Queen of the Cats 2. Revenant Day

2. Revenant Day

Nix had been 14 when Revenant Day had occurred. It was the first day when the dead got back up from where they had been put down. Apparently, when they got back up, they also got very angry and none of them were vegetarians anymore.

Living on a rural "bullshit hippy compound" was probably why she was still alive. It certainly had kept her parents alive for years longer than they would have managed on their own.

Ed and Alice were sweet but mostly wanted to love the earth, grow marijuana, smoke marijuana and raise a daughter who would be kind and gentle like them. Instead they got a changeling girl child with a mouth like a sailor, an ever curious mind, and a certain way with cats. The commune barn cats were always leaving their kittens with Nix while they went to hunt or just lay uninterrupted in a sunbeam. Ed and Alice were just happy that Nix had one thing she could love and treat gently. They concentrated on that and growing their plants, even as the world flew apart in chaos.

Perched in one of the community rooms, a small crowd watched an ancient console television that showed what was happening in the cities, how the dead were multiplying, how they attacked and made more dead. Nix turned the situation over in her mind and headed to her attic room for a good think. Upon arriving, she found that a whole litter of kittens had been left in her bed. Nix always found that she thought better with a pile of kittens, especially the extra fluffy ones.

Phoenix (mythical bird, not city) Alexandria (for the Library) MaryJane (for the weed) Verity (for truth) Kobesky (because she was Polish AF) was a kid saddled with a lot of names, a lot of cats, and suddenly a lot more chores. Unlike the other kids, she took to the new work with a seriousness beyond her years before anyone on the commune had seen one of the dead. She found holes in the fence and mended them, located weak spots and flagged them for additional fence posts, and found places where the earth had sunken or washed out and listed them for adding fill dirt, concrete and rocks.

Seizing an over-sized map in the mess hall for her purposes, Nix used push pins to note all the cities where the dead had become a pandemic rather than a problem. At first it was the largest cities, then then slightly smaller cities and it just kept spreading.

Each morning, while thoughtfully chewing her toast, she would set new pins and use yarn to connect them. The thing she noticed were the interstates. The yarn bloomed out from city to city along major roads. No major roads came near their compound, but Nix decided it might be a good time to make sure that zero roads to the compound were visible to outsiders. Infected people could still drive cars. The dead seemed to follow roads as they shuffled about.

The news stopped suggesting that people should shelter in place or reporting where safe locations were. In truth, when too many people got together, one of them would hide their infection, not believing in their fate. About two weeks later, they would stand up as a corpse and start sharing their fate with all of the other people who were nice and safe in that location.

Nix asked her dad to gather up some of the older men from the commune and bring them to the mess hall with the map. Most adults would not listen to a teenager unless they had a trusted grown-up backing them and visual aids. Nix imagined if the world had not gone upside down, she might have had a future in marketing. She wedged the kitten in her hoodie pocket down a little deeper and massaged his face until he slept. A kitten climbing from her pocket would probably put a dent in her credibility.

Her dad had been Incredibly smart and mostly collected other men with families. Men who had something to love and something to lose because they would be far more likely to start immediate work and keep at it. Maybe Ed could have been some sort of community organizer if he didn't live in a nowhere compound and maybe smoked a little less dope.

As the men stood with crossed arms and looks of disinterest, Nix explained her map and her plan. One by one they started to listen. Their compound was not on any maps. Their "road" was one sign, 30 feet of concrete off of a state highway and then two ruts for miles. With a few days of work, some fill dirt, some dragged over fallen trees and the misdemeanor removal of a county road sign, they could be entirely forgotten. With the work of the whole community they could erase their road, make it impassible and add extra earthworks around the fenced commune. The group was already mostly off the grid. It was time to finish the job.

The adults set an immediate start date for the work and the next day "Bliss Drive" ceased to exist. Two days later, no one would ever have guessed a road had been there even if they had driven on it. They would think they had missed the turn somewhere else.

