Mystery Man

on Tue, 08/15/2006 - 00:08. Neighbors

Hartsville Today readers, I beg for your help in solving a mystery for me.

One Wednesday morning two weeks ago, which would make it August 2nd, I had a group of little people playing in the playground at Wesley United Methodist Church. We had a radio out there, and a sprinkler going, so you can imagine the noise.... but, I thought I heard something else....I heard the faint strains of a bag pipe.

A person playing bag pipes? 10:00 a.m. on a 100 degree day in HartsVegas, South Cakalaki?

Surely, it couldn't be.

I turned the radio down, and listened again...sure enough, from the direction of the new construction of the huge libray at Coker College I thought I saw a man playing the bag pipes. With no glasses outside for my blind-as-a-bat self, I could hardly make him out, but I do believe I saw him in a kilt.

"Hey, kids, do you hear that? Do you hear bag pipes?" I asked the children.

They stopped splashing long enough to respond affirmatively, and my 14 year old daughter said, "Oh, yeah, I heard of that man.... some kids at the Rooster saw him walking and playing one time."

What?!?! Could that be true?

If you can solve this mystery for me, please post here or e-mail me at: HartsvilleMatters@gmail.com

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mystery may be solved

Submitted by Jana E. Longfellow on Tue, 08/15/2006 - 07:10.

"ask, and ye shall receive".... early this pretty August morn, I received an e-mail from one of my favorite people telling me that the bag piper may have been leading attendees from a funeral at St. Bartholomew's Church.

That is a sobering thought; amidst the heat of the summer, at one Hartsville church you hear the sounds of children's laughter, enjoying water from a sprinkler and freezer pops, while at another neighboring church one hears the haunting sounds of bagpipes play as a family mourns.

At my very own kitchen table last night I had a similiar experience. I came home from a rehearsal for The Goodbye Girl to find my 15 year old son, his 16 year old best friend from across the street, and a young man named Patrick sitting around the table playing cards. They were laughing, loud music playing, and an assortment of Doritos and Oreos spread out- typical teenage boy fare. The boys introduced me to Patrick, and I was struck with how polite and formal he was- a bit wise for his age. They said they had all met at the Rooster last year, and all had the same senses of humor and taste in music. I asked, "Are you a student at Mayo, or Hartsville High?", and he responded, "No, ma'am, I am in the Army. I'm home on leave for my Grandma's funeral."

Needless to say, I pulled up a chair. The boy didn't go into great detail other than he drives a tank in Baghdad as a scout. I looked at this handsome boy, not much older than my sons, and my heart just broke. I told him that I am not a fan of this war, nor our President, but that I support the troops. He laughed, and said his Grandma said much the same thing. He said that he should be home in 4 months, but that most of the guys have had their stay extended. I remarked that he looked remarkably well, that the fellas I see on television look so haggard and worn. He told me, and I paraphrase here, "It's all in how you choose to handle it. You can make anything your private Hell, or you can just go on each day and do the best you can."

The boys went back to their card game, I got up and made attempts to put cups in the dishwasher while my mind raced..."we should send him boxes of stuff! letters, cards, chips and cookies!"...and, "isn't there some kind of protest I can join, call Cindy Sheehan, get these boys home?"...and, "but for the Grace of God, please let this kid be safe when he returns to Baghdad."

The boys got up to leave, so that our neighborhood adopted son could call his girlfriend. I teased him that he was too young for such a serious relationship, and Patrick said, "Ah, but true love has no age limit."

How true. And neither does the love of a mother, even when the boy is not her own.

Bagpipes and Taps. Two funerals of mystery people that I never knew, a person at St. Bart's and this boy's Grandma. The mournful sound of the bagpipes and the smiling face of a soldier just happy to be a teenager in the summer in Hartsville. In the span of 12 hours I have been reminded to slow down, and be mindful to be thankful for those we love today, and pray for those who need our prayers.

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