Tough Break, Kid

One year to the day after shattering my right arm, I have finally looked at the initial x-ray. This is the one my friends passed around the morning after the accident, the one my father took the the office, the one my surgeon saw and told my mother I might not be able to turn a doorknob again. This is the one I told myself I would not look at until one year later.

Today, I finally did.

Ugggh. It's that bad. My initial comparison was the fault line of an earthquake.

If you've got the stomach for it, you can look at it here. Be warned, it's graphic!

And here's a look from last November, three months after the break, when my doctor in Tucson declared I was "healed" -- technically speaking.

Here's how my arm is doing one year later: I can wiggle all my fingers without any pain. My thumb took about four months to regain full motion, once the muscles and nerves learned to work around the two plates that are holding my bones together. I still have brief occasional nuisance pain in my arm above the elbow, but not enough to be concerned about. Changes in the weather and humidity tend to aggravate it.

I never had to use the prescription for Percoset I got upon discharge from Flagstaff Medical Center. Once the operation was complete, the most pain I had was from the pinch of nurses cleaning out and changing my IV over the next two days.

I've done some heavy lifting with this arm, likely against the wishes of my friends or doctors. I still have a couple of noticeable scars from where the surgeons sliced me open to insert the rods, which don't set off metal detectors. My arm can still get cranky and sore when shouldering a musket for a long time, but I'm dealing with it. Giving up reenacting is not an option. I will not, will not, drop out of going into battle.

The orthopedic surgeon who wired me back together told me he had never seen anything like this. I don't know how much he's seen, but I know he practices sports medicine, so I can imagine a bit. A friend told me this particular doctor is one of the best in Northern Arizona. If he didn't have that reputation before, he deserves it now more than ever.

But the ultimate praise belongs to GOD. We know that GOD brings good out of tragedy. Romans 8:28 (NIV) says: "And we know that in all things GOD works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose." When bones break, they heal together stronger at the point where they broke. So it is with my faith. All this did was make me stronger, in body and soul.

GOD IS GREAT!

Return Of The Highlander

Memories of the We Make History 2009 Highland Ball From the Journal of Christopher the Highland Nobleman

Photos by M. Cynecki

"We need eight brave volunteers to step to the centre," the Bonnie Prince commands.

At once, at least ten lads and lasses step to the center of the room.

"The two favourite dances of the Scots were the jig and the reel," our host explains. The reel shall come in good time, but for now, we shall commence with the jig. And how does one dance a proper jig? The method, the Bonnie Prince explains, is as individual as the person.


Three of the other lads fix their falcon eyes on me, revealing a tinge of anxiety.

"I know," I say. "I know. I know."

"Sir Christopher," our brave leader calls out. "We will not have any immodest high kicks. We are not the French!"

I have waited for this moment for nearly a year. I pined for it from the moment I sat in the back of an ambulance, weeping over a broken arm and a broken heart. It is time to make the last stitch in the mending process, complete the weave, finish the task. I had requested a second chance with every good reason to be denied, and here was the Prince bestowing upon me this gift.

The music begins, and I raise one hand into the air as I attempt another Highland Fling -- with study ghillies this time, and sounder sense of footing.


I labour no acrobatics, no showing off in some sort of dance-off with my Jacobite brethren.


The gathered around me watch and clap, and perhaps a few hold their breaths. I wonder if Clan Tucson, in their brown tartans evoking the desert sand, will flank and surround me as they begin their war dance.

I change from foot to foot, raised arm to raised arm. The ghillies are lighter than my infamous buckled shoes, but I can feel something holding them down, some weight that keeps this a low-impact jig. I could be top heavy, wearing a red weskit and a lace jabot in addition to my Royal Stewart tartan and plaids. Those diced red-and-white hose could be the chains upon my feet. Or perhaps it is something else acting as a counterweight as I swing one foot back and forth behind the other and step with uncharacteristic grace for a Highland warrior.


Lads and lads cut in, and I am tapped out to the sidelines, but not for long. I weave my way back into the centre and tap another Highland warrior to continue my fling. Other Highlanders join us and fill the floor, raising their hands high in Flings of their own. If they are following my lead, I am grateful. I wouldn't expect anybody to follow me down, but I remain on my feet, without even a hint of a slip.


"HUZZAH!" we cry upon the conclusion. "HUZZAH!"

"You survived it!"

"Redemption," I say, between breaths.

