The Adventures of St. Rain
versus the Goat Hammer
It was a brief comment in a friend’s
journal that reminded me the magnificent time that the early summer of my 18th
year of my life was. There were many magical moments during that year, looking
back I can hardly see where I'd ever felt the sadness and melancholy that I
knew existed back in those times. That little fact gives me hope that when I
look back 10 years from now, I'll have the same wonderful thoughts.
The weekend that my High School was holding our graduation ceremony somewhere in Olympia, I managed to sneak away in my typical anti-establishment, rebel, punk style and found myself smack dab in the middle of the largest SCA event that I could possibly imagine. I know that there are those find a way to mock me for this, but I'll keep my happily geeky moments regardless of the sneers.
My family was very close friends with a group of families in the SCA that called themselves the "Glamfolk" or "Glumfolk". I don't think I can possibly say enough good things about these people. The group was of Norse origins. Vikings, Scandinavians,.... imagine if you will; men with long hair and longer beards, decorated with beads, thick wool tunics in greens and grays, and necklaces decorated with amber and Thor's Hammers hanging from their necks. There was never an unpleasant moment with them; always quick to smile and laugh.
And chief among them was my good friend, Walter. Walter wasn't your stereotypical Norse/Viking berzerker.... more like your retired old chief. His hair was dark, grey shot. Bright blue eyes that still contained the spark of youth. He had a round belly, and a hearty laugh, and could tell stories like no one else I've ever known. War stories, hunting stories, stories of his friends, and stories that seemed unreal. He had them all.
At this particular event, Thirty Year Celebration, another of my good friends from the Glumfolk, Sara / Sineidin, had the particular honor of being Queen of An Tir (the NorthWest corner of the continent, minus Alaska.) The entire encampment of Glamfolk became the royal encampment. My mother was good good friends with Sara and happened to be among her Lady's in Waiting, and thus, my family ended up in that encampment as well. Oh... how did a young German lad go so wrong?
As typical tradition for that encampment, the early evenings were spent sitting around a campfire and telling stories. The one particular story that stands out the most for that weekend is the story of the Goat Hammer.
There happened to be one particular hammer sit aside in the corner of the pavilion that became of importance. It didn't seem interesting or unusual. It appeared to be a simple miniature sledge hammer. About a foot long, with a heavy squared head. But Walter said that was a special "Goat Hammer", and proceeded to recall how to use the Goat Hammer for its intended purpose.
Evidently, sterilization of domesticated animals was a mostly in-exact science in the middle ages, (so I was lead to believe) and while modern technology gives us a variety of methods to accomplish this, there seemed to be few alternatives a thousand years or so ago.
For the squeamish men reading this, yes... use your imagination and don't read the remainder of this paragraph. Because yes, Walter went into graphic detail of how the hammer was used in conjuncture with a stump to render the organs ineffective. While a decade later, I realize the farce in this as a teenager, I tried not to think about the accuracy at ALL!
The REASON that Walter had decided to tell this particular story is because there was a visiting young man (not myself) who was asking to accompany one of the teenage girls from the encampment around that evening. Walter, in his fatherly wisdom, decided that recalling the story of the Goat Hammer was an effective method of... discouraging questionable behavior.
While I was part of the encampment; I was known, liked, and trusted so I was given much greater leeway when accompanying the young ladies of the encampment. And yes, I did spend much of the weekend flirting, as young lads often do. There was one particular girl that I spent a good deal of time with, a young blonde beauty named Dawn.
One of my fondest memories while at the event happened to be dancing in one of the halls. There was a particular hall that was set aside for the teenagers, and Dawn and I found ourselves hanging out there with our peers. The evening in question, there was medieval dancing being taught...which seemed to be a flop, and turned more into teenagers sitting around chatting with one another. I can't recall the details exactly, but someone put on a waltz beat and I asked Dawn to dance. It's one of my hidden points of pride that I dance well. While teaching and leading Dawn in a waltz, it was the only time that I'd only been truly comfortable and joyful dancing with another person. That night, in the hall, waltzing was magical... but it does not explain why this story is St. Rain versus the Goat Hammer.
Now, this monster of an SCA event had taken over the Clark County Fair Grounds just north of Vancouver, WA. It took place in the early summer of '96, the peak of the grass growing season. Just as the event was starting, the grass across the fairground had to be cut down from a length of roughly two feet down to a more manageable level. However, the management hadn't taken the time to remove the cut grass from the fields. This left piles of dried grass, like hay, all across the field. The populace quickly turned the piles into roads, alleys, and boundary markings; but never eliminating the piles from the field.
