Children are great. They legitimize all the things.
Officially: Renaissance Festival = For Them.
Unofficially: Renaissance Festival = My Vegas
“And we shall listen to Tales of Narnia to set the mood!” I informed the Troy Boys as we started our drive to back in time.
“Can we bring back a souvenir?” the eldest, Sir Jesse – Son of Matthew, Son of Douglas, Son of William – inquired.
Officially: “Whatever thy heart desires that is less than 15 schillings and 5 pence.”
Unofficially: Because the Lady of the Castle has plans for the rest of the silver she snuck from the Lord’s pouch.
Ticket lines are usually boring, but in front of us was a lady with no shirt and pasties o’ duct tape on her hmm-hmms. The boys didn’t notice, but I stared (just as they would have in Renaissance times). So many questions! Out of all things that go stick, why duct tape? What was her method of removal? Does she do this frequently or just when she’s in her Renaissance regalia? I never got to ask. They didn’t let her in, but the guard at the gate was apologetic. “We had to tell a man in a loin cloth the same thing …”
A ribbon show greeted us upon our arrival.
“Is this going to be your next hobby?” my friend, Lady Maggie the Fair, asked.
“As soon as I grow arm muscles.”
Rennaissancing begets new parenting rules.
“Don’t touch people’s weapons without asking!” I warned my middle son, Ezra the Curious.
“We don’t know that person. You shouldn’t touch his bottom!” I reprimanded Ezra the Cuddly when he pet a man’s kilt.
“Don’t hit men with your wooden sword in that region of their person!” I shouted when Ezra the Brave took a wack with his wooden sword at a knight’s leather loincloth.
“That’s okay, ma’am. That’s why it’s there.”
We feasted on turkey legs while awaiting the joust of knights from afar.
Great costumes surrounded, but none like the duct pasties.
“Such a shame they didn’t let her in, especially when we darn well know the No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service policy didn’t come around until the Victorian Age.”
“Oh, she got in,” a man to my right announced.
“How?” I marveled.
“She put on a shirt to get through the gate and then took it off.”
It was lovers’ day at the festival, and the fair ladies of the crowd could win a rose from the knights. I’d like to say the others stood a chance, but they forgot how loud and obnoxious ladies were in Renaissance times. My friend, Pam the Sly, caught the whole thing on her Renaissance smartphone.
“What about Dad?” Sir Jesse inquired after I accepted the knight’s rose.
Lady Maggie had that covered.
“Look at what your wife is up to,” she live-texted to m’lord who was back at the family castle manning Tommy the Unherdable.
“Keep an eye on her,” he responded.
Midday, we broke for a traditional feast of funnel cakes while the kids played with their swords in the field – a Renaissance play date.
“Do you think the kids think they’re the best swordsmen ever?” I inquired of Lady Maggie.
“They’re ready to join the Olympic team.”
I was about to correct her on timelines until I remembered the Olympics used to be an ancient Greece thing.
“We should have been talking in British accents the whole time!” Lady Maggie exclaimed upon exit.
“Why’s that, Mom?” her eldest, Sir Owen – son of Micah – asked.
“It’s the Renaissance. Americans weren’t invented yet.”
‘Till next year.