I arrived to meet my beloved Scottish brethren the same way I left.

"HUZZAH! HUZZAH!"

"HUZZAH!" they cheered back, welcoming me with smiles. I tarry not in my bows, many bows, as the clans gather on the lawn outside the hall. The Highland Ladies emerge from the bottom of the hill, and they keep arriving. The beauty and colour of their gowns leaves me with nothing to do except smile. I greet a large gathering of lasses, and a lady graciously introduces me to her daughters and their friends. I bow all around to them, one at a time, as she names them. Their smiles are warm and heart-piercing. They surround in a half-circle. Twenty years roll off my age in sixty seconds.


Among the lasses, however, is a lady dear to me, in a bright red tartan gown. She has prayed for me through my tribulations, and now I have invited her to join me here. She is my cheerleader as well as dancing companion, and she is mesmerized by the architecture and the beauty of the building before us as the sun sets and a cool Highland breeze takes over from a cloudless sky.

We pose for pictures, many pictures. Like Brigadoon emerging from the mist, we find ourselves in this spot only once a year.


The grand march to begin the dance is a march indeed.

"What are we fighting for?"

"FREEDOM!" I shout.



As we weave around the hall in a circle led by the Bonnie Prince and Flora MacDonald, I feel the inspiration to add a few stomps in the spirit of the Jacobites march through the Highlands, through Edinburgh and then south to London. And to my delight, I hear more stomps, building from a soft thumping to a pronounced and precise boom, enough to put fear into a British regiment. This is our drill. Now come the maneuvers.

"All gentlemen to the centre!" the Bonnie Prince calls out.

"All ladies!"

"All wearing plaid!"

"All those from Tucson!"

"All those from Phoenix!" (Where is Clan Phoenix?)

"All those from Flagstaff!"

"All those below 6 feet tall!"

"All those above 5-6!"

"All those below 200 pounds!"

No clan is left out here.

"HUZZAH! HUZZAH! HUZZAH!" echoes through the gathering.

The Scots are known for their economy, although some would substitute another word. So it is quite fitting that our Royal Leader chooses those lively dances with the simplest moves. My lady companion and I head a set for the first dance, "Sterling Castle," and find it quite unencumbering. A do-si-do, a left-hand turn, a see-saw, a right-hand turn. We arch our hands over the lines, as we run past the lads and lasses before sashaying down to the foot of the set. When we dance "Race To Edinburgh," the lads and lasses chase each other about along the lines before sashaying and swinging and starting all over again.

"HUZZAH!"

"Who here is wearing a white cockade?" asks the Bonnie Prince.

I am.

"Aye, do ye know the story of the white cockade?"

I do.

"In the final rebellion," I begin in my brogue.

"Rebellion?" His Rightful Majesty exclaims.

"Fight for freedom," I rephrase. "When th' Bonnie Prince returned to Scotland and got offa th' boat, he picked a white rose from the ground and put it inna 'is hat. So all th' supporters of th' Bonnie Prince wore a white cockade in their hats!"

They wore Royal Stewart tartans as well, hand-made in a process we honour with a dance called "Weaving The Tartan." Start with three couples in a circle, maneuver them into a star, let each lad pull a different lass from the spindle of hands and promenade them around the hall into another circle of three couples like the thread working through the cloth. Three couple stars grow to four.



"Congratulations! You just weaved a four-layer tartan!"

Five layers follow, and then six and seven. That thread is having a tough time working its way through the cloth. I would love to see the Highlander brave enough to wear seven layers in the notorious Arizona dry heat. Maybe Clan Tucson is up to the challenge.

"HUZZAH!"

Now we come to the Reel, "Flora MacDonald's Reel," that dance where the lads march around the lasses and the lasses do the same before the top couple reels the set. A young lass gifted with fine footwork joins me, having sought me out before I could even begin to find a lady to ask. Per the rules of decorum, the ladies may tousle the hair of the gents as they parade behind the lines. Our set adds a modern touch, letting the ladies and gents high-five each other as they pass.

"HUZZAH! HUZZAH!"


When the clans gather, we are all one family, one growing and changing and moving forward in life. Children grow up and leave the Highlands for their next mission. So three young lads stand before us now to mark a bittersweet milestone: heading off to college.

"We expect the best from you," our host observes, "not because you know it's the right thing to do, but because it's who you are."


