March, 2015

The Gods Love Heroes. They Also Love A Good Laugh. Think About It.

"Do you have Evvie's number handy? My cell phone fried, I need to re-enter everything in my new one."

"Sure." I knew Ev would have no problem with me giving it out, and rattled it off for Valerie from memory.

"Tanks mooch." She punched in the numbers. "Hey, Ev, you and Lily still play? Nah, I haven't for a couple of years, I'd feel funny calling Lady Ravenclaw for a favor. I was hoping…"

Her voice trailed off as she walked toward the back of the store. What favor could the local medieval recreation group hold for her? Recipes? Help sewing an outfit? Tons of cool camping equipment?

"Are you bribeable?" she asked, returning to the front counter.

"Depends. Is it illegal, immoral or fattening?"

"No, no, and no."

"Darn."

"I'm moving."

I nodded. She had lucked into a starter house with a nice, big yard—not fancy, not big, not a slum, but not high rent—and had been running around the past few months getting everything in place.

"Well… I'm behind. Way behind. I have to be out of my place by the 29th so they have time to inspect it before the end of my lease. I didn't trash the place, but I want to get my security back. So I really need to clean…"

My heart sank—but just a little. How many times had she come in extra hours to help with icky stuff around the store? Plenty. So, sure, I'd help white tornado her place.

"I've got it covered—"

Phew.

"—but I am totally behind on packing. You are the most organized person I know—you can pack more crap in the van than physics should allow. Look at the number of books we have—and we aren't breaking any fire marshal laws! So I was hoping you could… help me pack?" she asked hopefully.

"Sure. When?"

"This weekend?"

The 21st and 22nd. "Nothing like cutting it close."

"I have all the boxes," she added quickly. "And bubblewrap and markers and—"

"You need more bodies?"

"Well…"

/ / / / /

Saturday morning found me boxing books, DVDs, CDs and other flat stuff, Ducky wrapping dishes and breakables and even Lexi bagging clothing and other squishy stuff. A couple of friends from grad school helped her wrestle the furniture outside and clean like their lives depended upon it. I carefully stacked boxes and bags in the cab end of the U-haul; the furniture would go in last, get offloaded first and then boxes go in the house around them. Logic.

"You need help on the other end?" I asked. She said she had strong backs coming that night to load the furniture.

"Don't think so. Lots of ooks on hand in the morning."

Ooks—recreationist term for the big, brawny fighters in the group, a name originated in the SCA (rumor had it they had one brain among them and would rotate ownership on a weekly basis). "Oh. Okay."

"But if you want to help unpack the boxes, I won't say no…"

It's actually fun organizing someone else's stuff. At least, I think so. Ducky stayed home to keep an eye on Mother (Abby had kept her occupied on Saturday, taking her to a Clark Gable marathon at the revival theatre in Herndon), but Lexi came along for the ride, willing to sort and organize books and DVDs with me. She thinks it's fun, too.

I hadn't gone to an SCA, ECS or EBR event in years. (Society for Creative Anachronism started the whole mess. Empire of Chivalry and Steel was an offshoot of the SCA, and Empire of the Blood Roses, the group Lily, Ev, Charlie and, until recently, Valerie played in, was an offshoot of that; it was a lot less rules-oriented than the SCA. The Costume Nazi's won't flog you for using zippers, for example.) I used to attend the wars and events, manning a book booth, but it had been a while. So I had forgotten how… imposing… some warriors can be.

Their ages ranged spanned a generation, from 20 (Squire Basil) to 53 (Baron Brunvald, current King of Laurasia, Eastern Realm). Not a one was under 5'11", and the first 6 to arrive could probably pick up my van and walk it down the block without breaking a sweat. They hefted bookcases under their arms and balanced tables on their heads with nary an "oof." They did a team lift on the sofa only because it was too big for one person to schlepp on his lonesome. They had the truck empty in a twinkling, to the interest of the teens and young adults loitering in the neighborhood.

But they weren't through. Baron Brunvald yelled, "Gear up!" (his voice carrying at least a mile) and threw open the back doors of his van. Trunks to other vehicles were opened and equipment passed from hand to hand. Lest anyone think baseball or other sports equipment, we're talking swords (mostly metal, but a few rattan practice pieces), shields, helmets and padding. The eyes of the surrounding young men grew wider. The Baron gave a quick once over to make sure the safety gear was in place and appropriate to the weaponry being used, then: "COMMENCE!"

