First ,that particular brown paper I've come to recognize from Janet Eagleton's store... and lot's of tape... Janet makes certain.

After the waiting, oddly there was no sense of rush, but rather a sense of ritual needing to be attended. The tape came off with care... no chances taken with sharp objects lest the contents be disturbed from their transatlantic rest. And finally inside, neatly folded, pleats restrained, poetry paused for sake of safe transit, lay the kilt.

The Tartan had seemed a good choice, but how much can really you know from the image on the Lochcarron website. Certainly not enough to prepare for how beautiful the cloth really is... strome weight, Roxburgh District Red Ancient... in honor of one of my immigrant ancestor's birthplace. The weight, the hand, the impressive intertia of the fabric at rest... this was not cloth I was encountering... this was something far more enduring.

And then, the careful, patient snips as the basting thread was cut, pulling small sections free gently until the kilt began to stir...like awakening some primeval creature.

Finally free of its wraps and its bonds, it was ready to be wrapped around my waist... a sensation not unlike an embrace... something totally unlike the clinging grip made by pants on your hip bones, but something warm, strong... yielding but supporting... and SUBSTANTIAL... and below: free, fluid... moving parts moving without hindrance.

Absolutely nothing like it.

Okay, sorry... you'll have to forgive the above, but it's not every day you get to strap on a kilt for the first time... after decades of waiting.

One question: why would anyone in their right mind ever want to wear anything else??

Pictures will follow once my proper hose have arrived. Janet tells me the "old lady is still knitting..."