News of engagements -- two of them among the clans -- reaches us next. Two young couples from among the Highland family are making the commitment. One of the lasses who will be taking the vows urges perseverance among those who have not yet found their true love.


Instead of dwelling on finding the right person, concentrate on "being the right person," our host adds.


A piper from the lowlands of Litchfield Park honours them with a short tune before the honoured lead off a waltz. They are accomplished dancers, gliding on their feet in beautiful choreography, just as they have learned. They twirl and step exactly in unison to the melodies of Bonnie Prince Charlie's Angels: fiddles, mandolins, dulcimers and piano with a concertina and bass to round things out.

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, my lady and I are determined to make the most of it. When the opportunity comes, we begin our waltz by circling round each other, right hands joined, left hands in the air as we radiate our joy to all within reach like a lighthouse upon the banks of the coast. We choreograph on the fly, my lady following my lead through small hand motions indiscernible to the rest of the crowd as we set to each other and turn round in place before stepping back together and joining hands. This is like no other dance we know, inspired by the past but not shackled to a rigid reprise. All we desire is something unique and beautiful beyond a two-step.


We are blessed to have among us a fine Scottish balladeer, a young gentleman who has rehearsed for this moment a traditional tune of the Highlands. His baritone envelops the entire hall, drawing us into his tale which ends in a cliffhanger.

"I forget the next line," he admits to us, sheepishly yet honestly. But we Highlanders are a supportive and encouraging bunch.

"HUZZAH! HUZZAH!" we shout and applaud. The Bonnie Prince offers some words of encouragement.

Fortunately, his ballad does not end. As I find my redemption, so too does he find his with a second chance to entertain us all. He begins a second ballad, a jaunty and lively tune which draws out our clapping. He forgets not a word, propelled by our rhythmic approval.

"HUZZAH! HUZZAH!" we cheer for him.

Though we enjoy the singing, we long for the dancing. Couples sashay down the room for the beloved Pineapple Dance. Our musicians play a spirited tune, then an encore.

"We need six brave volunteers," our host announces.

Another jig. I get to partake of another? I briskly walk to the centre of the hall and assume my Highland Fling stance. The music begins and I am capering once again, from foot to foot, right hand to left hand raised, then both hands in the air like the great Highland Stag. No one tries to tap me out. All my energy flows into my hands and feet. The tips of my ghillies latch onto the hardwood.



Clan Tucson assumes their war dance again. One member dances a Fling with folded arms.

"That's not from Scotland!" I observe. "That's a Ukrainian Fling!"

Undaunted, they circle up and I join them, turning the fling and jig into a round. A few lasses rush towards us. "May we join your circle?" they politely ask before we politely crowd them in.

On the outside, the other lasses are forming similar ideas, forming their own circle around our circle and prancing about before we separate again into our respective jigs to each other -- or flings.

The Angels play on and on. Wind escapes my lungs, but I caper forth. Those Jacobites marched through Edinburgh, to Derby and then back to the Highlands to Culloden. A Fling before battle should whip us into shape for victory. Exhaustion, however, weighs on my feet and drains my breath.


Do I fight or surrender? Neither. I fall back to the line and regroup, replenishing my life force before advancing back to the centre of the hall. When the music ceases, I am depleted in air once again, but filled with joy and Thanksgiving to GOD for the opportunity -- and a second one at that.

Hugh Mercer knew well of second opportunities. After fleeing Scotland after the disastrous Battle of Culloden, he came to America where he found fellow Scots in Virginia and friendship with General George Washington, who made him a commander. Though he lost his life after the battle of Princeton, New Jersey, he ended up on the winning side of another fight for freedom. To honour the second half of his life, we will dance the Virginia Reel. But to honour his Scottish heritage, the lads will determine their lasses with a Highland Charge.

The Bonnie Prince orders the ladies to remove one shoe in the centre of the floor while calling the lads to the front. "Line up by height!"

"Dress the line!" I call out in the absence of a sergeant.

"Count off by twos!" our commander orders.

"One!" "Two!" "One!" "Two!" "One!" "Two!" "One!" "Two!" "One!" "Two!" "One!" "One!"

Always a lass to my side that doesn't quite know the drill. His Rightful Highness straightens them out and we complete the task.

"When I say, 'Right Face,' the ones will stay in place and the twos will step forward! Right face!"


With nary any training, they execute the command nearly perfectly to the applause of the hall.

"Present arms! Raise Claymores! CHARGE!"


