Me Versus The Tent

Spoiler alert: I lose.

I have been a Medieval re-enactor for a long time now. From the beginning, we were urged to call it being a "Middle Ages Re-Enactor," because too many people heard "Mid Evil" instead of the term for that European period that comes before the Renaissance.

Many moons ago, we were going regularly to the biggest event, called Pennsic. Think over ten thousand of your favorite people, in period garb, in a tent city. There is fighting in armor, thrown weaponry, fencing, archery, a multitude of activities in camps, a huge slew of classes in the arts and sciences – we have our own university, and some colleges allow you to come for college credit - and cooking and parties and more. All in Medieval garb, and as close to looking as period as you can, within your budget.

My husband and I had learned pewtercasting years before this particular Pennsic, and in the extensive class list, we noticed no classes were offered. So we talked – could we do this? We'd have to think about a class limit, and how to bring enough carving tools for everyone, and where to get the soapstone...

Once we acquired the soapstone and cut it into student-sized pieces, we realized we could teach twenty people. No problem, right?

Remember that number.

We pack all the things and a few other things that tried to get away, and even a few more things that we forgot, and still extra other things that might come in handy when you camp in primitive conditions but with modern luxuries. Extra toilet paper, for example. Soap and hand sanitizer. A fire extinguisher. A mattress, if you have room. Or if you're like the camp Baron's Haven, they used eight full-sized sofas to sit around their camp fire in comfort.

(I kid you not, I watched one of the most interesting characters there slowly and meticulously tie a full-sized mattress to the outside of his Gremlin, while blasting Wagner's Ring Cycle. Surreal, and amazing. He took off to go home, waving at us all, as the Flight of the Valkyries blasted out of the tiny speakers. I miss you Og, RIP.)

We get there, we get out tent set up, we get our stuff inside and mostly settled. And we amble down to the A&S (Arts and Sciences) tent to register, basically saying we're here and ready to teach the classes we'd previously said we would. We chatted, and we noticed that only one other person was scheduled to teach pewter casting. Well, it takes some of the pressure off, right?

Two days later, we're sitting in the barn on site for the A&S Display. This is where I shine! I love a challenge – see my stories, and entering almost every challenge that's offered – and coming up with an odd item from the Medival era to duplicate gets my turbos charging like you wouldn't believe. This time? One of my best: an aquarium with mini duplicates of the first four known diving bells. Complete with treasures to collect on the floor, of course. Filled with water. It got a lot of attention.

And some people came hustling over. "Are you teaching the pewter casting class?"

"Um, yes?"

"Your pewtercasting class, is it hands-on?"

"Yes?"

"Awesome, see you there!" And off they went.

It happened again five minutes later.

And another five minutes later.

As they left, and before the next group arrived, the penny dropped. "Honey, we're about to get slammed at our class."

"Hunh? What do you mean?"

I dug out or class list book, flip flip flip thunk. "Yep. The class of the other pewtercaster just ended. I'm betting he did demonstration only, and they were expecting to actually cast. We're getting hammered."

"But we have a class limit of twenty."

"Did that ever stop anyone? We're screwed."

My husband learned early and often that I have a detached retina in my second sight. I saw what was coming, clear as day. I just didn't know how, but it was a-coming down the pike as surely as that two-level siege engine that trundled by, because of course you can. Pennsic is a weird magical place.

The day of our class arrived, with much trepidation as well as excitement. We'd taught classes before, even taught tandem classes (surprisingly, we work really well together tag-teaching when we put our mind to it), but this was a new subject, and that always makes us a bit jittery.

We deliberately scheduled ourselves as the last class of the day in that tent, knowing that it would go over our scheduled time. It was also going to go so long that we'd miss dinner in camp, so we had camp mates who would make sure we got portions delivered. And, for extra security, we trundled our cart full of supplies over an hour early, since I wanted to catch the class right before ours.

We arrive in the tent, and we settle in the back. It's pretty full for such an obscure subject, but no problem.

And, the class ends. Hubby has snuck out to go and get out signup paper over at the A&S registration tent...

---and ten people who were sitting in the class looking bored rearrange themselves for the next class...

...and ten people who were loitering around the A&S tent follow my husband back...

...and ten people come running down the road begging for room...

---and the twenty people who'd already signed up were waiting politely outside the tent to take their places.

Hoo boy.

Right! Fast production mode activated!!

While hubby taught the introduction, I went next "door" to a blissfully empty tent. And took the pieces of soapstone we had for a full mold for only twenty students, and whipped out my trusty miter saw from the kit, and proceeded to cut all those blocks into smaller pieces so each person would have one. We'd provide the other "half" for the mold, since we had some pre-made "sprue sides" in our kit.

Now, of course, this is Pennsic. As I type this, Pennsic 50 is in its second week. It will be a surprisingly blessed dry but cool year (EDIT: welp, looks like both me and the weather predictors were just a teensy bit WRONG on this count, they're measuring in cubits and asking about a good substitute for gopher wood one day, then begging for desert camping techniques the next. In short, back to a typical Pennsic). Swelteringly hot years with harsh thunderstorms outweigh dry and/or cold years, because what else would you expect in late July / early August in the wilds north of Pittsburgh PA? But the year I refer to was a quite wet year, where the rainfall exceeded the dryout periods by a large margin. If it wasn't raining, it was misting, spritzing, glopping, and drizzling. The only time I can say for certain that it didn't rain while I was awake, was during the two hours on Thursday when we had to pack and go home. The multitude of people who realized a miracle was happening and sprinted to the parking lot to get their cars to camp changed the center of gravity, spontaneously created a small black hole that went whizzing off into the universe, and created not only a mass exodus, but a mass Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy.