Dawn, the true antagonist of the story, if there were to be one, had used one afternoon to show off a bit of her tomboy side (or perhaps she was just flirting back) by tackling, wrestling, and tickling me all while burying me underneath the piles of hay in the field. And I, not quite mastering the arts of courtly behavior, returned the flirting with the girl by tackling, tickling, and wrestling with her within the piles of hay.
I imagine that at this point in time is when Walter and the rest of the men of the Glamfolk became interested in just what exactly was going on from within the piles of hay that happened to contain the wrestling bodies of two teenagers. It was perhaps no secret there was some distinct flirting involved that the older men had taken a notice too.
While wrestling with the lady, she took the opportunity to grab an armful of hay and pin it to my face. And that is when the activity took a terrible, terrible turn for the worse. While blinded by hay, and struggling with the lady I felt the strong sure hands of a man quickly grab one leg, and then another. Before I could react to move the hay from my face another strong hand had pinned my shoulders. I couldn't move, I couldn't react. Finally, I freed one hand and was able to push the last bit of hay away from my face. And HORROR! OH! THE HORROR!
My legs had been spread apart, spread to the shape of a V. On each leg was a stout Norsemen, incapacitating the limb. From between my legs, just beneath my crotch was the cut stump of a log. And with huge round eyes, smiling ear to ear, was Walter crotched down with the Goat Hammer in his hand poised to strike, intending to capture my privates between hammer and stump.
My reaction was of absolute terror. I can only imagine the gasp and squeal I made as my mind took in the information and processed what was intended to happen.
And finally Walter let loose a monstrous belly laugh, and I realized the nature of the joke. I'm smiling now; it was the perfect opportunity for a priceless bit of comedy.
Unfortunately, unlike most fairy tale endings there was no living happily ever after. I spent the remainder of the week in the company of Dawn, except the one night where my Olympia friends and I drove the short distance to Portland and I enjoyed my last night of dancing at the all ages club in Portland, "The City". Dawn had brought a small CD player with her to the SCA event (oh, the sin!) and I clearly remember spending an afternoon talking with her while listening to Billy Joel's "River of Dreams". To this day, if I hear that song, I'm instantly brought back to that day and can't help the smile that forms. I talked to her several times after that weekend, until the next month where I enlisted in the Marines. She was one of the few people that wrote me while at bootcamp, though we've lost touch over the years.
In the middle of the night
I go walking in my sleep
Through the desert of the truth
To the river so deep
We all end in the ocean
We all start in the streams
We're all carried along
By the river of dreams
In the middle of the night
The weekend that my High School was holding our graduation ceremony somewhere in Olympia, I managed to sneak away in my typical anti-establishment, rebel, punk style and found myself smack dab in the middle of the largest SCA event that I could possibly imagine. I know that there are those find a way to mock me for this, but I'll keep my happily geeky moments regardless of the sneers.
My family was very close friends with a group of families in the SCA that called themselves the "Glamfolk" or "Glumfolk". I don't think I can possibly say enough good things about these people. The group was of Norse origins. Vikings, Scandinavians,.... imagine if you will; men with long hair and longer beards, decorated with beads, thick wool tunics in greens and grays, and necklaces decorated with amber and Thor's Hammers hanging from their necks. There was never an unpleasant moment with them; always quick to smile and laugh.
And chief among them was my good friend, Walter. Walter wasn't your stereotypical Norse/Viking berzerker.... more like your retired old chief. His hair was dark, grey shot. Bright blue eyes that still contained the spark of youth. He had a round belly, and a hearty laugh, and could tell stories like no one else I've ever known. War stories, hunting stories, stories of his friends, and stories that seemed unreal. He had them all.
At this particular event, Thirty Year Celebration, another of my good friends from the Glumfolk, Sara / Sineidin, had the particular honor of being Queen of An Tir (the NorthWest corner of the continent, minus Alaska.) The entire encampment of Glamfolk became the royal encampment. My mother was good good friends with Sara and happened to be among her Lady's in Waiting, and thus, my family ended up in that encampment as well. Oh... how did a young German lad go so wrong?
As typical tradition for that encampment, the early evenings were spent sitting around a campfire and telling stories. The one particular story that stands out the most for that weekend is the story of the Goat Hammer.
There happened to be one particular hammer sit aside in the corner of the pavilion that became of importance. It didn't seem interesting or unusual. It appeared to be a simple miniature sledge hammer. About a foot long, with a heavy squared head. But Walter said that was a special "Goat Hammer", and proceeded to recall how to use the Goat Hammer for its intended purpose.
