Above Ground and Counting: Methinks on the Topic of Medieval Fairs

Had never been to a Medieval Fair before ... always thought it was for kids. Boy was I right. But, not little kids. No indeed. Big immature old kids. The 20 to senile group. We represented the senile faction and threw in our immaturity as a bonus. We were on a tight schedule ... my schedule ... exacting like the number of pills in your daily pill box. Your daily dose. Not to be monkeyed with. Throw your head back and swallow. It's good for you!

Medieval Fairs attract all kinds. By this, I mean all kinds of nuts and misfits. My guess is that most of them have jobs and families and friends and two dogs and a cat. But a Medieval Fair is like dynamite on a beaver dam ... everything leaks out and bunches of little pools get formed. We were one of those pools. However, this is my blog, not a self-analysis exercise, true confessions, or an admission of anything. This is the nut(shell) version. Read between the lines if you need the details spelled out.

We hit the parking lot about a half hour late according to my schedule, which is a sacred document worshiped by many. Not bad for us. First step out of the car and I felt my left eyebrow begin to quiver. It severely wanted to rise, signaling me to adorn my face with the first quizzical look of the day. From the car to our left, a hoard was emerging ... clad in costumes appropriate to the times. Conversely, we appeared to have taken a wrong turn and missed the public golf course. Unable to determine whether my quizzical look was the result of true amazement that visitors came in costume or if it was just an old principal tic at anything that did not scream conformity, I discarded quizzical for the blank stare of my country bumpkin facade. It fit me like a glove.

A brief stop at the gate secured our tickets for us. Possibly mentioning that we were seniors was only needed once, not three times, but I am all about good communication. In a way, I was sorry that they didn't say seniors had to be 65, not 62. I have a regular Vegas act on the tip of my tongue for that, Man, I can go own and own and own ... yes, I do mean o-w-n not o-n. The rationale is my own ... o-w-n ... and is irrefutable. Luckily, Louis was there to speak up for another person in our party who forgot to ask for the senior discount. It is funny how some folks forget to do that ... almost like it was on purpose.

We got there just in time for the jousting event and rushed to the arena cameras in hand. The battle was fierce and the combatants worthy. Most spectators kept their eyes trained directly on the tip of the lance to see who would emerge victorious.

I, on the other hand, steadied my gaze on the chests. Not the medieval serving wenches' chests, like you are imagining and my comrade-in-arms, Sir Louie was enacting. Not those chests. I watched the chest of the knights ... the horses' chests ... our chests. Standing in an open field in this 80+ degree furnace, I knew the real battle was about who would be the last to die of heat stroke.

Don't repeat this ... I'll deny every word ... a lot of the medieval stuff was both educational and interesting. The jousting horses weren't exactly fiery steeds however. Imagine instead, a knight in shining armor perched precariously atop an enormous plow horse headed for the barn in a wide-open lope. I'm not saying the horses were Belgians ...only that genetically they were breeds with hooves bigger than a pie pan and their breadth was such that the knights' legs were spread like Nadia Comăneci on a balance beam. The spectators got the general idea and patiently waited for someone to get hurt like hockey dads at a pee wee hockey tournament.

From the jousting, we headed for a demonstration of hand-to-hand combat. These guys were weighed down in so much metal armor that they could hardly move.

The closest I can come to describing it is to imagine yourself putting on a VW beetle that has been sitting in the sun on a Carolina beach in August and then trying bash an opponent over the head with a sword to heavy to lift with one hand. Much to our surprise, they actually did bash each other over the head and threw in a few armor-covered knuckle sandwiches to boot.

I believe it was at this point that the cast of characters began to change and medieval began to blur with Disney fantasy, Turkish brothels, Hollywood and goth. It didn't take long for us to run afoul of the Sheriff of Nottingham and his band of not-so-merry men. louis cowered and cajoled before the Sheriff and bowed low enough to make a proctologist happy. We stood a gasp at this behavior and crossed our fingers in hopes that the Sheriff's next demand would be to "Kiss my butt nave".

Scattered about the grounds like seed sown for winter wheat were serving wenches aplenty. Better yet, I might say serving breasts aplenty. There were more breast on display than churches on a South Carolina street corner and they were hoisted with bodices, strapped with chain mail bras, traced with henna and tattooed.

They ranged from homegrown blue ribbon fair varieties to made-to-order selections that would hold their own in a pumpkin competition. They advertised everything from CD's to clothing items for sale (including themselves I suspect) and for the most part were linked by a common thread. Headlights in a pea soup fog, Louis was drawn to them like the light at the end of the tunnel in a near death episode. Our job soon turned out to be to pry his arm from around their waists as he begged for just "one more picture".

Trumpets sounded from the hall nearby and we responded like saliva on Pavlov's dogs. An impromptu stage had been thrown together for medieval singing, jesters, dancers, and musicians.

It appears that even in medieval times it was cool to hire Irish bands. Though I would have preferred a few guitars, bagpipes and drums seemed to be all they were able to book. Maybe nice Temptations style matching outfits would also have been nice ... but when in medieval, do as the medievals do they say.

Well, what do you expect? You hire a band and play some music and next thing you know people are tossing down the mead and dancing all over the place. On girl got up from and danced so hard her clothes darn near fell off. Then she got all meaded up and started balancing a sword on her head. Don't ask me why.

Then another girl joins in except she about drop another seed from the family tree. Took about 5 other girls dancing with her to hold her belly and keep Sir Let Me Out of Here inside her.

Everywhere I looked everybody was dancing and the dancing just got stranger and stranger. I may as well have gone to a disco.

Somewhere in the strangeness, I lost medieval. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. You judge.