What I'm saying here, was it was wet.

We were walking around in humidity of 110-120%. Walking? Swimming.

So I was already a-switzer when I started sawing. Occasionally I'd stop and wipe the sweat off my forehead with an already-sopping arm, and trundle next "door" to hand off blocks to reaching hands, and those already gifted were starting to carve. Two gentles suddenly realized I was laboring alone, and hustled over to relieve me so I could teach the second part of the class.

(This is why I wear linen! Linen fabric wicks away the moisture and lets it evaporate, whereas cotton wicks it but traps it, because the fibers swell up too much to allow air flow. But how I learned that lesson is another story...)

I was soaking wet, all the way through, but comfy enough in my linen. People got to carving, people got to adjusting their design, people actually collaborated (friends, household members, partners) to share soapstone. They were here to learn as well as take home a shiny treasure, and realizing that we opened up the class, they knew how lucky they were.

That three hour class stretched to eight hours.

Our poor camp mates who came to deliver food were stunned at the amount of people in the tent. We actually told people to take breaks, go and get food, the pewter wasn't going anywhere, and neither were we.

It didn't start raining steadily till we opened up the pewter pot to start casting, of course. Luckily a nice gentle put his hat over the hole in the tent that was, of course, right freaking above the pewter pot. We did move it, a little, but you can only do so much when the electric plug is on the center pole, and you're using a tiny single burner electric hot plate with no extension cord. And trust me, you do NOT, under ANY circumstances, want water in your pewter!

(We tell the story of a college prof who prepped his casting equipment for tomorrow's morning class, set up the halves, wrapped them snugly for a good cast, and left. Did the class, poured the pewter, and BAM. Pewter exploded all over the place, and he used it as an object lesson on why to wear protective equipment. But it bothered him, why did it explode, he knew he prepped properly! So he sorted through the bits, and found the eight spider legs in the bottom of the mold.)

We cast, and cast, and cast, and as things went wrong, as they will, we'd show people in real time the things that can go wrong with casting, and how to fix it. Undercutting, warming up a mold, sprue lines for escaping gases, all the fun things. And they learned, and those who needed to fix their molds did, and all went home happily with mold and shinies that they did themselves.

(And we made mental notes to add an umbrella and an extension cord to the kit, which we did in subsequent years. As well as having two teaching times, days apart, so that they could take tools and soapstone away to carve at their leisure, and a separate casting class to fix carving mistakes and deal with metal fatigue issues. But that's another story.)

We packed up after 1 AM while chatting with the stragglers, basically more tips and pointers for advanced work. And we trundled home.

We were met halfway there by an exploratory party from our camp, worried that something bad had happened to us, since we were due back five hours ago.

They helped us push and pull the wagon home. We were completely wiped out. They scolded us a little, mostly along of the lines of "You could have capped the class" and "You need to learn how to say no," but how could we? Who got in which line first? Deny one group, accept the other? No, we were there to teach, and teach it we did, thoroughly and entertainingly.

We arrived at camp.

It had rained, remember?

Though many people in camp had superior canvas tents – more room, period, water repellant if nothing touches the walls, cooler in both senses of the word – we had a typical 4-person nylon cabin tent. It's what we could afford, and our vehicle didn't have the room to put the tent poles for the canvas ones.

This particular style isn't terribly bad, especially for two people (NOT four!) who have lots of stuff to pack for nine days. But one default problem was the rain fly. It would collect rain in the fly in two large bubbles, right in front of each door on opposite sides. Annoying, and frustrating.

Usually our camp mates would help each other when they saw bubbles forming. But they'd forgotten that not everyone was in camp, and had neglected ours.

The party stopped short when it was obvious we couldn't just put the cart away without dealing with the rain bubbles – but carefully, so as not to splash the gallons of water into our tent, over our stuff.

Our party had dispersed, except for one, apologizing and offering to help. No, this was a two-person operation, anyone else would be splashed. Hubby carefully unzipped the tent, eased inside, zipped it shut behind him. He crossed to where I had grabbed the ends of the fly, pulled them so that the water would pour off past the tent's edge and mat, onto me, and not splash back. And as my husband pushed the bubble up and over, I was heard to say, "I'm already wet, and covered in soapstone dust, how could it get any worse?"

Rainwater. Is. Bleeping. COLD.

And it was splashing right onto my chest.

My gasp ripped a hole in the time-space continuum.

My camp mate, now at his own tent across the common area from us, swears he saw my eyes get as big as dinner plates as I got the COLD water on my person. Let me tell you, folx, I was shivering by the time that bubble was drained.

Now for the other side, right?

Camp mate was still watching and giggling, but what can you do? So I dripped to the other side, where hubby had entered the tent. Hubby asked if we should switch places, but why? I was already soaked, why make it two? I grabbed the ends like before. "It can't get any worse than it already is, can it?" I was heard to say.

Hubby pushed.

I. Was. WRONG.

My poor camp mate nearly peed himself giggling quietly so as not to wake the camp. I also heard chuckling from our camp leader, hiding behind a tent flap, who'd stayed up long enough to know everyone was back in camp and safe. And I? Bowed to the inevitable, and took a camp shower with a metric boatload of wet wipes.