Chapter 40 – Scottish Yankee

Donna only spent one day in the hospital and at dusk on March 14, I drove her and the new baby boy, Jonathan back to the house in Woodland Hills. He seemed to like it. My mom, Susan and later, my brother and his wife and two kids came by for the unveiling. Max, 6 ½ was glad he wasn’t the only male Haymer kid in the world. Emily, just slightly over two years old wanted to pick him up as if he was a new doll. I told her it would be best if she kept him on the baby blanket in the living room and could play with him all she liked. Jonathan was a smashing hit. I was so proud of not only him, but of my wife, who was looking no worse for wear.

After the first week of visitations, things were settling down. Reality had hit like a slap in the face and it was time to get back to work, writing songs, selling computer supplies and filling up laser cartridges. I had a new inspiration but couldn’t find anything in lyric that would accurately describe the feelings I had. It wouldn’t be until two years later until I wrote a song called “Questions” about the things two-year olds ask and how the bewildered father has no answers. It was the final song on my first solo CD entitled “See You Around”. It’s on Reverb Nation if you want to give a listen.

About a month later, Olive Smollett, Donna’s mum came to visit on her own. It was her first time on any kind of flying contraption and it goes without saying, she was a wee bit nervous. When we left the airport and got on the 405 she panicked. She had never seen so much traffic in her life and with the eight lanes of cars, trucks and busses crammed bumper to bumper, I thought she was going to turn around and head back to Scotland. She persevered and made it to Santa Lucia Drive without any further incident. My mom and Susan were already at the house watching and taking care of Jonathan and when Olive got a look at her first grandchild it was a tearful (in a good way) moment. It was fortunate that Donna had a three month maternity leave and was able to spend time not only with Jonathan and me, but her mum, too. After a little more than a fortnight, Olive was sad to leave but it was time for Donna and I to get down to the business of parenting.

In July, Donna got a new job four days a week in West Hills for Tom Reed and Associates but it was still difficult for her to leave the baby. I assured her that he was in the capable hands of his father and, if I needed anything, she was only a phone call away. The only faux pas I experienced was the time I was changing Jonathan with the cloth diapers we got from a service that would deliver the fresh “nappies” and pick up the soiled ones every week. He was on the changing table while I stuck two safety pins through the corners. I was wondering why he had a frown on his face. I undid the diaper and realized I had pinned the safety pins right through his skin. I couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t even crying or anything. I quickly re-pinned the diaper properly and thank God there wasn’t even a trace of blood. Brave wee lad—stupid father. After that, I always checked and re-checked my diapering skills and never did anything so negligent again.

On the fifth of September 1992, Donna’s sister, Beverly was getting married to a swell Scottish chap named Roy Brannen and the three of us flew into London’s Heathrow airport in late August with plans to take our time touring the British countryside. Once again my mom was dog-sitting for Bridget Bardog, Ginger and cat-sitting for the latest addition to the family—a gray kitty, Buddy. I named him that after Buddy Holly and steel guitarist, Buddy Emmons—two of my heroes. After eating lunch in an Indian restaurant in SoHo we headed off to Cambridge having already visited Oxford on the last trip. We were walking down the cobblestone backstreets of the illustrious college town when Donna stopped to give Jonathan a drink of juice. That’s when he said it—da, da—his first words at just over three months old. Brilliant child—he must take after his mother. I was so elated that it was me he was trying to communicate with—maybe it was only a coincidence you say, but you’ll never convince me of that.

Wandering through the Yorkshire Moors we found a brilliant B & B that served the best chicken Kiev I had ever tasted. After stuffing our gourds we traversed some of the most mysterious looking place I had ever seen since Sleepy Hollow. The legends of Poe and Dickens filtered through my head and if I ever had to move somewhere out of the country; I think this might be the place. We traveled west through rolling hills and mountainous terrain of the Peak District on out was to visit my cousin Jason and his wife-to-be Nicky in Wilmslow, a suburb of Manchester. Jason was extremely taken with three month old Jonathan and gave him a gift of an Ecuadorian uke (which we still have). We jammed some faves, Jason on his upright bass and me on a guitar that he had stashed away with rusted out strings (a little rubbing alcohol on those babies akes care of it).

After tearful goodbyes, it was off to Scotland. We arrived in time for us to rent our wedding garb. Yes, it’s true. I didn’t wear a kilt for my own wedding, but for this one I donned a Stewart Tartan with reds, blacks and tans. I had the entire get-up. Sporran, Sgian Dubhs (pronounced Skian-doo—which is the wee knife you wear in your sock—Scottish wedding can become a wee bit rowdy) vests and funny shoes (see photo). I didn’t bring my own guitar, a blonde J-200, but Irene’s boyfriend at the time, a rouge named John, just happened to have an exact replica and he let me borrow it. I was a little upset with John because the night before the wedding he and I went to a casino in Dundee while Irene and Donna were out visiting with friends. I was winning over two hundred pounds and I wanted to quit while I was ahead. I told John to give Irene a call and have them meet up with us so I could collect my winning and get out of there. It is my theory that if you stay too long at the crap tables you’re bound to lose. John returned to the tables and said the girls were having such a good time they wanted to hang out for a few more hours. This, I found out later was a bold faced lie. They were ready to leave but John had insisted that I wanted to stay at the casino since I was winning a fortune. I didn’t throw it all back to the house, but most of it.

It was your typical Scottish wedding with all the traditional dances and drinking and yes it’s true, a real Scotsman doesn’t wear a thing under his kilt. I couldn’t help but find this out when one of the guests did a cartwheel on the dance-floor. There weren’t any brawls or family squabbles, so I guess it was atypical in that sense.

Back to America and to real life in our cozy cottage in Woodland Hills. My friend Chas, who also lived three miles away on Queen Victoria Road, was making plans to move to Nashville. I couldn’t believe it. Nashville? But, on the other hand, it did make sense. He was born and raised in Atlanta and knew all about that “Southern thang”. Soon an act of God would turn our whole world topsy-turvy, and a change in locale would be imperative. Where would we go? New York? Seattle? Nashville?