Aug. 14th, 2007

... here


There are the great experiences of War: the roar and clash of fighters on the battlefield, the pageantry of processing into opening ceremonies, the glory of the exhausted and exhilarated fighters returning to camp at the end of the day's battles (or at the end of the day's post-battle pick-up fights!] There is the inspiration and beauty of the arts displayed to lift the soul and bring a rather manic gleam to the eye ("I can't WAIT to make one of THOSE!"). There are the triumphant finds on merchant's row-- the smoke of campfires-- the hectic, swirling gaiety of the parties-- there is even that first moment when one comes around the bend on westbound 422, when the pavilions stretch out below you and stun your vision and you are swept into all of it, swept away from who and where you were and immersed in these Current Middle Ages---


And then there is just one lady, getting frustrated because her plans to transfer a line drawing onto her fabric so she can embroider at War just aren't working, and it's all getting kind of screwed up, and then she pauses in her muttering and looks up-- and this white-bearded Duke is tearing his kitchen apart to try to figure out a way to make her a makeshift light table so that she can more easily trace her design onto her fabric.




Pictures cannot capture the way that makes one's heart swell, or the depth of the gratitude felt, or the fact that it is only one reason of about 10 that Duke Deaton was my absolute hero this Pennsic War.




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bertana

July 2010

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