Nix started to teach all of the cats that their world now needed to end at the fence. It took a few years to get that across, but finally, she managed it. As she did her chores there was ever a tumble of kittens who pounced, wrestled, gnawed her shoelaces and ran after the teen as if she were their mother. The barn cats taught them to hunt, but Nix taught them how not to be hunted. Older cats helped to reinforce the lessons.

The commune was free of rodents, both inside buildings and out in the fields. Even in bullshit hippy land, the time of free rides was over.


3. Nix's Murder House and Cattery

Queen of the Cats 1. Nix

1.

When the brown and somewhat grizzled tabby cat dropped into a low crouch, so did the woman. From their vantage point, she could see two things: a pair of plump rabbits in a hollow down the embankment and the dead man limping his way down the remains of the asphalt road.

The shambling corpse was nothing near fresh, clothed only in the tatters of a pair of gore stained khaki pants. When she found the more recently-turned-nightmares, she could take them down, smoke the meat and use it to refresh traps for larger prey. She could also use it as bait for the dead in pit traps and on pike lines.

Neither she, nor the cats, would eat it. but this was not a world where you allowed waste. Not anymore.

She glanced at her companion, utterly still except for emerald eyes that watched both dinner and death in turn. Together they waited. Once the dead man was far enough down the road, she signaled to the cat. The silent and massive Maine Coon padded away, heading to circle around to the back side of the hollow. Once in place, she watched the plume of his tail stand upright, then drop. Sampson was ready to work.

Un-shouldering her bow, she tugged an arrow from the quiver, nocked it, raised the bow and in a single act of breath and motion she inhaled while drawing the bow and exhaled while she let the arrow fly. There was no cry from the rabbit, it just tipped over. The second rabbit tried to race out of the hollow, using the worn path. It never saw death come as Sampson pounced, grabbed the rabbit by the throat and lowered himself atop the still struggling rabbit as the small life extinguished in silence.

In a few moments, the woman dressed in greens and browns met Sampson at the bottom of the hollow. He sat calmly beside the rabbits, ready to defend them if he must. "Good buddy", she whispered and slipped him a piece of dehydrated venison. As the cat chewed thoughtfully, he stood, walked a few feet away and sat again with his paw gently touching something before him.

In the leaf litter, he had found a nest of young rabbits. They were cowering and terrified, but their eyes were open and they were large enough to survive. "Welcome to the breeding population, fellas. You are going to the bunny barn".Gently, each of the five kits was placed in a cross-body basket lined with grass. The previous generation were stowed in a oilcloth bag to leave no blood trail behind.

With nearly silent movements, Nix checked the hollow for anything left behind, or edible plants, finally tucking some chanterelles into a pocket. Sampson finished his job of pawing up the earth where each rabbit fell and depositing odoriferous gifts of his own to cover the scent. With a nod to the cat, the pair quietly left the hollow and paused to make sure no new dead had wandered into the area.

A large, red cat with one eye and a permanent scar of a snarl dropped out of a tree ahead of them. Garibaldi reporting that the coast was clear and he was tired of sitting in a tree. He stretched dramatically, staring up at Nix and waiting for his payment. "Yeah buddy, you did good too." Nix stroked his rough coat and felt his deep bass purr for just a second.

The three trekked home with Sampson and Garibaldi alert for the awful dead and Nix obscuring their path and weaving plants and tree limbs to each other to keep away the awful living. Not being found by anyone was pretty integral to not being gnawed into oblivion by the dead, or much worse by the desperate cretins who had never found a place to settle down and try to make a living.

As they approached the abandoned, and likely once charming, chalet, hunting lodge or whatever the hell it had been, more cats popped up out of holes, rustled out from under leaves and dropped down from well hidden perches in the trees making a motley parade of color, pattern, size and fluff that was truly stunning to behold. Nix and her volunteer army all headed for the field stone building that Nix had carefully seeded with moss in the cracks. Later she had transplanted vines near the base. And nailed broken boards across windows. From the outside, the place looked a miserable heap of mold, damp and collapse.