The air was rent with the hard thwack of rattan on shield, clash of metal on metal, and yells of, "Cur!" "Vile dog!" and, after a particularly good hit, "Six-fathered son of a tosspot strumpet!" Off to the side, a couple of guys were working on their fencing moves (neither looking quite as delectable as George Takei running around the Enterprise without his shirt on; sorry, guys), but most of the participants were wielding BAWs—Big Ass Weapons. Charlie, Ev and Lily (who had gotten back early from a weekend away and come over to help), Valerie, Lexi, and I took a break, grabbed some drinks and lounged about the porch for a while to watch the show.

It took only 20 minutes for the cops to show up.

"Hold arms!" the Baron bellowed. Combat stopped immediately. Warriors stood at polite attention, swords lowered and points to the ground, hands resting lightly atop pommels. Helmets were removed and a couple of guys tossed off their lightweight armor (planning to upgrade for round two). "May I help you?" he said cordially to the officers who were approaching very cautiously.

"What's going on?" The first cop, a balding redhead in his late forties, asked with careful neutrality, eyes sweeping over the crowd. His partner hung back slightly, thumbs lightly resting on his belt (and one hand close to his sidearm).

Joey (aka Baron Brunvald) gave him a benign smile. "Fighter practice. We're all in the EBR—The Empire of the Blood Roses. It's a medieval recreation group. We have wars, feasts, dances…"

"May I?" The second officer, a late-twenties young man, Japanese-American I guessed, gestured to the ook nearest him, indicating the nice Claymore with a basket hilt. The sword was hefted effortlessly and presented with blade horizontal. "Jeez," the officer muttered as his hands dropped with the weight. "Where did you get this?"

Sheldon shrugged. "Guy in Richmond, Rusty Baker. He made probably half the gear here. Costs more than the other armorers, and there's a waiting list… but you get what you pay for."

Having figured out there was no gang war going on, the cops relaxed slightly. The first officer was now inspecting the vent grille of the helmet a guy in a Born To Raze Helms t-shirt had offered. "This is nice."

We watched from the porch, amused. Once it was clear nobody would be charged or hauled off, the guys dropped their guard and chatted for a bit, showing off their equipment and answering dozens of questions.

"I know they say never bring a knife to a gunfight…" the younger officer said, handing back a particularly pretty broadsword.

"That's not a knife," one of the ooks piped up in a fair Paul Hogan imitation.

"This is a knife!" half a dozen voices chorused.

"You might want to keep this in the back yard," the first officer cautioned. "The neighbors might get… upset."

"Will do." Baron Brunvald grinned. "Guess we shouldn't practice the caber toss out here, either?"

"Caber toss?" the second officer called back. They were halfway back to their squad car.

"Yeah. It's for the Scottish Games. Basically, you pick up a telephone pole and toss it end over end."

"You are able to pick up a telephone pole and throw it?" The officer's voice carried for a couple of houses.

Two of the gangbanger wannabes looked at each other, shocked, then looked back at the ooks with growing respect. "Sure," Brunvald said with a 'doesn't everyone?' shrug. They didn't know Joey is 53—but they could tell he was close to their dads' age. It was highly doubtful either dad could flip a phone pole.

"Anybody hassles this place… is crazy," the Japanese-American cop called out to his partner. I think I saw him wink.

"We'll be over here a lot," Brunvald called out. "You're welcome to stop by!"

"We will!"

We watched the 'boys' go back to playing, while a small group of toughs held a quiet conference across the street. One of them scurried over and moved the old Impala that was half-blocking Valerie's driveway. She had politely asked them to move it up a few feet this morning, and got some cuss-sprinkled lip for her effort. Now he swung it in a u-turn and parked it in front of his house. "Sorry, ma'am. We'll be more better careful next time," he called out.

Ma'am. I swallowed my grin as Valerie called out, "Thank you!"

Squire Basil (with his padding off, I saw he was wearing a shirt reading Hero for Hire - Damsels Rescued, Dragons Slain, Treasures Recovered, Scoundrels Foiled, Kingdoms Saved, Rudeness Punished, 1-800-555-HERO) plopped onto the porch and reached for a can of soda. "Problem solved?"

"Problem solved," Valerie confirmed.

Sometimes you don't want to live by, "Don't get mad, get one up." Sometimes, "Don't get mad, get weird" is better!

So glad to see people stopping by! And, after the hassles I've had uploading what little I've managed, I can *certainly* understand not logging in to the site. If you're leaving a comment as a guest, you you mind mentioning your screen name in the review? I feel so rude not acknowledging that you've been in. Thankyoueversoverymuch.