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Mr. and Bob Burnett share a laugh during a recent practice. Many of the men have different reasons for learning to play the bagpipes. Mr. Burnett started playing after learning of his Scottish heritage.

On the bonnie banks of St. Joseph, down Mitchell Avenue on a nippy night, inside a quiet church, they play.

In a chalk-colored church hall, three men stand in a semi-circle holding bagpipes. In the middle, a tall, blonde-haired man’s fingers chase across the chanter, left arm squeezing air in the sheepskin bag, which travels out of the drones with the sad fury of “Amazing Grace.’

The two other men watch, waiting to join him.

To all of the Buchanan Highlanders, the pipes’ powerful song means something different — almost as different as the men are themselves.

But they must tune them together, play them together and stop the sound at the same moment, so that as they march down the street, you see a group of pipers, but you hear only one.

ANd the PIPES played on

Pipes played around the world for several thousand years before they found a real home in Scotland, where soon they sung the songs of war. They found a home, too, in St. Joseph, in the heart of Roger Heard. The bagpipes always held a deep appeal for the pipe major, 55 and a fit, serious man who’s worked for 27½ years with the Highway Patrol, now as their chief of communications. He’s also Irish.

“There’s something genetic about it...,” Roger says. “You either really like it or you can’t stand it.”

Roger really liked it. He’d been a musician for years, playing and teaching banjo and guitar. And so late in his life, by his estimation, Roger decided to learn the pipes. Soon, he convinced a group of his fellow Masons that they should undertake the journey with him.

It was 1990, maybe ‘91, he thinks, when Roger found someone who could do a presentation on the pipes for the Masons. The men began the grueling task of learning, always envisioning their band marching down Frederick Avenue in the Apple Blossom Parade. In 1992, the Buchanan Highlanders did just that.

Since, men have come and gone, save a few tried pipers.

There are some, such as Jim Jeffers, who have been with Roger from that first squawk. There are others, such as Gage Herrington, a 16-year-old sophomore at Lafayette High School, who have many wails ahead.

New members do join, though, Roger says, only about one in 10 will make it. And the challenge of the instrument is part of the reason Roger likes the pipes.

“There’s very few people who do this, quite frankly.”

They begin with the basics — a wooden chanter that looks like a flute and sounds like a kazoo. It took about a year for Bob Burnett, a civil engineer, to get his fingering and the embellishing trills down when he began attending the free Tuesday night meetings of the Buchanan Highlanders, then another six months to learn enough tunes to be able to keep up with the other pipers. Then he started playing with the actual pipes, learning to control his breath and the great peacock of an instrument that needs playing, pushing and prodding all at once.

As a rule, Bob says, it takes most people between six and seven years to be proficient.

“I hoped I would be able to play with the band before I died,” he laughs.

He did. It took Bob about three years before he could march in his first parade.

Even now that he’s capable, there’s nothing easy about playing the pipes.

“It takes three or four lungfulls of air to fill up the bag, first,” Bob says. The pipers must let the moisture from their breath warm up the drones, or pipes, then get their instruments in the same pitch.

If they play as a group, it can take 30 to 45 minutes to get everyone ready.

Then they must focus on marching in step.

“And the worst part...” Bob says, “is putting the kilt on.”

THE PIPES ARE CALLING

At Wyatt Park, Roger comes to the end of the first verse of “Amazing Grace,” his pipes bellowing, when Bob and Jim join in.

Many of the men play the song at funerals, though Roger doesn’t recommend it to families. After hearing “Amazing Grace” on the pipes, it sticks with you, he says.

Pat Dunlap, a corrections officer, heard the song on the pipes at his father’s funeral for the first time. He took up bagpipes after that.

“It says everything that you want to say in music,” he says.

Roger figures he’s played hundreds of funerals.

“All things considered,” he says, “I’d rather play weddings.”

They play for schools and groups, for parades and for St. Patrick’s Day. But it’s playing together that they enjoy the most.

And sometimes, when enough pipers are present, and they stand in a circle, something amazing happens — something beyond the one sound they try to achieve. Something more like togetherness. Suddenly, the sound swells up in the middle of the pipers like a great vibrating ball.

Each of the men have experienced it.

Each plans on experiencing it again.

Roger steps forward, signaling that this will be the last bar of their song.

Then, silence.

It’s loud, like the pipes, and the men stand still for a moment, just listening.