New Scots costume

When I got to the Land of Færie this morning, I discovered that a sporran of my father’s that I’d put on consignment some time ago had finally sold last week, and I had $75 coming to me from it.  I took this as a Sign that I was supposed to take action.  I’ve been wanting to get a dress evening sporran for a long while now; the black leather one I have is all right for day wear but leaves me a bit underdressed for a dinner or a party.  Formal sporrans are traditionally made of some kind of fur; these days you mostly see rabbit, fox, or badger.  (I’ve also seen them done in raccoon, skunk, muskrat, and beaver.  Horsehair is generally left to the military or pipe bands.)

But if you’re in Scotland, the traditional sporran fur is sealskin, and they are a common sight in Edinburgh or Glasgow today.  It’s the done thing wherever the kilt is worn—except in the United States.  We have this thing called the 1972 Marine Mammal Protection Act which, among other things, prohibits the importation of anything made with sealskin, including sporrans.  Certainly US citizens can BUY a sealskin sporran abroad, but if they try to get it home it’ll probably get no farther than the nearest Customs shed, where it’ll be seized for later destruction.  However, like all laws, this one has a loophole.  Sealskin articles imported before the MMPA ban can legally be owned and sold, and Customs can’t do a thing about it.  (It’s like owning elephant or walrus ivory.  New tusk bad, hundred-year-old tusk a moot point.)

A while back a guy came in the Land of Færie with a kilt and accessories he wanted to sell.  The kilt was nothing very wonderful—a little tired, but suitable quality for a rennie—but one of the accessories he had was a pre-ban sealskin sporran.  The baleboosteh recognized it for what it was and immediately glommed onto it; by itself it was worth more than what she ended up giving the guy for the whole mess.  She priced it out and put it on display, and there on the shelf it sat until today, when I claimed it for me.  It’s very, very pretty; the fur is a grayish-brown mottled with black, finer than any fox you’ll ever see, and lots less fluffy-foofy than bunny or badger.  The cantle looks to be chromed steel, and the original straps were obviously made for someone about six inches smaller round the waist than I am, so I had to trade up to something more my size.  (Fortunately, this was easy to do.)  It looks very much like this.  It took me a while of admiring it all this evening before I was willing to put it away in the kilt bag.  (Note to self:  Work out some way to store a very small amount of mothballs in the bag to keep out bugs while not impregnating everything with camphor.)  The NEXT thing I must do is get a new belt buckle; the chrome plating is flaking off mine like crazy, and the sharp edges of chrome sticking up keep cutting microscopic slits in my fingertips.

The first chance I’ll have to show it off is at L’s high school reunion, in about three weeks; there’s supposed to be a cocktail party and a dinner that will call for dress.  (L is talking about trying to make me a Prince Charlie jacket in time to wear, as well; personally, I think she’s waited a bit late so I reserved one of the shop’s jackets as a just-in-case.)

He thought he saw a rattlesnake that questioned him in Greek.  Fnord.