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A case for cloaks



This weekend, I went to a medieval recreation event, and though the main festivities were indoors, the kitchen was outside. Inside the meekly heated, concrete-floored halls, I was warm enough in no less than four layers, but the November rain — which couldn’t decide between being a drizzle or a downpour — daunted me. Watching wool-swaddled Celts and Vikings braving the wet from a doorway, weighing my hunger against my desire to stay warm, the smell of honey-glazed ham wafted across the parking lot, taunting me. Then my friend, as though reading my mind, removed their cloak and pinned it around my shoulders. And like Eve eating the forbidden fruit, I became privy to knowledge I could never unlearn: we, as a society, have failed. Because we no longer wear cloaks. They’re blankets! That you can wear! I felt like I was wrapped in the abstract concept of comfort itself. I was the opposite of an oasis — a pocket of perfect dryness. I looked like I was in Game of Thrones! And also, I got my ham. We all have to face the rain. Cloaks changed my life. And this fall, it’s time to let them change yours.

Image: Simer Haer/The Cascade

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