I let my compatriots fall all over themselves diving for their Cinderella slippers. I walk around them nonchalantly in a flanking maneuver and gently pluck a shoe from the pile without any hint of injury. Some lads never learn. But we Highlanders know our reels, and this one is no challenge. The Bonnie Prince barely has to lead us through the steps.

We have time for a final waltz before the evening comes to an end, always too soon.

"Did you ever wish life had a pause button?" our host asks.

One lass also suggests another button. "Just erase last year from your mind," she says.

I cannot -- not all of it. I cannot blot out the love or the prayers of my friends. I refuse to. My gratitude to them feels inadequate, shallow in comparison to all they have done for me, all of their encouragement. I won't forget that.


Enjoy more photos from this wonderful evening here.

Thank you again to everyone who prayed for me and my arm over this past year!

NEXT: Barnstorming!

I'll Take The High Road, And You Take The Icy Road

The Highland Ball is nearly here again.

For many, it's a ball. For me, it's that and a chance at redemption, an opportunity to dissipate a cloud that's lingered since last year, when I slipped during a Highland Fling and smashed up my right arm.

Not again. No. I'm wearing non-skid ghillies.

Alas, not everybody can do so. So to kick off my week-long long at Scottish dancing, I present Sinead & John Kerr at the 2009 Hyundai Card Super Match in South Korea, capturing the joy of Scotland on ice.



And, here's an encore of a video I posted back in 2007: Chulpan Khamatova and Roman Kostomarov getting slick.



(Facebook users, you'll have to click "View Original Post" to see this on my blog. The feed technology isn't passing through embedded YouTube video.)

Chew On This

Here's another example of the idiocy of health insurance regulations.

An Arizona appeals court is ordering the Arizona Health Care Cost Containment System (AHCCCS) to pay for dentures after talking out of both sides of its mouth.

The Arizona Daily Star reports:

Those rules, which mirror state law, say the program will provide dentures when they are “medically necessary.”

But the agency also adopted a rule which says that the inability to chew food, by itself, does not make the artificial teeth medically necessary. Instead, AHCCCS took the position someone without teeth can survive with a totally liquid diet.

Attorneys for AHCCCS defended the rule, saying the statute requiring “medically necessary” dentures says nothing about eating or chewing.

So in the mind of an AHCCCS attorney, gummin' is good enough.

Right now, I am going rounds with my health insurance company over payment for an assistant surgeon who repaired my shattered right arm. Said company has, for no discernible reason, turned up its nose and said, "Your contract doesn't allow for that." If one of those bureaucrats or paper pushers had seen the state of my arm, he'd agree there was no way the job could have been done without some help in the ER.

Or maybe not. Maybe he would have said an intern could have handled it. I'd expect this pretzel logic from an HMO, not a PPO.

But in Arizona, where our legislature consistently cuts education funding, it's par for the course.

Healed

I made my last official visit to the orthopedic doctor today, whereby he declared my arm has successfully healed, as you can see by the x-ray (click for a closer view).

You can still see the break lines, but what's harder to see is where the bone has filled in, and my doctor assures me it has "bridged" in where needed. The pins are staying in, which is all right by me.

Pain? None. Aches? Only when shouldering a musket for a long time -- and that's true for the other arm.

God is Great.

Thank you all once again for all of your prayers and kind words.

HUZZAH!

My Right To Bear Arms, Again

Highlights from this morning's visit with the doctor:

* I am healing very quickly, and very well.

* I am now encouraged to start picking up significant weight with my right hand.

"Try 5 pounds, and if that's all right, then go to 10."

"Can I carry a musket again?" I asked, catching my physician mildly off guard. I explained I was a historical re-enactor. "It weighs about 8 pounds."

He gazed towards the ceiling and processed the request for a moment. "Yeah, 8 pounds should be all right."

So I shall be fully armed for the American Heritage Festival in November. HUZZAH! HUZZAH! HUZZAH!

* Physical therapy begins next week. I have great motion in my fingers and palm, but my right thumb still doesn't want to curl all the way. It's gradually increasing its dexterity, but some things could be helped along.

* X-rays show new bone has filled in all the way along my arm (and the plates that hold it). Old bone fragments remain, but they will dissolve away.

* I should be out of my arm brace by mid-November, three months after the break. I will truly have much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving.

I can't say this enough: THANK YOU for all your prayers!

