No Swords in the Kitchen!

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Saturday evening – On a north-western cow pasture cum war zone, I walked back to my tent at the edge of the encampment, which was conveniently close to the main battlefield. But I hadn’t seen the worst of the war, as I spent the last two days in the company of archers. All around me were tents and pavilions of every description, and among them humans went about the tasks of being human. They talked, they danced, they sang, they drank various liquids. Some cleaned up the mess, and others made sure children stayed out of the worst of trouble. There were Vikings and Huns and Normans and Scots and Greeks. My ear caught accents from Germany and France and Spain and Russia. Someone was playing drums with enthusiasm while veil clad beauties belly-danced to an appreciative crowd. Two or three people practiced fire dancing. Flickering torches and campfires punctuated the scene with a soft yellow-orange glow and the aroma of burning oak and pine.

Suddenly, the voice of a mother whose patience had nearly run out pierces the night: “NO SWORDS IN THE KITCHEN!”

And I thought, What an iconic scene from life in the SCA!

Gold Beach, Oregon. The setting for the annual West – An Tir War. The price in gasoline was dear, but I found somebody to car pool with. I had to be there for the archery event, in which the best archers from the Kingdom of An Tir and the best archers from the Kingdom of the West met in a show-down.

And verily I say, we did kick butt.

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