodka, rum and beer.
There’s just enough of the transgressive there to spice things up.
K.A.N.D.
Not all tartans, as you might know already, Joseph, are connected to familial clans. A region or even a business can commission a tartan. Antarctica has a tartan. Some plaids are not even tartans, but merely designs a weaver of cloth came up with. A neighbor once gave me a skirt she owned that was made of the dress Anderson tartan — with muted colors and very unlike the one that you looked up. In the winter, I still wear Cotton flannel plaid shirts almost exclusively. I’m sorry that, in the two lines you thanked me for, I made no mention of whisky or whiskey, and there is a difference.
My Scottish ancestors from my mother’s side are the Coburn/Cockburn/ Colburn clan with many more spelling variations as written by local scribes. Your poem was a delight to read about plaid as a variable color. Such registered legacies are a treasure. I really loved your play on words with “Tobaggoned For.”
I’m glad, Roy, that you got the wordplay without my having to advert to it.
Two fun poems.
‘More than Tobogganed For’ reminded me of being in Cyprus one Christmas and wanting to see snow because I hadn’t seen any in years. It had snowed on Mt. Olympus (not the Mt. Olympus) that morning, so off we went. A five minute snowball fight, and freezing hands put us right off the nostalgic effect of snow.
Oh, and since the word ‘plaid’ features so prominently, there’s an early Steve Martin film called ‘Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid’ which immensely funny.
Thanks for the reads, CB
I’ve seen that film, Paul, and I enjoyed it immensely. One reason I don’t much care for snow is that shoveling it is the only winter sport in which I participate.
CB, your coment here and the reference to the Martin movie somehow put me in mind of Hitchcock’s movie The 39 Steps. (I’m guessing you know it.) Imagine Robert Donat and Madeleine Caroll trekking through the Scottish highlands in 2 feet of snow!
Great rhymes and enjambment in this cheery pair.
The Color Plaid, brought back some great memories of a trip years ago when my daughter played the pipes. Beautiful country up the coast to the north and around Loch Ness. Thank you for the pleasant thoughts.
You are quite welcome, Phil. I am a sucker for images of Scottish terrain.
The titles of these two poems are worthy of their own post! I too had plaid shirts in childhood but of the nondescript generic variety. One of my Tweedie forebears in the 18th century married into the clan chieftain’s family of the Fraser’s and ever since our ilk have privilege to wear that tartan as our own by right. These days people wear whatever they want but the heritage was once a matter of life and death as clans murdered one another and the English Crown banned the tartans altogether until George the IV brought them back into fashion. In Edinburgh they named a bridge after him in appreciation.
Perhaps I am the exception but I can’t recall a tippling Deacon but there was an Elder, once . . .
Fun stuff, C.B. Thanks and Merry Christmas.
Fun is one of the names of the game, James. Wear your colors, and Merry Christmas right back to you.
Your poem about plaid brought back memories of a time (too) many years ago when I had a two-piece outfit with a green plaid pleated skirt & blouse.
Who, Cheryl, does not like a nice plaid? Judging from many of the comments, a lot of memories have been brought back. I do not think I shall write a poem about paisley, though I do own a few neckties in that style. The problem with paisley is that it cannot be woven — it must be printed onto the fabric.
I wish you would write about paisley. It has an enchantment all its own. One can feel Persia in it.
These are two masterful poems, C.B. With the Color of Plaid I long for a visit to Scotland — a place I have always wanted to see and have never had the chance. As for “More than Toboggened For”… the pun in your title alone is a master class in the rollicking joy of wordplay. It promises sassy poetic delights which your work delivers in spades.
I’d love to visit Scotland as well, and in a way I do so nearly every evening. I think I shall have some Glen Grant tonight. As for the Scottish terrain, I’m not sure how well I would fare on those rugged hills these days. I’m glad that you approve of the poems and even their titles. Just pleasing myself is not enough.
I really enjoyed both of these efforts but the Scottish theme in the first hit closest to home. I was always taught that each clan had both their own unique tartan as well as some kind of outrageous motto. We have several Barclays in our lineage and our motto is “action or death”. So far, I’ve avoided both. Maybe a motto-inspired poem next time?
Thanks for both of these poems. They were up to your usual standard.
Thank you for the kind words, Warren. What you wrote about your clan motto was very funny. The Anderson (MacAndrew) motto is “Stand sure.” A motto-inspired poem is not a bad idea. The motto on a bottle of Glenfiddich is “Stand fast,” but that is probably not a good idea if one has imbibed a bit too much of that venerable whisky.
I enjoyed both of these. As someone who wears plaid shirts most days during winter, the first resonated with me particularly, though I’d never thought to connect it to my being half-Scots. My understanding is that the whole clan tartan tradition is largely bogus, more or less invented from whole cloth (so to speak) by Walter Scott. I can’t remember where I heard that though, so maybe take it with a hefty grain of salt.
The second poem features some typically wonderful turns of phrase. Even here in Australia the Christmas tree is used for kindling. Of course, the new year is usually a time of total fire ban so we have have to store it in the wood shed for 6 months but such are the peculiarities of celebrating Christmas in a European fashion on the other side of the world.
I loved everything you wrote, Shaun. As far as tartan being an authentic thing, though, a lot of people take it seriously, and many more have sentimental connections to the whole notion.
You are exactly right — a poet’s job is to turn phrases. Dry conifer branches are good kindling the world around, and David Watt once told me that a prudent Australian never lets eucalyptus leaves accumulate in his rain gutters.
I enjoyed these poetic treatises on the wonderful world of fabric and the rugged world of winter, C. B.
Plaid shirts are quite common in my neck of the woods. I think I’m closest to synesthesia when I look at a green-based plaid. It’s music to me. I love the MacLeod tartan; it looks like windows in many stories, blazing against the night. And red-based plaid (Stewart?) is very Christmas, the Scotch tape branding reinforces the association. I have become fascinated with the language as well as the music of it all.
I own a couple of books devoted to tartans with copious images of the colorful patterns that have come into being. A good number of them feature green hues quite prominently. The dress MacLeod is mostly yellow and black. It is unfortunate that so many of these wonderful tartans do not seem to be available as articles of clothing.
“The Color Plaid” is an admirable Christmassy English sonnet, with just the right touch of Scottish sentiment.
Well, there you go, Margaret. I should let you know that the aunt referred to, Aunt Ella, was a real person who really did bring me books and shirts.