A failed actor sadly named Kenneth Smeld, gave Godfrey a long ride across the Plain. Kenneth was an unhappy person, across the miles with Godfrey in the car, he shared his pain.

Warm salad was only one of his  dislikes and rants. Godfrey listened politely to his story of dreadful brown pants.

That night round his fire, wrapped warm in his kilt, over the rim of Beet Coulee the moonlight spilt. The glitter of frost brushed the prairie veld, he thought of the  sad life of Kenneth Smeld. With a fridge in his car to keep salad cold, this is the story he told.

Brown uniform pants they were, everyone loathed, the pants of my job in which we were clothed. They had no pockets so no one could steal them, every pair smelled like something had died. The itchy nylon gave me a rash up the thighs. My pair had one leg hemmed, not the other, no button on the dubious zip, I knelt in bleach, it left not a stain, rubbed my butt on a nail to no avail, the brown pants would not tear or fail.

One day the brown pants will be hung in a frame,in the hallowed shrine of minimum wage. But really this is  about the love of my life, a girl of your age… Miss Sherbert Pipp, she stayed out all night, consequently she could not get up in the day. As an actress she was dreadful, but I loved Sherbert Pipp anyway.

We both had jobs in a flash coffee shop, a new one on the main square. Sherbert glad it was owned by her dad, me appalled  by the brown pants he made us wear. Sherbert slept all day on a sack in the back, but I loved true the pudgy hand that I held, till she laughed at me and said farewell, good luck in the pants Kenneth Smeld.

Godfrey told Kenneth, free in my kilt I stride, though I have lost it a time or more,(recently catching it in a bus door)  It is cool in summer, snug winter and fall, it is a fine pillow rolled in a ball, or a laundry sack. When hitching my kilt can be seen far off, its’ a distress beacon when hoisted aloft. Ladies enjoy a curious glance, when free in my kilt I dance.

In a kilt you cannot carry the burden, of lost love or unhappy, itchy brown pants. As Godfrey camped out neath the Harvest Moon, Kenneth Smeld saw the same moon, through the window of a grotty motel room.

In the nasty motel, safe inside, he thought of the odd young stranger he had given a ride. Next  day when the cleaner pried open his door, Kenneth Smeld was in the grotty old room no more… Gone was the beds tartan blanket, left behind were brown pants on the bathroom floor, empty on the nightstand with some loose change, was the sewing kit from the desk drawer…



  1. Another fellow traveler freed from civilization’s brown pants and learning the value of a kilt, thanks to Godfrey’s example. Makes me wonder what are my brown pants that need to be tossed away.

  2. Some pull our roots free and go, some shed earthly bounds to soar, Godfrey’s profound dislike of beets could be perceived as a “Fear of Being Rooted Down” I think it is a life long shedding process, that keeps us free and keen of mind. Lot of reads on this one, but only you have pondered the metaphor- thanks Mary.

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