I took my son to the Ren Faire yesterday. I had asked a friend of mine to meet us there, but we hadn't managed to nail down a definite yes or no by Saturday morning. So, I figured just me and my kid would go it on our own, and I was quite good with that. But then Saturday morning, shortly before we set out, my parents decided they would meet us there later in the day. Great!
I used to work at the Faire. I played recorder in a duet for several years. It was hot, grueling work--and I wasn't even an actor. I trotted from set to set with my recorders and my partner, fending of crippling stage fright. I could act in front of a crowd, but I could barely squeak out a tune and keep up any kind of chit chat or banter between songs. But I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the sounds and smells of that place. I loved camping there among the other actors in the copse of trees behind the furthest, lowest portion of the Faire site. I loved nearly everyone I worked with, tho I was too shy to make many close friends outside the musicians' circle. Many people I admired and liked seemed too smart, too quick, too outgoing for the likes of me, a rather quiet and introspective sort.
My last season at the Faire was nine years ago. Nine. That's almost a decade. I've been away longer than I was there, and yet I feel as close to it as I ever did. When I returned last year for the first time since I married and moved to Germany, I was a nervous wreck. But people I knew were still there, and every single one of them recognized me. Every single one of them greeted me with a hug and a smile. It was a phenomenal homecoming. I couldn't have asked for anything better. The day I visited for the first time in eight years was no less than magical.
So, my son and I arrived Saturday about 9:15 am. As we sat together on the stage in front of the main gate, I imagined the smells of open fires and breakfast cooking, of the sounds of morning meeting, and remembered being laced into my costume: bodice over corset over skirts over chemise over bloomers over stockings as I sipped a frozen cappuccino, already beginning to regulate my water intake--just enough to remain somewhat hydrated, yet not enough to have to run to the privy more than twice during our 10-hour performance day. We were admonished daily to keep ourselves thoroughly hydrated, and that we should be peeing AT LEAST twice during the day. But have you ever crammed yourself in a dirty port-a-potty and had to wrestle down your bloomers and panties beneath an ankle-length shirt and two full, ankle-length skirts, the waistbands of everything bound beneath a tightly-laced corset on a hot, humid day, when everything sticks and the smells of that privy wafts around you, while trying not to let anything of yours touch anything of it??? No? Ugh. And I didn't even wear a hoopskirt and brocade outergarments...
Around 6 pm, however, I would sneak a tankard of Zinfandel from Katherine the barmaid (drinking alcohol was frowned upon, but, well, you know) and that would always tip the scales. By 7:30 pm, when I began to strip off my constricting costume, buzzed and sweating and woozy from heat and exhaustion, I would barely make it to the privy in time!
Ah, yes, those were good times. And I miss them.
So, I sat there remembering all of that until we were shooed off the stage by Odorferious Thunderbottom (OTB), Keeper of the Privies, who entertained us for the fifteen minutes or so before the gates opened. And my seven-year-old son, to my surprise, heckled that man like a professional, at one point rendering Mr. Thunderbottom retortless. OTB had three couples onstage, and he gave each one a multiple-choice question. The first couple was asked what OTB's official title was. There were four possibilities, two of which I will make up because I don't rememer them all. What is OTB's official title? a) keeper of the privies, b) village idiot, c) the Queen's boy toy, d) Sheriff of Nottingham's right-hand man. And without missing a beat, my level-headed-young-man-turned-professional-heckler shouted out, "The Queen's boy toy!" eliciting a laugh from the crowd. I was both proud and mortified. And my son, of course, had no idea what he'd just said, but he couldn't have chosen a better answer! And a little part of me couldn't help but wonder if I'd find him up there one day, say ten years from now, priming the crowd for a day at the Faire?
We had a good day. During OTB's opening show and my son's sassy brassiness, my friend called to say they would be there in about two hours. So, a day I had planned alone with my son, ended up surrounded by friends and family of all kinds. My kid did get shy again when he met his hero, Robin Hood. I know Robin Hood personally, and while I had explained to my son who Robin really is (an actor who is a friend of mine, his name is... and I know him from when I performed there... etc.), my son was still in awe. His previous brashness was instantly replaced by shy self-consciousness while Robin knelt beside him and made small talk. I think my son was flattered that Robin remembered him from last year.
I didn't walk around meeting a greeting all my friends from long ago. Not really. I stopped to say hello where I ran across them. But I was there with my folks, and my best friend and her husband, and my son. I'm in the middle of a divorce, and involved in some other personal entanglements, and all of that leaves me feeling emotionally drained. I remained mostly distant. I didn't walk around to see other people's performances, except where my friends or Alex had expressed an interest. In fact, I think we only saw two, no three, performances, two of the Robin Hood scenes.
I plan to go back this summer, on a weekend my son is with his dad, and I'll be alone. I'm looking forward to going there alone. Walking around, musing, completely within myself. Probably yearning to play music with someone. This time, tho, I'll visit sets and be more social.
