The big day is six months off. Since we are parents of the groom we used to think we had the “easy list” of things to do.

I figured we’d organize a few tuxedo rentals, arrange for a rehearsal dinner at a nice restaurant and show up for the wedding.

This is what I discovered.

I was wrong.

The groom, our oldest manchild, announced years ago, before the word marriage was part of his vocabulary, that he would be getting married in a kilt.

We figured that idea would fade with time.

It hasn’t.

As soon as the announcement was made and the date set, research began on the theme of how to get a kilt.

The Hubster said he would be in charge of the kilting bee. He’s been aching for a kilt himself ever since high school when I told him he had great legs. (I still remember the day he showed up at my house in knee-length plaid shorts. I was quite taken. Those same shorts were on a commercial last week. They are apparently back in style.)

He and dude were constantly on the phone, discussing measurements and tartans and other manly things.

One night he emerged from his home office to announce, “The kilt is ordered.”

A few weeks later packages from Scotland began arriving. Usually the only curious packages we get in the mail contain banjo stuff or knives (The Hubster has an abnormal – in my opinion – obsession with exotic knives.)

The package didn’t look big enough to contain a kilt.

“So whatcha got there?” I asked curiously as he ripped open the small package.

“It’s from Scotland,” he said.

“I see that,” I said.

“It’s a kindoo for the wedding,” he said.

I ran through my mental list of words and Kindoo didn’t strike a chord.

“What’s a kindoo?”

“Not kindoo, skean dhu,” he said patiently spelling the name.

He pulled it out of the box and showed me – a knife.

“It’s a knife,” I observed. “What’s that got to do with the wedding?”

“It tucks into the top of the sock. It’s part of the accessories.”

‘What’s in the other box,” I asked, pointing to another box in the package.

“It’s a skean dhu for me. I had them made. He rattled off words like burred something and buffalo horn and steel…in short, an exotic knife.

Another small package contained a wooden pin – like a long narrow brooch.

“The kilt pin to keep the kilt from flying open. You wouldn’t want that would you?”

I had to agree that we didn’t want any kilts flying around.

A few days later another package arrived, this time somewhat bigger.

“Is it the kilt?” I asked excitedly.

“No. This is the sporran and the belt it hangs on,” he said lifting the black leather and some kind of fur and tassled pouch. “Isn’t this great?”

I’m still anxiously awaiting the arrival of the kilt. And when it finally does come I’ll get the Hubster and his great legs to model it for me.

Contact Judy Watts at 873-9424 or jwatts@journalscene.com.

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