No Faire!

Carver, Massachusetts.

This is a town that holds more than one childhood memory, one of the happiest being of their annual clambake, sponsored by the local fire department. Good thing, too, as the main event is a gigantic fire pit built in the middle of a pine grove. Which is, for all intents and purposes, the town of Carver. It is pine groves. And cranberry bogs. Edaville Railroad and Plimouth Plantation (down the road, that is), Miles Standish National Park, which was right next door to the Girl Scout camp I went to as a child with my family, and worked at as a teenager during summer vacations.

The pines. Dr. Science rolled down his window some time after we turned off of Route 3, and the heady scent of pine swept through the car.

“Yup,” I said “This smell is it. This is Carver.”

We were not, however, heading off to the old grove packed with long white clothed tables, which in turn would be packed with piles and piles of steamers, and corn, and hot dogs, and potatoes, and more steamers, and little bowls and puddles of butter and broth, and the smell of seaweed and hot rocks and wet canvas and fire smoke...hay and pony dung, birch beer and root beer. Moxie for the old timers. Not this time. Sigh.

Nope. That day, the Impling braved the vomitous hour long trip (luckily with only a few explosions) with good grace, because, well, we were going...to the Faire.

King Richard's Faire, to be exact. There are any number of Faires in these here parts nowadays...The Festival of the Lion, in Grafton; The Connecticut Renaissance Faire just over the border; a Pirate Festival I heard tell about up in Salem; and I think New Hampshire had one for a while as well. All, from what I have read, good, family friendly faires, with lots of costumes; lots of engaging not-so-innocent-but-all-in-good-fun banter going back and forth between patrons and players; and entertaining if not spectacular acts that had more guts than glory. This is what I remembered King Richard's Faire being like when I was a gawkish teen, driving with my posse into the dusty parking lot in a beat up Pinto. We dressed up as various characters from the Canterbury Tales. I dressed as the wife of Bath. I had a huge crush on one of the Gypsy Dancers. Yummy. Lord, the man could dance. And did I mention? He was HOT.

But that was then. This, is now. The parking lot was exactly the same. I was halfway out of the door as Dr. Science pulled into a spot. First issue of business, to get the Impling out before she projectiled again. I dodged the good natured Rennie who climbed down from the cab of his pickup truck (in a shirt I would have loved to own at one point...you know, one of those big sleeved, floppy sorts that well built men wear open to show off their chest hair) with a smile and hello before extricating my sodden toddler from the back seat. Then we joined the ranks of die hard Faire patrons who dress up...in the parking lot. Adjusting bodices, strapping on swords, touching up hats, hooking on mugs, or horns(?), or fox tails(??), and for us, wiping off vomit.

So after a quick change into the Impling's costume...she dressed as a non-vomit coated toddler...we headed for the main gate to meet my sister and her husband, who drove up from NYC for the day. They are Impling junkies, they are. Plus, they were as curious as I was to see what had become of our old stomping grounds. I'd heard rumors. But they were a couple of years old. Maybe things had gotten better for the ol' Faire.

At first sight, it seemed virtually the same (after of course, getting beyond the expected butt-fuck of a $25.00 admission fee...that did not include rides or games...or food) there were lots of patrons in character walking about, some trying (and failing) to sing, others just walking about adding to the local color. I hadn't heard any attempts at old (make that olde) English yet though. Not beyond the standard “prithees” and “good day, milady's” that anyone with half an imagination could utter. Chances of a good insult exchange were disappearing fast.

But no matter, there were all the old buildings, the smell of wet pine, the rose sellers and mug sellers and costume rentals and other such authentic period specific shops selling authentic, straight from the Renaissance inspired wares. Sky chairs, for instance. And sparkly butterfly wings. And, um...mad cow horns.

what IS this?

We got Frenchie. The dude in purple. He rocked.

Just in case that guy next to you was looking just a little too excited about his sword...

who needs teeth? Or a GI tract?

My little terror of the seas.

Yeah, they're mine. I make them suffer. Whatever.

pledging allegiance to the Gypsy Dancers...pirate style

So we headed for the joust, to see what we could see. We watched the blacksmiths, wandered around until we stopped for the inevitable turkey legs, and there were the Gypsy Dancers! We went to the pirate workshop, where the Impling sang “Yo ho Yo ho a pirates life for me!”, then showed off her best pirate sneer before press-ganging the whole lot of pirates for her own personal entourage. Then we strolled around some more, until the Impling succumbed to the gravitational pull of a sparkly pair of butterfly wings, and weak mother that I am (it's not all my fault, my sister had been waiting for this all day) I walked out with one purple pair and my wallet $40 lighter. Ok, $20, sister grrl paid half. But still...forty bucks? And for something SO twee? I envisioned a future of princess costumes and pink vanities. Shudder.

WHAT? Is there a problem here?

I am a such a glutton for punishment.

So basically, all we did was walk around. We weren't there to shop, or drink, but take in the local color.

The thing is, it is character that makes a good faire. You can have the crappiest acts in the world, but if the attitude is one of fun and mischief and a little raunchy badness, that's the faire I want to be at.

Unfortunately, this is what King Richards Faire no longer is. They have good acts...great jousters, a group of cat trainers who seem to live year round on the property and seem to have a pretty good relationship with the big cats they show off. The mud show was good, raunchy fun, and came closest to the feel of the Faire of my childhood. And the Gypsy Dancers still put on a fun show, much to the Impling's joy. Two brave women strolled along in full faire garb, belting out “Spanish Ladies”. We gave them big smiles.

But the effortless back and forth banter of the "locals" was almost completely nonexistent. Maybe everyone was just tired. As the day wore on, the grounds lost the early morning child friendly feel and suddenly went carnival on us. A darker, seamier side became more prevalent. More yards of beer in hands than maps or cameras. It was time to leave. So we packed up our tired toddler, said our goodbyes and hit the road.

The next day, we went to the Arboretum, where the Impling ran about in ecstasies, wearing not her sparkly wings, but her favorite trophy from the faire...her pirate patch. My fears, it seems, were unfounded.

Yo Ho Ho.