Greetings Dear Reader,
Often you see in movies where a guy walks into a bar and everything grows quiet. Whether it is a western, a city dive, or a quaint Southern town there is the moment where the sudden silence screams that this guy does not belong. I now know this feeling from the receiving end.
It is Saint Patrick’s Day. The plan is to surprise Dad on his birthday at a restaurant near where he lives. Since the day is Sunday, I have a list of obligations. The idea is for me to make it to early service, pick up mum after church, grab a quick bite then enjoy the afternoon. Lunch is supposed to begin at two and the drive is about an hour and a half to the meal.
I consider that I do not have time to go change after church and my planned attire for the luncheon with dad is, well, seasonal. The idea is to wear my Irish kilt and give dad a laugh for his birthday. It is not possible to make church, pick up mum, and get there on time without wearing the kilt all day. So, I did and thereby hangs the tale and perhaps almost me.
Keep in mind as I relate the rest of this that I live on the shiny pokey bit on the buckle of the Bible belt. There are very good people here but like Brigadoon, they seem to disappear and stay the same for decades at a time. Now add to this understanding a good church that is loving, kind, and unused to guys in anything but pants.
I dressed, made my way to church, and walked the full length of the parking lot. I perhaps turned more heads than I expected. People who have greeted me with recognition for the last three months introduced themselves as if we had never met. One woman scooted her child away.
One of the guys on the security team told me he had never seen a man in a skirt at church. I jokingly said, “One other man called this a skirt, then I kilt him.” He did not get the pun. He told me that if I tried to kill him, he would have to run away and get his big friend. His big friend happens to be my friend and one of the security team leaders. I went to sit down before I worried the older gentlemen too much
My friend, the big security guy showed up. He sat with me. I am still not sure if he wished to “keep an eye on me” or “keep an eye on me.” Either way the steam of curious greetings continued until service started. Then during the official greeting time, it was as if I had disappeared. No one seemed interested in greeting the strange bearded man in the plaid skirt.
As I left the church after the service, mum called. She let me know she was ready to go. She was two hours early. I chose to brave taking her for a light snack before the long drive to the late luncheon. She chose the Waffle House. Let me set the scene in case you have not gotten it.
A large man in a kilt, long hose, black buckle shoes, and a kelly green shirt is about to walk into a Waffle House at ten thirty on a Sunday morning. Oh, and I have very long hair and a very long beard. The place was busy, filled to waiting space, and crooning the notes of its usual diner sound.
I walked in with mum and the notes of the song altered. It was just like in the movies. Every head turned, one man dropped his fork, and waitresses stopped with arms laden with trays and coffee pots. There were easily three couples ahead of us waiting for a table. The hostess, however, glided past them and beamed her professional Southern smile. She showed us immediately to a seat explaining that she did not want my elderly mother to stand.
“Most times you can’t hear ‘em talk, other times you can.” I heard the murmurs and quietly laughed. One guy made eye contact with me and smeared. Thankfully mum was her own form of Irish that day. She was O’blivious. We had a bit of food to tide us over. I loved watching the people watch me.
As we were leaving a guy in a baseball hat, sleeveless denim shirt, and well-worn jeans called out after I passed him. I knew better than to engage him. The hostess, who had also waited on us responded to him instead. As I hit the door I heard her say, “You just hush Bentley James. That man just left me a bigger tip than every tip you have ever left anyone. I don’t care what a man wears if he treats his server right.”
As the door closed behind me the diner noised picked up their song right where they had left off. There were a few new notes and Waffle House Sunday regulars offered their opinions of the strange man in the plaid skirt. I am sure I will return to that diner at some point to thank the hostess for sticking up for me. I will likely just wear jeans and a shirt. I do, however, have a doublet and tights. I also have a clearer understanding of why James says what he does about judging another by his or her clothing.
Oh, and dad loved the kilt and the story...
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
Mat 13:52 So Jesus said to them, "That is why every writer who has become a disciple of Christ’s rule of the universe is like a homeowner. He liberally hands out new and old things from his great treasure store.”
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