Cathy got me thinking about catch phrases and personal mottoes.   Those things that people put at the bottom of emails sometimes, often quotes from a dead poet or general or politician.  I prefer my catchphrases to be my own.  I also like it when others have a catch phrase that people associate them with.

Lately my catch phrase has been “Speak truth to power,” which isn’t so much my own, as it is so common that there isn’t anyone specific to quote.   A lot of folks continue to toss it back to me in emails and letters, so I must have been using it more than I thought lately.
I’ve had other personal catch phrases in the past: “How much for a thousand of them?” comes to mind.   (I like to shop, especially in the developing world where that question is not only valid, but often very frugal).

In our medieval household, we used to joke about how spiff we’d look by imagining a conversation with someone who didn’t know us.  Them: “Who’s that?”  Squire: “That’s Viscount Richard.”  Them:  “Can he fight?” Squire: “No, but he looks good!!”

I  remember in the “way back” when I’d be working on armor in my garage at the multi-armed monster made of railroad iron (no Keith, I still don’t want to know where it came from) and I’d be looking for a tool.  Two particular catch phrases come to mind.  Me: “Where is my drill?”   David: “You don’t know do you?”  Me: “Michael, do you know where my drill is?”  Michael:  “If it was up your A$$ you’d know!”  Me: “Very helpful…both of you.” (I’m not making this up…really.  Cleaning it up a bit, since there are children who read this site, but not changing one word).  You can see why we didn’t get a lot of armor made.  Once I started chasing them around the garage with the located power drill… other catch phrases would fly.

Of course, the newest one…from Dave during our sessions of gaming, and based upon two obvious occurrences: “An arrow in the butt is better than a spear in the winky!”   Now who says we are stuffy and old-fashioned?  I can’t wait to see the T-shirt.

I’m certain that there were dozens of others…I’m just getting that CRS stuff.  So I’m hoping you all will fill in the blanks.  Didn’t we used to have a lot more catch phrases?

Today I drove through the back gate of Ft. Myer, something I’ve done a few thousand times in the past twenty-eight years. Today however, I had one of those crossovers through the nexus that most people refer to as memories. Perhaps it was the angle of the sunlight on the guard shack where the two Military Police (MPs) were standing, perhaps it was the smell of the spring air - all I know is one moment I was driving through the gate to visit the retirement office and the next I was nineteen again and passing through the gate in the other direction while the MPs stood gaping with their mouths open.

I don’t recall what was wrong with my car on that day in 1981, but three of my friends and I were in a quandry over how we would get to SCA fighter practice in Fall’s Church. Neither Ken nor Tim had a car, mine was out of commission for some reason, and Jeff, well Jeff had a little green Triumph Spitfire with two seats and a micro trunk. So the four of us stood by his car in the parking lot scratching our heads and trying to figure out how to stuff four armor bags into a space made for one. It didn’t work. I am a master packer, but I couldn’t get more than the shields and a few pieces of loose armor into that miniscule space.

I don’t recall if it was one person in particular or more of a group think moment, but before long we had our solution. We put the shields in the trunk along with what few swords would fit and donned the rest of our armor. Jeff was driving (in armor), Tim sat in the front seat (in armor) and Ken and I sat on the trunk of the car with our legs crammed in the tight space behind the passenger seats. We each held a pole weapon and a greatsword with points skyward as Jeff pulled out, stopping only to raise the visor on his Spangen helm so that he could at least pretend to be able to see where he was going.

There were no seat belt laws in Virginia that we knew of in 1981, but there were definitely seat laws. Only two of us actually had seats. There surely must have been a law about driving with little ability to turn one’s head. I recall that we all expected to be stopped by the MPs at the gate, but as we approached, the two on duty turned to look at us and gaped with mouths open as we passed. I have a vague recollection of having to dismount to leave post, but perhaps I am confusing that with what I thought we should have done at the time.

I clearly recall driving all the way to Syr Strykar’s house in Falls Church with the four of us chanting and singing and screaming and causing quite a commotion. We passed several police cars but they just gaped and watched us drive by. I guess it was a simpler time then. Today there would probably be SWAT teams and take downs and guys in white coats with padded ambulances.

As I drove through the gate this morning and had the rapid flashback, I actually toyed with the idea of recreating the event just to test the theory. I wonder what would happen…?

