I cannae tell a lie

A new TV comedy series aired yesterday called, “Men in Kilts.” I had a man in kilts.

As a Catholic girl from Queens who wore plaid for nine straight years and whose friends had good Scottish surnames like Cameron, Campbell and MacDonald, I thought I knew everything about plaid.

When it came to kilts: Not. Even. Close.

You got your kilt, you got your jacket and shirt, and depending on the occasion, you got your tie or bowtie. And let's not forget your tartan fly plaid, a piece of fabric worn over the shoulder that to the untrained eye sure looks like a blanket. 

In the middle region is a sporran, usually made of leather or a furry critter. If men in kilts take offense when their kilts are referred to as skirts, you might think twice before calling their sporran a fanny pack or worse, a purse. (Martin’s sporran came with a plaid mini-flask for single malts because Scottish ingenuity did not end with the inventions of the macadamized road or penicillin.)

Also in the midsection of the kilt outfit is the belt and buckle, which sound simple enough. They are not. Trying to attach the belt to the kilt is like putting together an Ikea sofa with missing parts, missing instructions, no tools and drunk. 

From the knees south you got your flashes (think plaid garters), kilt hose (socks), ghillie brogues (shoes) and a sgian dubh, a handy little knife presumably for when the “skirt,” “blanket” and “purse” cracks start up. 

Martin was born in Scotland of Scottish parents. His father’s family came over from Ireland to Scotland around the time of the Potato Famine. His mom’s family was forever Scottish. 

Martin proudly donned his Clan Mackenzie plaid. When he wore his kilts in Scotland he was with his tribe. Stand on any corner in downtown Glasgow or Edinburgh during lunchtime and you’ll see scores of male workers scurrying about in their winter weight or summer weight kilts. In the USA not so much.

Martin especially loved when we would go to weddings and there was a chance of being among other kilt wearers.

The first time was the wedding of my coworker’s daughter. Martin and I showed up and he looked around and whispered to me, “We’re at the wrong wedding. These people look Indian.”

“That’s because they ARE Indian.’’

I hesitated a moment and then I realized the problem. “You thought I was saying ‘Kilkearney.’ This is the Kulkarni wedding. K-u-l-k-a-r-n-i.”

We had a good laugh and he had a blast dancing in his kilt among the saris. 

Next up was the Gordon wedding. As we drove to the location, Martin regaled me with tales of how the Gordons were fierce warriors for Scottish independence back in the day of William Wallace. Like any good wife, I half-listened.

We mingled prior to the ceremony and Martin said, “I’m the only man in a kilt.” He silently seethed, upset that these Gordons had assimilated so far into American life that they had abandoned their kilts. 

Once again, I was the bearer of bad news. In all likelihood there would be no other kilts as these were not Scottish Gordons. These Gordons were Jewish and this wedding was Jewish.

“This country is something!’’ he said with a laugh, his ghillie brogues resting very little that evening as he danced with his wife and several other women who were fascinated by a man in a kilt. 

That, it is.