Evidently, sterilization of domesticated animals was a mostly in-exact science in the middle ages, (so I was lead to believe) and while modern technology gives us a variety of methods to accomplish this, there seemed to be few alternatives a thousand years or so ago.
For the squeamish men reading this, yes... use your imagination and don't read the remainder of this paragraph. Because yes, Walter went into graphic detail of how the hammer was used in conjuncture with a stump to render the organs ineffective. While a decade later, I realize the farce in this as a teenager, I tried not to think about the accuracy at ALL!
The REASON that Walter had decided to tell this particular story is because there was a visiting young man (not myself) who was asking to accompany one of the teenage girls from the encampment around that evening. Walter, in his fatherly wisdom, decided that recalling the story of the Goat Hammer was an effective method of... discouraging questionable behavior.
While I was part of the encampment; I was known, liked, and trusted so I was given much greater leeway when accompanying the young ladies of the encampment. And yes, I did spend much of the weekend flirting, as young lads often do. There was one particular girl that I spent a good deal of time with, a young blonde beauty named Dawn.
One of my fondest memories while at the event happened to be dancing in one of the halls. There was a particular hall that was set aside for the teenagers, and Dawn and I found ourselves hanging out there with our peers. The evening in question, there was medieval dancing being taught...which seemed to be a flop, and turned more into teenagers sitting around chatting with one another. I can't recall the details exactly, but someone put on a waltz beat and I asked Dawn to dance. It's one of my hidden points of pride that I dance well. While teaching and leading Dawn in a waltz, it was the only time that I'd only been truly comfortable and joyful dancing with another person. That night, in the hall, waltzing was magical... but it does not explain why this story is St. Rain versus the Goat Hammer.
Now, this monster of an SCA event had taken over the Clark County Fair Grounds just north of Vancouver, WA. It took place in the early summer of '96, the peak of the grass growing season. Just as the event was starting, the grass across the fairground had to be cut down from a length of roughly two feet down to a more manageable level. However, the management hadn't taken the time to remove the cut grass from the fields. This left piles of dried grass, like hay, all across the field. The populace quickly turned the piles into roads, alleys, and boundary markings; but never eliminating the piles from the field.
Dawn, the true antagonist of the story, if there were to be one, had used one afternoon to show off a bit of her tomboy side (or perhaps she was just flirting back) by tackling, wrestling, and tickling me all while burying me underneath the piles of hay in the field. And I, not quite mastering the arts of courtly behavior, returned the flirting with the girl by tackling, tickling, and wrestling with her within the piles of hay.
I imagine that at this point in time is when Walter and the rest of the men of the Glamfolk became interested in just what exactly was going on from within the piles of hay that happened to contain the wrestling bodies of two teenagers. It was perhaps no secret there was some distinct flirting involved that the older men had taken a notice too.
While wrestling with the lady, she took the opportunity to grab an armful of hay and pin it to my face. And that is when the activity took a terrible, terrible turn for the worse. While blinded by hay, and struggling with the lady I felt the strong sure hands of a man quickly grab one leg, and then another. Before I could react to move the hay from my face another strong hand had pinned my shoulders. I couldn't move, I couldn't react. Finally, I freed one hand and was able to push the last bit of hay away from my face. And HORROR! OH! THE HORROR!
My legs had been spread apart, spread to the shape of a V. On each leg was a stout Norsemen, incapacitating the limb. From between my legs, just beneath my crotch was the cut stump of a log. And with huge round eyes, smiling ear to ear, was Walter crotched down with the Goat Hammer in his hand poised to strike, intending to capture my privates between hammer and stump.
My reaction was of absolute terror. I can only imagine the gasp and squeal I made as my mind took in the information and processed what was intended to happen.
And finally Walter let loose a monstrous belly laugh, and I realized the nature of the joke. I'm smiling now; it was the perfect opportunity for a priceless bit of comedy.
Unfortunately, unlike most fairy tale endings there was no living happily ever after. I spent the remainder of the week in the company of Dawn, except the one night where my Olympia friends and I drove the short distance to Portland and I enjoyed my last night of dancing at the all ages club in Portland, "The City". Dawn had brought a small CD player with her to the SCA event (oh, the sin!) and I clearly remember spending an afternoon talking with her while listening to Billy Joel's "River of Dreams". To this day, if I hear that song, I'm instantly brought back to that day and can't help the smile that forms. I talked to her several times after that weekend, until the next month where I enlisted in the Marines. She was one of the few people that wrote me while at bootcamp, though we've lost touch over the years.
In the middle of the night
I go walking in my sleep
Through the desert of the truth
To the river so deep
We all end in the ocean
We all start in the streams
We're all carried along
By the river of dreams
In the middle of the night
