CREEK ROAD GANG
Your Subtitle text
The Knight
of the Living Dead
Patrick Carmodycopyright 2010
My wife constantly tries, in vain, to educate our children, through museums, fieldtrips, etc. One such excursion was a trip to the Renaissance Faire. As we all piled in the car, Peg explained it was a chance to “live history”. Our oldest, Samantha, 13, immediately turned up her iPod. Jack, the youngest at age 8, also wasn’t paying attention; he was too busy decapitating his Action figures. Our middle son Brian, however, started to hyperventilate. He is a history nut. Last summer my wife sent him to “history camp”, where you recreate historical events, often in costume. (My wife is determined to get Brian beaten to a pulp at school). Being a former History major, my attitude is more like George Bernard Shaw, who said, “we learn from history that we learn nothing from history”.
We arrived at the fairgrounds, parked a mile and a half away and trudged through the muddy fields to get to the entrance. As I lectured the kids, “You know it was also very muddy in the Middle Ages”, my wife rolled her eyes.
Samantha muttered, “You’d know.”
Jack chimed in “She says that Dad because you’re old. Get it?”
Upon entering the Faire, we immediately fell in behind a line of people, many of them in Renaissance garb, riding motor scooters. Struck by the historical inaccuracy of these misguided employees I asked my wife about it.
“Those are the customers, you idiot.”
“You mean people actually dress up for this?” I asked naively.
Furthermore, everyone seemed to be talking in Olde English. “Good morrow.” “Hark would ye like some mead, my missus?” After a few meads, I asked one of the knights where the bathroom was.
“What say you, good sir?”
“Where is the bathroom?”
“Where be thee privy, thee speak?”
“Yeah.”
“Next to Ye Olde Nachos of Nottingham.”
“Fine.”
The kids barely tolerated the various craft shows and minstrels until they got to something they understood- the duel pit. At this pit, contestants don suits of armor with balloons attached to their heads and shoulders. You defeat your opponent by using a sword to break the balloons, a tradition that dates back to before Ivanhoe. Standing in line in front of our children was a young man in a Seinfeld puffy shirt and extremely tight black leotards carrying his own sword. He told the employees that he would wait until an opponent showed that “could challenge” him. So my kids were up next. Poor Jack, by far the most bloodthirsty of my brood, was told that he was too young to duel. Brian and Sami got on the armor and starting whacking away at each other. While waiting for them, Peg picked up one of the swords and stared enviously at the pit, perhaps thinking of undone homework. Puffy Shirt sauntered up to her and said, “At last, a worthy foe.”
“Get away from me”.
“Saucy wench,” he grunted as he moved carefully out of her arm’s reach.
At the end of the day, the crowd headed to the fairgrounds for the joust and waited impatiently for the start. Meanwhile employees shot “goblets” into the crowd. The “goblets” fortunately turned out to be t-shirts. I know this because Brian caught one of them and Jack, still angry from not being duelworthy, pounced on him. The restless crowd cheered them on as they pummeled each other. It seemed like a good time to take a walk.
Without the distraction of my children, I could now take in the entire Renaissance experience. Daylight was fading and I expected the crowd to thin out. Instead, the crowd grew. Now I realize that we live in a society of subcultures. My wife’s a scrap booking fiend, my brother a surf bum and I have a friend who’s “really into” curling. People can have interests in a variety of things; whatever floats your boat. But this night was becoming disturbing.
It seemed as if all the subcultures had joined forces, all in Renaissance garb, to flood the fairgrounds. There were Bikers, Goths, Cross Dressers, Punks, Hippies, Metalheads, Gypsies, and perhaps, even a few former History majors. I think I also spotted a Trekkie, although they might actually be his ears. Nervous that a chant of “one of us, one of us” would break out any minute, I ran back to the joust and frantically told Peg we had to leave. Assuming I was worrying about the impending traffic jam, she grudgingly herded the kids toward the exit. Only Brian lagged behind. Fearing for my son’s future, I yelled “Brian check out the people around you. It’s called Mid-Evil for a reason. Run!” Brian looked at me, then the crowd, and together we ran to our time machine, escaping yet another history lesson.
