There are probably a lot of things I will never know; how a man could take something the size and weight of a telephone pole, and get it to land with the end opposite that he was holding facing dead-ahead of him. What the real attraction of the sound of bagpipes could possibly be; and does the Loch Ness Monster really exist? I didn't get all the answers to these questions, or some others, even after attending the 158th Highland Games, sponsored by the St. Andrews Society of Detroit, and apparently the oldest such event in North America. I'm still not certain I want to know everything that goes into Haggis, although I didn't get it in the most absolutely traditional form, with the contents having been boiled in a Sheep's lung. In a case like this, puff pastry can mean the difference between trying it, and not trying it, even after one has consumed Silkworm Larvae. Strength, honor, and perhaps a little bit of mystery are, as some Highland Gamers might be inclined to say, a wee bit closer to the heart of a Croatian who was still trying to make sense of it all. And I myself am inclined to just kinda go with it; the hat that I wore in Korea, which kept a summer's worth of sun and rain off my industrious and sometimes overtaxed pia mater, now sports a scarf of red tartan plaid around it, cinched with a pin shaped like a sword. It is, so much as I was able to duplicate, the tartan of the Clan Mathison, worn in honor of a woman I never met, but am told by her daughter, my own lovely wife, I would have been adored by. I'm about certain the feeling's mutual, if Martha is anything to go by. How many women would have.....(fill in any verb you like here.) I hadn't realized until today just exactly how many different versions of Tartan there are, nor with what fervor people will search for the one that is absolutely correct for their family. It's a Scottish thing, I probably wouldn't understand. Or, maybe, it's just those values that require understanding, and that's NOT a hard job. That I get.