I am in love with a man in a kilt.

That sounds odd, even to me.

Ever since I was a little girl, watching the St Patrick’s parade and the Gordon Pipers with their Black Watch Plaid, kilts and bagpipes – the thunder of the drums and the sound of the pipes – the kilt was something magical. Something is inherently masculine about it. The Scots and Irishmen who marched in the parades were big – especially by normal Celtic standards. Booming men who strutted about and towered over me in strange plaids and fur hats, dark beards. The realization that the Silkie-coloring of the men playing the pipes was beyond appealing has come with adulthood – it stirs something. It is as though something magical came from the dark depths of the waters – Vikings maybe – and left a strain of men from the Isles with that wild look that is more mythical creature than man. The deep soulful eyes, like those of a seal, that seem to see right into your soul, the wild dark hair, the pale skin, the freckles dancing defiantly across the strong face.

Maybe I have spent too much time reading historical fiction, tales of brave Scotsmen fighting against all odds for honor, for their homes, for their families. Love you, Steph – but that damned Gabaldon woman has interfered with my perception of what a man should be - the kilt and strong attitude are nearly necessities. Of course I think he is more "Roger" than "Jamie". These men lived in the lands my family came from hundreds of years ago – fields and glens and ridges with lovely gutteral names I cannot prounounce. Maybe that explains the way the pipes move me to tears every time I hear them. (For the record, even during Amazing Grace at the wedding, though there was no way I was going to admit it at the time!) Maybe it was knowing that the pipes were a way to celebrate the love of our family year after year – the commitment to get together every St Patrick’s day to celebrate our heritage and our legacy.

I have pictures, beautiful pictures, of a handsome, kilted man with formal coat and silver buttons. The picture is burned in my mind and the familiarity is hard to escape - hard to separate dream from reality. I am in love with a man in a kilt - so I did what any sensible woman would do - I married him. The kilt is still draped over the Pappasan chair in our room - just in case.

Edited and reposted from August 31st, 2004