The Big Mac-Stake

John McCain finally wised up this morning and decided to debate Barack Obama after all. As Politico reports:

...Republicans said the standoff was hurting McCain's campaign and that he would look terrible if he didn't attend the nationally televised, eagerly anticipated debate while Sen. Barack Obama (D-Ill.) was ready to go on stage.

Well, duh. I hope Republicans didn't actually have to tell McCain that.

Some of my friends think McCain did the noble thing by suspending his campaign to concentrate on the economy. I think it blew up in his face, for two reasons Obama stated clearly the other day:

* Now is the time to have a debate, with the economic mess on everybody's minds and people wanting to know how the candidates are going to fix it.

* You have to multitask as president. You can't suspend one part of your job to focus on another part.

And here's another reason -- David Letterman caught Big Mac in a whopper, saying he had to fly to Washington but somehow finding the time to sit down with Katie Couric. Nobody thought Letterman would grab a raw CBS feed of the interview and expose it to viewers. McCain's campaign is now saying that it wasn't the time for comedy. Why not just man up and say that in the first place?

One more reason: Sarah Palin's interview with Couric. Watching it was painful. Palin talked in hyphenated, hesitating speech like she was going through the file box in her mind, looking for a GOP talking point on every question. (And to my friends at the Friday morning Prayer Breakfast, I'm sorry, but Katie asked legitimate questions. You can not dump on reporters when they grill candidates you like. That's part of their job.)

Take a look at how she answered some questions... or mildly restated them:

Couric: When President Bush ran for office, he opposed nation-building. But he has spent, as you know, much of his presidency promoting democracy around the world. What lessons have you learned from Iraq? And how specifically will you try to spread democracy throughout the world?

Palin: Specifically, we will make every effort possible to help spread democracy for those who desire freedom, independence, tolerance, respect for equality. That is the whole goal here in fighting terrorism also. It's not just to keep the people safe, but to be able to usher in democratic values and ideals around this, around the world.

Where were the specifics? And what about the lessons from Iraq?

As for the economy... Palin finally grabbed a talking point.

The interesting thing in the last couple of days that I have seen is that Americans are waiting to see what John McCain will do on this proposal. They're not waiting to see what Barack Obama is going to do. Is he going to do this and see what way the political wind's blowing? They're waiting to see if John McCain will be able to see these amendments implemented in Paulson's proposal.

Couric: Why do you say that? Why are they waiting for John McCain and not Barack Obama?

Palin: He's got the track record of the leadership qualities and the pragmatism that's needed at a crisis time like this.

Couric: But polls have shown that Sen. Obama has actually gotten a boost as a result of this latest crisis, with more people feeling that he can handle the situation better than John McCain.

Palin: I'm not looking at poll numbers. What I think Americans at the end of the day are going to be able to go back and look at track records and see who's more apt to be talking about solutions and wishing for and hoping for solutions for some opportunity to change, and who's actually done it?

Maybe Americans already have.

Cast Away!

That big hulking rock-hard polycarbonate albatross is gone, replaced by a stylish black removable brace that covers only a fraction of what my original cast once protected.

"You gotta be kidding me," I said to the technician when he put it on and told me that was all of it. It doesn't even cover my incision scars, still healing and still quite nasty looking in spots (which is why they're fuzzed out in the photo). Now I can add Aloe Vera and Vitamin E cream to the Citracal and supplements I'm already taking.

Because the brace comes off, I can also take a bath once again. No more plastic newspaper wrapper to cover up the cast in the shower. Let's soak and be merry.

In other developments:

* Bone continues to fill in nicely. My doctor pointed out the healing in fresh x-rays. I still see a lot of the wreckage, but I'm assured everything is moving in the right direction.

* I can curl my thumb a wee bit, but I still have significant numbness in the left part of my right hand. The doctor says it's because the muscle doesn't like the plate that's next to it. He gives it another month and a half or so.

* New ground rules: No contact sports (I don't consider historic dance to be a contact sport), no bicycling (what bicycling?), and no heavy lifting.

"How much weight is heavy lifting?" I asked.

"A gallon of milk is too much," he answered. "Half a gallon is fine."

So it appears I won't be able to pick up a musket for about the next six weeks, under doctors' advice. I haven't put a lot of weight on that arm, but what weight it has carried, it has handled very well. Now that the cast is off, though, I don't have as much support to back up my arm.

* Still no pain. Still no meds. My bicep is glad to be rid of the extra weight.