Biographical Note: Patrick Carmody lives and writes in West Chester, Pa. where he is held hostage by his wife and three children. He can be contacted at pcarmody@chesco.org.
Check Author Index Prose A-K for more of Pat's writing.
We arrived at the fairgrounds, parked a mile and a half away and trudged through the muddy fields to get to the entrance. As I lectured the kids, “You know it was also very muddy in the Middle Ages”, my wife rolled her eyes.
Samantha muttered, “You’d know.”
Jack chimed in “She says that Dad because you’re old. Get it?”
Upon entering the Faire, we immediately fell in behind a line of people, many of them in Renaissance garb, riding motor scooters. Struck by the historical inaccuracy of these misguided employees I asked my wife about it.
“Those are the customers, you idiot.”
“You mean people actually dress up for this?” I asked naively.
Furthermore, everyone seemed to be talking in Olde English. “Good morrow.” “Hark would ye like some mead, my missus?” After a few meads, I asked one of the knights where the bathroom was.
“What say you, good sir?”
“Where is the bathroom?”
“Where be thee privy, thee speak?”
“Yeah.”
“Next to Ye Olde Nachos of Nottingham.”
“Fine.”
The kids barely tolerated the various craft shows and minstrels until they got to something they understood- the duel pit. At this pit, contestants don suits of armor with balloons attached to their heads and shoulders. You defeat your opponent by using a sword to break the balloons, a tradition that dates back to before Ivanhoe. Standing in line in front of our children was a young man in a Seinfeld puffy shirt and extremely tight black leotards carrying his own sword. He told the employees that he would wait until an opponent showed that “could challenge” him. So my kids were up next. Poor Jack, by far the most bloodthirsty of my brood, was told that he was too young to duel. Brian and Sami got on the armor and starting whacking away at each other. While waiting for them, Peg picked up one of the swords and stared enviously at the pit, perhaps thinking of undone homework. Puffy Shirt sauntered up to her and said, “At last, a worthy foe.”
“Get away from me”.
“Saucy wench,” he grunted as he moved carefully out of her arm’s reach.
At the end of the day, the crowd headed to the fairgrounds for the joust and waited impatiently for the start. Meanwhile employees shot “goblets” into the crowd. The “goblets” fortunately turned out to be t-shirts. I know this because Brian caught one of them and Jack, still angry from not being duelworthy, pounced on him. The restless crowd cheered them on as they pummeled each other. It seemed like a good time to take a walk.
Without the distraction of my children, I could now take in the entire Renaissance experience. Daylight was fading and I expected the crowd to thin out. Instead, the crowd grew. Now I realize that we live in a society of subcultures. My wife’s a scrap booking fiend, my brother a surf bum and I have a friend who’s “really into” curling. People can have interests in a variety of things; whatever floats your boat. But this night was becoming disturbing.
It seemed as if all the subcultures had joined forces, all in Renaissance garb, to flood the fairgrounds. There were Bikers, Goths, Cross Dressers, Punks, Hippies, Metalheads, Gypsies, and perhaps, even a few former History majors. I think I also spotted a Trekkie, although they might actually be his ears. Nervous that a chant of “one of us, one of us” would break out any minute, I ran back to the joust and frantically told Peg we had to leave. Assuming I was worrying about the impending traffic jam, she grudgingly herded the kids toward the exit. Only Brian lagged behind. Fearing for my son’s future, I yelled “Brian check out the people around you. It’s called Mid-Evil for a reason. Run!” Brian looked at me, then the crowd, and together we ran to our time machine, escaping yet another history lesson.
* * *
Biographical Note: Patrick Carmody lives and writes in West Chester, Pa. where he is held hostage by his wife and three children. He can be contacted at pcarmody@chesco.org.
Check Author Index Prose A-K for more of Pat's writing.
