Renaissance Festival War Stories: The Lost Scrolls 2022

Just as the cannon fires Sunday morning, I want to run a quick errand. I say, "I want to be back in 10 minutes." Jacqueline literally sets her clock and says, "Go." I don't think I need to run, but I should have known better. There is something about the time warp that is the festival grounds. I speed walk to where I need to go, but get stopped by friends on the way. I try to get through my salutations quickly. I go to the honey booth, but that vendor is always kind too and that always leads to conversation. I make my purchase and b-line back to the booth. I am stopped about 20 feet before the booth by my friend Greg who says he has something for me. This.. .

This... because of course he does. Why wouldn't he? While we are not that close, we are in a group of friends that is known for exchanging small gifts and favors for fun. Rubber ducks are part of it and he knows I have cosplayed as Daeneryes Targaryen on no fewer than three different occasions. Including a burlesque performance. I give him a small token I have with me in return and sprint the last little bit back to the booth. I ask Medestar, "Did I make it?" He tells me, "You did it... in eleven minutes."

...

When I visited Newbourne Village early this summer, I had a run in with Santa Claus / Father Christmas. Over two months later he stops by to see me opening weekend and gives me a gift. I don't know too many grown-ups who get gifts handed to them directly from Father Christmas. Back at Newbourne, I told him I did not want to be behind Donner this Christmas, he's stinky. Mother Christmas says Blitzen is the stinky one. To assist with the smell, he hands me a small tree: a car air freshener tree. He said I can hang it from his tail, and perhaps that will help with the smell. I told him I am absolutely touched by his thoughtfulness. I told him hanging out with Krampus has been fun in the last couple months, and I will have to have him call off the prank we had planned. a-wink

...

On Labor Day weekend, the Saturday of, only Medestar, Nestor, and myself were riddling. The day can be done with three riddlers, but we don't like to do so. Performing all day from cannon to cannon is physically taxing, especially on a three day weekend. We needed to be careful in making sure we didn't hurt ourselves or over exert ourselves. We remind each other to drink, suck on lozenges, and take turns performing. Thomas does stop by to check on us briefly to ask how we are all doing. I fill him in and end with, "I nag because I love." Now Thomas is the kind of person who looks like a cinnamon roll, but could kill you if he wanted, usually with words...usually; because without missing a beat he says, "You nag because you love. You love to nag."

Shots fired. This deer is dead.

...

We call ourselves riddle masters, but sometimes, the audience has better answers than us. Often times, our audience inspires our riddles. I ask a woman a riddle where the answer is 'glass.' She says, "That sounds like a bong to me." All of us erupt laughing because it works! We added it to our books as a second acceptable answer to the riddle and thanked her for it.

...

On Sunday, there was a couple standing at the rope riddling and the young man took a call, his friend had arrived and wanted to join up with them. While the festival was busy, we didn't have a ton of people answering riddles. It became my mission to find their friend. I go up to them on the phone and offer to find their friend and escort him here. I see on the phone his name is 'Alex.' I ask Alex what he sees near him. He says the turkey leg stand and the gyro stand. I know where he is. I ask what he's wearing; what color shirt? He says, "black and white stripes." I ask, "Hamburgler or referee?" (horizontal or vertical). He says horizontal. I tell him I'm on my way. He asks, "How am I supposed to know what you look like?' I told him, "Oh, you'll know. Give me three minutes." I run up the lane to where he described...There are WAY more people than I anticipated, hundreds. I get up on a bench and yell a few times for Alex. I look around and see a few people in black and white striped shirts, but they're young women. After a few minutes, I get disheartened and give up. I get back to the riddle booth and tell the couple I failed at finding their friend and I'm sorry. They were really sweet about it.

Then a couple hours later, the couple shows back up with a friend...in a GREY shirt. I ask, "THIS is Alex?!" He tries to explain if you look super close the threads on his shirt are black and white. I joke that I'm a deer and I'm colorblind, but that is clearly a grey shirt. Like magic, an older gentleman in a Ralph Lauren polo with wide black stripes and narrow white stripes approaches. "THAT is a black and white striped shirt." The older gentleman at first thinks I'm making fun of him, but I am clear in indicating that he had great, classic taste and style and knows what black and white stripes are. Alex does not. As a kicker, I perform a riddle where the answer is 'zebra,' and Alex solves it. "Oh! So you DO know what black and white stripes are?!"

It gives Alex and his friends a good laugh. I pull Alex aside and let him know that if I upset or bothered him, I am truly sorry. I am mostly mad at myself for underestimating my belief that I could find him in a sea of people. He was a good sport. He said he knew my act was playful and not hurtful. To insure the mend, I gave him a four-leafed clover, we shook hands, and I thanked him for being such a great sport.

...

More often than people realize, people answer our riddles with, "It's not blank is it?"

We respond with, "You're right, it's not blank." Since the person in answering in the negative, we have to accept that as their answer like that, even if they say the correct answer. Saying, "it's not" negates the correct answer.

In a rare riddle, one line opens with the phrase, "Not Shakespeare..." then continues with the rest of the riddle. I fumble the line, and it usually happens a handful of times each season: I say the answer while riddling. If I were smooth enough, no one would notice it; unfortunately, I am sandpaper on speed-bumps. I say, "Not the answer," then feel the eyes of all the riddle masters on me, and drop my head, "Ah, dammit. Next riddle. Someone else." I turn around in a small shame-circle.

...

Sometimes people come to us and want to tell a joke or riddle. Sometimes it goes well, sometimes it doesn't. Rarely am I left speechless. This was one of those times.

This boy, about 11 or so, asks to tell some jokes. It's final weekend, we are in our groove. If I know the answer, I am going to say it. These are kid jokes, I know them.

There's a certain level of "We need to keep this moving," so I answer the jokes as he asks them. I answer him correctly probably 10 out of 12 times. So this has been going on for a minute or two.

Boy: What do you call a dog with no legs?

Tinka: Doesn't matter, he's not coming anyways.

Wilona: You get two more jokes, so make them count.

Boy: What do you call a cow with three legs?

Tinka: Lean beef!

Wilona: Last one, then we're back to riddles, so make it count.

Boy: What do you call a cow with two legs?

Tinka: (A little confused) Lean beef again? (That's how I had heard the joke before)

Boy: No, your mom!

Everyone: OH!

Tinka:

Absolutely destroyed me. All the jokes had been clean, kid-jokes. I didn't see that bomb coming. I think I was silent with a shocked look on my face for a solid two minutes. Well played lightning-fast boy. Well played.

I thought Thomas killed me before with the nag line, nope. This boy, killed me, gutted me, made venison, and served me up in front of everyone in a ten-foot radius.