Thank you all so much for your continued prayers. Praise God! I never expected to be out of a cast so soon.

Realize it has been less than a month since the accident. The Forces Of Darkness knew just where to hit me the night of August 16 -- right at the height of my merriment, doing the thing I love the most. Never let anybody convince you there's not a spiritual battle going on out there. I was warned. But God's healing has been nothing short of Amazing. Amazing grace, truly.

And for the record, I have gone dancing three times since the break -- twice in the full Highland regalia.

HUZZAH!

One And Half Arms

"I can't believe you don't have any pain!"

Oh, believe it all right. God is Great. But working with a casted right arm still gives me a few headaches.

* Typing: The weight of the polycarbonate material tires my limb as I tap out scripts in the newsroom. I can relieve it by balancing it on my knee, which involves sitting in a slightly weird position. I've taken on a normal workload since coming back to KOLD -- including last night's primary elections -- with hardly any assistance.

* Driving: I'm glad I drive an automatic. Shifting is done with my left hand since it's hard to grip the lever with all the cast material in the way. Forget about turning any keys with my right hand alone.

* Doors: Unless it has a lever, the left hand is on knob duty.

But let's be real. All of this is low-grade nitpicking. My right bicep may be hating me now, but it's gonna love me when the wrap comes off, and then I'll suddenly find I can pick up a GMC van with my right hand or some other unexpected feat of strength.

Then, I'll hear a new question: "How did you get those scars?"

Up And To Arms

A few updates on my fractured right arm after this morning's visit with the doctor:

* Those nasty surgical staples from the incisions are gone, baby, gone -- removed today. I still have a lot of healing to do on the wounds, but things are definitely better.

* New x-rays reveal bone is filling in. This time I took a closer look at one of the break sites and cringed when I saw how badly part of my upper arm splintered. I still haven't looked at my original x-ray.

* My doctor says he wants to keep me in a cast for two more weeks and then get me into something removable. "You're kidding me," I said. He wasn't. I was expecting to be wrapped up through through the end of September.

* Physical therapy will probably start in another two weeks. I still have partial numbness in my thumb and the top of my hand, and I still can't curl my thumb. "Give it time," my doctor advises. I will.

* Pain? None. Medications? Zero, unless you count multivitamins and Citracal. God is Great!

I thank everybody who has been praying for me. It is working. Please know that I am praying for all of you too, dearest friends and relatives, that God may watch over and protect you as He has been doing for me.

Huzzah!

A Scotsman Always Gets Up

Sorrow and redemption on the dance floor after the Big Bad Break.
Photos by M. Cynecki

Light rain from a dark sky sprinkles upon my face as the medical technicians wheel me outside the ballroom on a stretcher and into a waiting ambulance.

"Huzzah!" I cried to my friends before I left them.

"Huzzah!" they replied in unison, perhaps a few in tears.

Now it's as if the sky is crying, distressed at the unfairness of a slip and fall that ravaged my right arm in the middle of a joyous Highland Fling. Morphine deadens the pain from the damaged limb, but I can feel my heart breaking.

Water flows from my eyes as I ride through the streets of Flagstaff in the back of the medical transport, still wearing my kilt, puffy shirt, sash and diced hose. The party is over for me much too soon, and now I lay trapped in a nightmare I cannot end. All I want to do is dance again.

The sadness festers through the surgery and two days in the hospital. My parents arrive, and visitors offer their words and kindness. I grow tired and angry of my gown and the tubes and the needles and the oxygen hoses. I long to sleep. I long to turn back time. If I had only worn those other shoes or danced less fervently.

"I will dance again!" I tell myself and my friends. "I will not wait until next August! I will put on the kilt and finish what I started!" I will dance with every lady I can.

I pray to God for help. Please, O Lord, get me through this. Ease my sadness and suffering.

I will not carry the baggage around for 15 or 20 years, like memories of my rotten 8th Birthday Party, where I slipped at a skating rink and broke my arm before the presents and the cake.

Future balls with my history-loving friends will come, I remind myself. Wear your kilt to this one or that one, a friend tells me. It won't come soon enough to keep my broken heart from festering.


A week passes. The arm is mending but the heart needs help.

A new opportunity emerges as I sift through several websites Saturday morning. Round The House is playing tonight’s Contra dance at the usual place in Tucson. It’s a Celtic band. I know the steps. I know the crowd, sort of, and they won’t mind if I come in the full Highland regalia. The idea excites me. I have to do it.