In my circle of friends there is an unspoken rule, “don’t mention any potential project out loud, no matter how wild or impossible it might seem at the time, unless you really want me to do it.” At work, I’m normally a big idea guy. I think the big thoughts, see the big picture, plan the grand scheme, and someone else gets to fill in all the little details like, oh, making the impossible possible. I get to manage, direct, decide, and execute (in the executive sense), but I seldom get to do anything.

At home, I like to get my hands dirty and actually see a project through from fertile idea to splendid though often exhausting completion. I have a high success rate, which means I am constantly crossing things off my ‘honey do’ list, but my honey also continues to add things, as do I, which means the list never seems to end. This is how we end up with a sixteen foot long bridge over our creek sturdy enough to drive a truck full of stone over (or fight upon in armor), a forest fairy play set with towers that have individually cut and hand painted tar paper leaves, and a deck the shape of a redbud leaf with a stem of stairs leading to the water. We have a faux stained glass window hanging in our foyer that is eight feet in diameter and weighs several hundred pounds, an English parterre with raised beds in the backyard, and any number of projects ongoing in the basement and garage.

Many of them started with words from the forbidden list, “wouldn’t it be cool if…” or “what if you could…” or “I’ll bet you might be able to…” — you get the idea. We’ve built eight foot tall castle walls out of paper mache’ rocks (enough to decorate the walls of an entire union hall), built a cake in the shape of a castle that was fourteen inches tall and four feet on a side (and required us to remove the door frame to get it out of the house), and have plans for a portable tudor style home that could be transported in a semi-trailer.

At one point in my life, when I spent time working in a specific medium for a period of time before moving on to another, my friends were very wary of allowing me to be exposed to ideas. I saw a medieval pavilion (tent) in a book and decided to make one. Then I made twelve more. I saw a picture of a wooden bed and decided I could easily build one. Or six. I made my friends some medieval armor. Then I made several other sets. It was a wonderful time of life. Have an idea, make it reality. See something I liked, make one myself.

One day some friends came over while I was lying on the floor watching TV with my head against the front of the sofa. I vaguely heard the door open, heard a strangled scream of “NOOOOOOOO!” and suddenly found myself being dragged out into the back yard and hosed down with water like a dog that had made a mess on the rug. “NO. NO. NO. NOOOOOO!” They had come in to find me watching a history show about Welsh stonemasons hand carving blocks of stone to rebuild a medieval fortress. Give me a break. I didn’t even own a stone chisel at the time. And I lived much farther from a stone quarry than I do now. Not to mention the climate where I lived then was not as appropriate as it is now. You have to know your limitations. You also have to know how to be patient.

So for now, I’m finishing my basement, putting final touches on the gardens, perfecting the playset, and planning my next small projects. I’m listening intently to the project ideas of my friends, like the one who suggested that I was a bit obsessive for putting an address and stamp on the 1/4 inch long letter made of chewing gum that went into the mailbox next to the sidewalk in front of this year’s gingerbread house, but I’m also recalling all the projects I’ve been patient about over the years. There are some wonderful open areas in the woods behind our house. Who knows what I could build there. History Channel anyone?

It is 2 AM and the pots and pans are finally washed, the dishes put away, the massive amounts of extra bread stocked in the deep freeze and all the guests tucked away for the night.  What a wonderful evening of feasting, music, friendship, memories and tall stories.  In a few hours, all these wonderful people that love each other like a family will get up, put on armor, and go outside to pound on each other with swords.  This is actually another thing that friends are for.

We are getting ready for our annual Twelfth Night celebration, a medieval feast in our home with many of our closest friends who recreate the Middle Ages.   There is much table hauling, turkey plucking (okay, turkey thawing), silver polishing, and recipe reviewing.  We do this every year.  We’ve done this every year for as long as…well, almost as long as we’ve been married.  Why then, do we go through the same pains every year, in trying to decide what vegetables to cook.  My lovely Lady wife only wants Medieval vegetables, nothing that would have come from the new world.  Potatoes? New world.  Corn?  New world.  Sweet potatoes, squash, eggplant? New world, new world, new world.  Ok, that leaves peas and beans, carrots and turnips, onions and leeks.   Last year we had peas and beans, carrots and turnips, onions and leeks.  The year before it was the same.  I imagine, now that we have spent days looking at medieval recipe books and fretting over what we could possibly have, that we will end up with peas and beans, carrots and turnips and maybe, just maybe, some onions and leeks.  Oh my.

My Lady and I are fortunate enough to have friends who own horses and who were kind enough to allow us to take our annual Christmas pictures at their farm.  This one of the two of us is one of my favorites…