Eulogy to Scarborough Faire

The Faire is over….the Faire is over….the Faire is over! Scarborough Faire….is over. Though I rather imagine it needn’t be stated (again, for the thousandth time), I am somewhat distraught to find myself with little or nothing to do with my weekends other than to grumble and pine until the onset of yet another season of donning Renaissance garb and running amuck in ways that would likely leave my mother with a disgruntled expression were she to know just what kinds of trouble I tend to stir up in said attire at said locations. And so I grieve. Because the Faire is over. Ended. Terminado. Fini. Thus shall my heart mourn with its every tormented beat for the loss of my favorite pastime. Very well then. What’s done is done, and I’ve little recourse now other than to lean back in my cushy desk chair, fold my arms behind my head, and reflect on what a marvelous season we had.

First and foremost, allow me to declare (once more, and this time for the record) that Musketeers are, without question, my favorite part of any faire-going experience. There’s just something about men dashing about in thirty pounds of blue velvet -- accompanied ever so beautifully by long, flowing plumage that flutters in even the slightest breeze -- that leaves me practically convulsing with outright, wanton lust! Then again, maybe it’s the well-groomed mustaches and goatees adorning features so perfectly chiseled that I would wonder if my eyes were gazing upon works of art rather than mankind, itself. Or perhaps it’s the titillating sound of jingling spurs across the way, directing my attentions toward the object(s) of my desire. Who knows? And does it even matter? Nay, say I! For, much like the merit of a wondrous sunset that begs to be watched in awe, it’s really impossible to explain. I simply adore them. Ah, I can almost smell the delectable scent of testosterone even now as I recall their presence. Simply delightful!

However, one might ponder whether my fascination with these glorious French soldiers has anything to do with the fact that my current, and decidedly droll, existence is somewhat male-deficient. In my present occupation I work exclusively with women. And hardly do I bemoan said fact, as the merits of sisterhood are never lost on me. Yet, in every life there is room for balance. Work with women….play with men. (Already does my mother’s audible groan at such a blatant comment echo across my subconscious. Sorry mom.) And therefore one of my primary intentions in racing out to Scarborough Faire each weekend has everything to do with getting a hefty dosage of Vitamin M. (The “M” stands for men, for those of you who are slow on the uptake.) And, although those with intimate knowledge of these velvet-clad wonders would declare with some outrage that Cavaliers and/or Musketeers tend to hog the mirror more than their courtly (or wenchy, whatever the case may be) escorts, they are hardly lacking in testosterone. So what if they adorn themselves with more lace than I did on my wedding night. They’re still indisputably masculine! And wonderfully so!

Of course, you may be sitting there wondering silently to yourself whether or not I only attend Renaissance festivals for the sole purpose of acting up with gorgeous Frenchmen. Again I declare nay, my good friends! For there are so many other wondrous attributes to faire life, including but not limited to splendid entertainment, tasty chilled beverages (wine being my personal preference), talented merchants and artisans, and, last but certainly not least, camaraderie that is without compare. If you would indulge me for a moment, I would like to elaborate a bit more on that last attribute.

There’s something to be said about friendships made and maintained at Renaissance festivals, and therefore I feel the need to say it. The opening weekend of just about any faire can be likened somewhat to the first day of school after summer vacation. We’ve all experienced it: that giddy apprehension as you gaze about in search of faces you remember, as well as the subtle curiosity of the so-called “new kids” in homeroom. Old bonds are reinforced, accompanied by handshakes and hugs and maybe a few lingering kisses here and there. And new ones are forged quickly as faire virgins are welcomed into the fold, initiated into the herd with bottom-spanking ceremonies performed by candlelight under a full moon. No…wait…that’s something else altogether. Pardon the digression.

Nevertheless, these friendships are strengthened by the common experience of roaming through a carefully constructed village in historical (and often uncomfortable…have you ever tried to sneeze in a bodice? Egad!) clothing in weather conditions that are often counterproductive to one’s own physical comfort. Illogical, you say? Why, yes it is. But who said fun had to be founded in logic? Nonetheless, it is through sharing these experiences that we grow closer to one another. Laughing, playing, cavorting about like overgrown children, and looking after each other when the mercury nears triple digits. The camaraderie is real. The concern for another’s well-being is real. And the degree to which my faire friendships warm and comfort my heart, even in my bleakest hours, is as real as the nose on your face. (Assuming you’re not status-post rhinoplasty, that is.)

Are these ties cut as each season draws to a close, you may ask? Hardly. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology we keep in touch even with those who hail from the farthest corners of the globe. (Like Austin, a whole three hour drive from here.) Internet forums (which I’ve taken a little heat of late for waiting too long to join…sorry guys, I’m on it…I really am), long distance calling plans, snail mail, and, ever so thankfully, the slowly falling prices of gasoline all help us to keep in touch with one another. Because without these beloved friends, I likely would wither and fade much like the ivy plant in my kitchen. I value them (the friends, not so much the ivy) as the gifts they truly are. As a matter of fact, on closing day as the sun was skimming across the treetops along the horizon and the gates were being pulled shut, something was said to me which I shall remember forever: "We expect you to keep in touch….You’re hanging with the right people now….We’re the kinds of friends you lean on." God bless the two darlings who uttered such valued phrases to me! I love the hell out of them!

So, the faire is over. And I grieve. But I shall carry with me such fond memories as to fuel my escape-from-reality-moments for quite some time to come. And are we keeping in touch as we promised? You better believe it! I always keeps me promises, mate. And if any of these godsends should happen onto this blog of nonsensical musings (God help them if they made it to the end of this infernal post), I’ll see you at the party. Oh yeah, and I’ll be wearing my toga!