Medieval times? Men STILL rut in the spring

If you've never heard of the Society for Creative Anachronism, the only thing you need to know is that it is a sort of full-time Renaissance Fair for ordinary folks. A club with a difference, really. Everyone chooses a persona from a bygone time, preferably before the 17th century, and develops a character who could have lived then and a wardrobe in which to portray that person at Society events.

About 25 years ago, when one might possibly still be dating after a failed first marriage (I refer to myself and the friend involved here), Barbara invited me to go with her and her boyfriend, a Society man-about-town, to a summertime camping event in rural Tennessee. He was staying overnight in a tent; she intended to go home after dinner as she liked camping, even in modern clothing and with access to toilets (not allowed; they didn't exist as we know them in 1500) about as much as I do. Hint:
I refer to four-star hotels ad camping, so you can see how I might feel about the real thing.

Anyway, I agreed to go with her. Of course, being womenfolk, we were expected to bring food. Problem: We couldn't use plastic bowls or plastic wrap. So we found enough wooden bowls, wrapped everything up in towels, threw some apples and grapes into a cloth sack, and wondered how we would get the modern stoppers out of the wine without a corkscrew.

"Not my problem," Barbara told me. "Kenny can do that."

We also had to come up with costumes. Since I had no intention of a second coming, I wasn't about to spend any money on one. I had an old long skirt and a new blouse with a plunging ruffled neckline. I decided that, and a pair of leather Jesus sandals, would have to do. The neckline was so low, I stuffed a silk rose down it to cover the "jewels."

And off we went.

The conversation, for the almost two hours it took to get there on the hottest day of the year, revolved around men. She was having issues with Kenny; I was so immersed in my work as a journalist and hobby riding hunter-jumpers that I had no need of nor interest in a man.  Despite the fact that she hadn't found dating to be any easier than it had been in her teens, Barbara still thought it weird that I had crossed "get a boyfriend" permanently off my to-do list. To be fair, I did have plans, but not until I was 55; then, I decided, I'd have sown enough of my own oats to bother threshing someone else's. (As it happened, I met the man at age 58)

At length, the conversation turn to how truly easy men were to entice if you wanted to. Any appeal to their manhood--ANY appeal--I told her would have them eating of one's hand. She didn't believe it. She told me to prove it. I agreed.

We got to the venue and found Kenny, tricked out in his kilt and sporran, watching the battle on the field, He waved a few times to one combatants he apparently knew. Barbara and I sat down, and I spoke to Kenny. "Gosh," I said. "I don't think I've ever seen such cute little animals as the ones between your legs," referencing the sporran's two tiny animal (rat?) heads. For the uninitiated, a sporran is the leather or fur pouch a man wearing a kilt hangs from his belt to hold his worldly goods. Ahem.

Kenny ate it up, actually.

Mink Sporran: Kenny's little heads were NOT mink

Then the friend came off the field all sweaty from wielding the wooden sword. "Boy, I sure wish we could use the swimming pool," he said, wiping his brow. Of course, they weren't invented in 1570 or whenever, so they were out of bounds.

I saw my chance.

"Well, if you like, I could throw my rose into the pool and you could jump in and save it," I said, batting my eyelids and leaning forward to the jewels would show beside the rose.

He was speechless. Barbara rolled her eyes. Kenny was beginning--but only very dimly-to catch on.

It was, however, time for lunch. So Barbara, Kenny and I went toward the area of the long picnic tables Kenny had staked out for us, spread out our tablecloth and began to arrange the food. We ate in relative comfort in the shade. When lunch was about over, the combatant came over and sat beside me. Obviously he wanted to get to know me better. "Shall I peel you a grape?" I asked him.

It was all over. From that moment on, the poor schnook was hooked and Barbara lost the bet. The man--I almost feel sorry for him now--badgered me to stay for the evening entertainment, which Barbara and I had not planned to do. And didn't.

The next Monday, when Kenny was back home, he phoned Barbara and said that the combatant had begged Kenny for my phone number, but he didn't want to give it out without asking.

Good job. It meant Kenny got to live until at least the next Society of Creative Anachronism event.

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Copyright 2019 Laura Harrison McBride