If not for Doyle...

If not for Doyle, I would have missed many things in life. Knowing how to “pick up my knees”, for one. Or how to make a hoagie. I wouldn’t have been as familiar with the plastic smell of a school bus. Or the meaning of “Biffy Break”. Or the feeling of wool on the back of my knees. And other places. I wouldn’t have had the chance to peek behind the curtain where the girls changed before competition, distracting an active adolescent imagination shortly before competition. And I would never, NEVER have ridden into town to the cacophony of car horns, cheers, painted banners, and hundreds of screaming supporters from our community.

Under anyone else’s tutelage I may have learned the essence of leadership. But it was Doyle who gave me the chance to lead. Before I was ready. He knew I could do it before I believed it myself. In looking back through the lens of time it becomes clear that he believed we could rise to a challenge long before we reached that conclusion ourselves. And so we did rise, time after time. Because we didn’t want to let him down, and because he taught us that doing so would also let down the rest of our squad, our section, and our organization.

So I have many reasons to be grateful that I spent time on this planet as a student of Doyle Heffron. But most importantly of all, if not for Doyle I would never have learned to play the pipes.

I still remember the cold fall day when Mr. Heffron dismissed band class with these words:

“Hankla, Radde, Shannon, Parish, Johnson, Bruhn, Chambers,…” upstairs practice room in five minutes! Everyone else, instruments away and back to your seats 'til the bell rings!”

The named members gathered upstairs as commanded. We sat in nervous silence for a while, but as the seconds ticked by, some of us began confessing truly egregious sins – one had gotten caught making out in the uniform closet, another caught smoking behind the van, someone had something to do with getting caught with beer… you know, truly evil things – and we began wondering if our transgressions had earned us a one-way trip to the Scots sideline.

Midway through one such confession, Doyle burst into the room, issued each of us a music book and something wrapped in newspaper, commanded us to “Learn Scotland the Brave by Thanksgiving” and left as quickly as he’d entered. The music books were the standard bag piping primer, and the items wrapped in newspaper our practice chanters. Doyle was always good at using drama to make a lasting impression.

Our nervousness turned to excitement, which peaked a few days later when the actual pipes arrived. But our excitement quickly faded into grave disappointment, as our negligible progress proved painful to the ears and worse for the ego. Bless our various families, and the rest of you, who put up with these early practice sessions.

Disaster was narrowly averted when Doyle found a wiry, 5’2”, 72 year-old piper named Tommy Kerr who chain-smoked unfiltered Camels, swore like a sailor, and was the only piper for miles willing to teach our motley crew. And he did. And we proudly played our first public version of “Scotland the Brave” during the holiday parade at Meadowdale shopping center. It was to be the first of hundreds of performances featuring that noble old tune.

Three years later, my parents gave me a set of used pipes for graduation. And I’ve kept up with them over the years. Sort of. Long periods of neglect have been broken by feverish practice sessions in the weeks prior to a command performance – the wedding of a friend, the christening of a baby, or important family events. I piped at my brother’s wedding, and I piped at my own. My chops are shot, and my fingering a bit muddled by the ravages of age and neglect. But every time my case is opened and it exhales the scent of old leather mixed with stale sweat, I think about Doyle, and Tommy, and the rest of you. It’s been a great gift.

Doyle, I thank you.