The words of the Highland Ball's host ping through my head: "A Scotsman always gets up."

Anticipation builds throughout the day and ramps up as I change into my plaids. On go the checked stockings and kilt with sporran. Another puffy shirt and my Stewart Royal tartans follow -- and non-skid shoes.

We're off to the ball! I get there at 7:15, 45 minutes before start time, long enough for me to explain myself. The lady at the door looks me over with a surprised grin.

“I know I’m a little early, and I know I’m a little overdressed,” I say to her as the Happy Highlander, eager to get back on the floor. I explain why I’m here, pointing out the cast on my right arm and what led to it. I explain the story again to the caller.

I hope to go through a few refresher moves beforehand with some other newcomers. There aren’t any. Everyone shuffles in a few minutes before 8:00, bypassing the refresher course at 7:30, leaving me to go through a few moves with the caller, who’s convinced I know the figures. She cautions me I may want to simplify some moves, given my healing arm and the directive to “give weight” when turning your partner in some situations.

“You might want to substitute an arm swing,” she coaches.

Contra’s spin-happy, centrifugal style is still a challenge for me, having come from the tradition of graceful bows and courtly movements with a light touch, always showing gentility to the ladies and treating every one of them as a queen.

The crowd of eager dancers pays little mind to my kilt and tartan and colorful socks. One of them is excited to see me in one of my historical outfits.

“We need to put some swords down for you!” he jokes.

I very well might have to dance a solo, given the mathematical hurdles. Normally, I don’t have to worry about finding unaccompanied ladies. But it seems I’m the only one here tonight without a partner. Two teenage girls are here, but they’re alternating between reading in the other room and dancing.

Ladies in need of a partner go fast. They don’t look about, standing wistfully on the floor. The men scoop them up, and without bowing for crying out loud!

Not me. It’s time to turn to the seated few. I approach a lady and ask in my Scottish brogue, “Are ye in need of a partnah’?”

It works, and we are soon circling left and right in figures, chaining the ladies back and forth, swinging our neighbors and partners and performing all the moves up and down a long set of dancers. Figures flow into and out of another and the caller’s words fade into the music of Round The House. My eyes connect with every lady as we spin through swings.

Occasionally I get lost or stuck after progressing to the end of the line. “I think I did that wrong,” I mumble, often before a lady reaches out to swing me again and catch me up to the next figures. The sweat flows after only after one dance. I hold my breath as ladies take my healing arm.

If people are oblivious to the kilt, fewer notice the hard casing on my right hand, half-covered by an 18th Century work shirt.

“Oh, you’re in a cast,” a lady notices sheepishly after wondering why I can’t grip her on a swing as tightly as the rest. Another kindly indulges my desire to balance with one hand rather than two, trying to keep unnecessary force off my right fingers.

That includes clapping, too. “Huzzah! Huzzah!” I shout after each dance, unable to bring both my palms together.

Many ask what happen to my arm, and I explain how I’m making up for what happened a week earlier.

“You look good in a kilt!” a lady compliments.

It's not the same as dancing with We Make History. It can never equal the fellowship I enjoy with my most cherished friends who share my enthusiasm for the dance. However, others watch out for me. A few ladies have seen me here before, and they inquire how I’m holding up. Quite well, thank you. I need some more water.

I only sit out three or four dances, either because I’m without a partner, or because I need my breath. Yet standing still is not an option, and while the rest of the room whirls and circles, I jig off to the side, lightly, arms at my side rather than over my head.

When a final waltz plays, the lady who greeted me at the door joins me as her partner. As usual, the lady is a much better waltzer than I am, and I look down at my feet to maneuver into the proper steps.

“Don’t worry about your feet,” she encourages. We waltz on.

I try a progression step with her. I know it, mostly. She doesn’t. We revert back to the two step, eyes to eyes.

The music slows to a close and I sink into a deep bow, my left hand still joined to her right. I silently cherish the warmth of the moment for several seconds, knees and head both giving honor to my partner. I slowly rise and thank her.

Round The House plays one more waltz: an Irish lullaby. This time, the lady and I dance solo, but beside each other. I glide into another improvised minuet, a freestyle, freeform ballet of stepping and twirling around the floor with hands outstretched in a graceful position. She proceeds beside me in her own inventive figures. I keep thinking we might end up back in each other’s hands, but we don’t. It’s all right.

