Alex Ian
Cameron
In April
of 2011 we lost our Founding Chief. He was the best of us and worst of us in
the Clan. But if it was not for him; none of us would be Wild Highlanders.
His legacy will always be the corner stone of our Clan.
He is not really gone; He just off on some great high adventure drinking a good stout Scotch or a good honey Meade with a bonnie fine lass on his arm to fill his hours. Riding motorcycles and roaming eternity as that one soul that Heaven just could not keep within its pearly gates.
It is a certainty that he and ole Saint Peter were bantering back and forth about where he should go and what he should be doing. With Alex being Alex with a twinkle in his eye knowing he had won as Saint Peter was sighing a deep sigh and giving in and letting Alex go where he wants. And if you listen closely you can still hear the Devil roaring with laughter at the sight of it and delighting in it..and saying under his breath thank GOD he went there First.
Somewhere in the night sky in the heavens above there is star that burns just a bit brighter than all the rest for it holds the spark that we all knew and who we loved; that force of nature Called Alex Cameron
The Chief is dead Long live the Chief
Good Bye Alex we all will miss you
Gun on the Shelf — A Eulogy
A writer and Alex's Sister
L
Last week I found out that
my oldest brother died. Three years ago.
Ok, so we hadn’t kept in touch. Still, he was my hero—my
protector.
Think Bruce Willis always 15 years older than me.
He was the one who almost caught Santa’s sleigh, and was the voice
behind the elf in the linen closet. He taught me to ice skate and pushed
me scary high on the swing. He swam pulling our stranded sailboat to
shore with the rope tied around his waist. He sang Big Girls Don’t Cry
better than Frankie Valli.
He worked on motorcycles and hot rods and I was always right there
with him, his go-fer, his greasy apprentice. I learned the difference
between a wrench and a hammer, and to stay out of his way if he started to
swear.
He established a motorcycle club in Pontiac, Michigan—the
Matadors. He was a gifted artist and designed the club colors. I
watched in awe. He had his own cycle shop, Iron Horse Cycles, both in
Michigan and in Florida, specialized in Triumphs, BSAs, European bikes.
He did the design and air-brushing as well as custom work.
I used to babysit when they went on long rides. He and a
dozen or so guys would pick me up from school on their bikes—roaring into the
parking lot and handing me his wife’s fur covered helmet. It was a dream.
I was the girl with the badass brother. Several times he had come to my
rescue, picked me up from a bad date, searched the premises when I thought I
heard something. He carried a whip and was good with it.
He was a looker. Had a swagger—a sly smile—a twinkle in his
eye. He shaved his head rather than go bald, before it was ever
cool. Wouldn’t smoke or do drugs but he loved to drink. Loved the
ladies. Was married seven times last I knew. 11 kids? I’m not
sure. He moved to Florida to escape child support and changed his name.
I heard stories over the years, some from him, some from
strangers. He was well known, and respected if not feared. He
exploited the Scottish side of our heritage demonstrating mid-evil weaponry and
telling tall tales at Renaissance fairs. He captained a charter boat for
a while, was a bounty hunter too. When I asked if he had ever shot or
killed anyone, he just smiled then said:
“Well, there was one guy,
I didn’t kill him, it was the fall from the 4th story
window…”
Several years went by, then I heard from him when our father had a
cerebral hemorrhage and was paralyzed. He couldn’t come back to Michigan.
Not long after that his youngest daughter was killed in a car
accident. He was distraught, we had words, nothing unforgivable, but he
didn’t sound like the brother I knew and we just never spoke again.
One of his sons looked me up, suggested his dad wanted to meet
up. I chose to leave it alone. Our lives were so different and I
didn’t want to find out anything that would tarnish his image, my memories of
him had become larger than life and I enjoyed the fantasy.
My initial reaction when I heard of his passing was complete
vulnerability. I always felt like I was his favorite and that he would be
there for me if I ever really needed him, that he would show up on my doorstep
like old times. Having him in your corner was like having a gun on the
closet shelf, the security of just knowing he was out there somewhere was
powerful and comforting.
Once the nausea wained, I searched for additional information, for
something more than an obituary with dates of birth and death, more than a
website that said simply, “he retired.” And I’ve started to think, what
if…what if he isn’t really gone at all. What if he has just changed his
name again and moved on?
I’m not going to look for the gun on the shelf, but Wes, if you’re
reading this, I love ya man