When the last note expires, I breathe deeply with an enormous sense of thanksgiving, feeling my sweat-soaked shirt again, my head tilted towards Heaven and my eyes closed. Thank You, O Lord, for helping me find another opportunity for joy in a kilt.

“You heal that,” the caller tells me after the dance.

“I will. But my heart needed healing too, tonight.”

“I’m so glad I could be a part of it,” she replies, hugging me.

I fall into bed exhausted but happy. The painful memories shall fade. Happier thoughts shall take their place. Any day I can dance in a kilt is a good one.


Dancers form up lines again, shaken but prayerful, desiring to honor the wishes of the injured Highlander led off the floor in a stretcher to the cries and responses of “Huzzah! Huzzah!”

The band plays a reel, an enthusiastic reel. Inhibitions against joy dissolve away as the dancers merrily spin themselves around and around, up and down each set.

“You know, this is a Christopher dance,” a lady observes.

“Huzzah!” another dancer cries.

“Huzzah!” others respond.

Across the hills, the Highlander longs to be with them again. In his prayers and dreams, he is.

Introducing A New Member Of The Cast

My first follow-up with the doctor since I broke my arm has brought good news and a new cast.


Before: Filling out paperwork at UPH with my left (non-writing) hand. Underneath that sling lies a massive splint of plaster, cotton, gauze... and my healing right hand. But not for long.


New x-rays reveal the healing continues (Praise God!), and in the cast room, technicians cut away the wrapped behemoth, leaving me to face the staples left in two sides of my arm after the plates went in. Truth be told, things didn't look as bad as I feared, but my skin's got some more healing to do. The staples should come out next week. For now, it's time to move up to a new cast.


After the gauze and the main layer goes on, my technician cuts notches to allow me to bend my elbows. He says he has "angel hands." Each touch feels like a hug.


"What color would you like?"

"Blue," I say. Patriot Blue. Blue like that of Heaven and God's Favor. Sky blue like the trim of my 1st Virginia uniform.

"Do I have to wear a sling?" I query.

"No," my technician answers. "In fact, we recommend you don't so you can move that arm."

I have conquered the sling. Huzzah! Huzzah!

God Is Great!


Thanks to Dan for the photos!

The Ultimate Surgeon

Some of you are expecting a story from last Saturday's Highland Ball. However, I do not have a story for you, at least not one of the sort you're used to reading.

While I was dancing a spirited Highland Jig or Highland Fling, I slipped in my buckled shoes, fell onto the floor, and shattered my right arm. After four hours of surgery, two steel plates, and two days in recovery at Flagstaff Medical Center, I'm back home in Tucson, learning to type with one hand. I can wiggle all my right fingers and thumb, and I have feeling in all of them. And miracle of miracles, I'm pain-free in my right arm. This is not due to heavy medication or sedation.

One of the best surgeons in Northern Arizona wired my limb back together, and I strongly suspect he learned a few new things on the job. He told me he'd never seen anything like what the x-rays showed him. I haven't seen those x-rays, and I don't want to see them. But for the recovery I am now making and the healing I am experiencing, that credit goes to God, the Ultimate Surgeon.

Dozens of people have been praying for me since the accident. They prayed as I was led off the dance floor in a stretcher. They prayed after the dance and the next day after that. And they continue to pray. I am grateful to all my friends beyond words, as those prayers are being answered in remarkable ways. Only one explanation will suffice for my pain-free recovering status so quickly after the accident: God's Healing Touch and Love. Romans 8:28 (NASV) tells us: "And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose." That power of massed prayer certainly worked together for good.

Let me leave you with another communal moment of good. When Flagstaff's EMT's were carrying me out of the ballroom in the stretcher, as they were pumping my arm full of morphine, I gathered the God-given strength within me to shout words of jubilation for which I have become well-known:

"HUZZAH!" I shouted with all my might.

"HUZZAH!" returned my friends and family of We Make History on the dance floor in unison.

"HUZZAH!" I shouted again.

"HUZZAH!" they returned with equal enthusiasm.

I begged the dancing continue, and it did, after a pause. Joy emerged from shock and sadness, happiness from sorrow. Now my joy emerges too from the pain of the injury and the sadness over missing out on part of one of my favorite dances of the year. I shall dance again in full Scottish attire, and I won't wait a year to do it. For God has Blessed me with so many gifts, and to Him I owe my happiness and healing.