Some thirtyish cats followed. Nix climbed her rope ladder and most of the cats walked the balance beam of the single 2x4 that leaned from the porch to ground for their easy access. On the balcony of the second floor Nix used a rope to pull up a platform upon which several cats were sitting. As they reached the balcony they stepped off the platform with stiffer limbs, limps and one with just three legs. Getting old sucked, but she wouldn't get rid of the creatures that had helped keep her alive, simply because they had aged.


2. Revenant Day

Second Impressions and the Death of Grudges

Reeeaaaaalllly tired pelicans land and find wine.

First introductions, especially in or around the SCA, sometimes fall a bit flat. At events there is a lot going on, many people are in a rush, and some people just want to get to the point of they day where they can chill with some friends, perhaps around a fire or whilst toasting with a tasty beverage. Being in a rush and part of our groups of friends can make it super daunting for someone to get a good first impression of you. New people are often suggested to steer clear of some group of people for some reason. Enmity can build for no reason that can ever be traced. Sometimes a person can feel they are doing the 'right' or 'noble' thing by taking a conversation they overheard back to someone being discussed. All of this can lead to crazy blow-ups and sometimes schisms in groups of friends that sever those friendships forever. Sometimes, this resulting hot mess is the first time you may have real contact with a person. That impression may stick around for a bit. That impression can even leave you angry for years.

I consider myself deeply lucky that some of those first impressions that I left on someone and someone left on me were able to be obliterated. But it takes rather a bit of work and a lot of adulting to pull it off.

Reset Point 

You have to be honest with yourself to find out if you are ready for that, but sometimes these things just drag on long past any reasonable period and everyone is just tired of the upset. You have to be willing to apologize, sincerely. You have to be willing to say "Yeah, I'm not even mad anymore." And you have to be entirely willing to put your hand out and say: "Hi, [person], I'm [name] and I'm happy to meet you." 

If both sides are not ready to meet in the middle, it does not work. Second impressions are a bit of a thought exercise in which both participants agree to wipe the slate, stop referring to ancient woes and punch the reset button.

I am happy to say I have cultivated some of my most incredible friendships this way, and I treasure them. I remember how hard, in each case, that we both had to work and the leap of faith we both had to take together to pull it off. Once you have newly met your new friend there are usually some tears and sniffles, but also an overwhelming sense of lightness as all the anger, rage, annoyance, other people's agendas just pour out of you. At that point, you should probably go find some ice cream together. You have done a good thing.

A Brief Caveat

If you seem to fail each time you suggest this sort of relationship re-start with people, if it happens over and over again- there is a single common denominator you should look to: yourself. If you approach each person demanding an apology, that's probably not going to go over well, unless you are willing to do some very serious and public apologizing yourself. If you are continuing the behavior that got you to the place you are at, then you aren't ready for a reset. If you come to the door with threats and accusations, no one is going to open that door and invite you into their house. That door is going to shut faster than it does for religious missionaries and door to door insurance salesmen. You are still free wheeling down your own road and have not yet found the bottom of the hill. Just remember to rear break, then front break when you do.

I Shall Not Yield

So, you have The Grudge that Will Not Die where one person becomes convinced that someone is constantly defaming them or speaking ill of them or trying to make their life harder in some way. Sometimes, but with remarkable rarity, this even may be true. The grudge holder may agree to some small changes in the root causes of the squabble in the name of putting the whole matter to rest. However, they become rather annoyed when that does not pay big dividends and entirely re-frame them in a new light.

By this point in the grudge, one party is usually just done and has wandered off to do something else while the other holds on to their ire and shouts it from the hilltops- but it leaves them a sad little king/queen of a sad little hill. Is that really the last stand you want to make. The hill you want to die on? If it is- fine, your choice. But, remember- your grudge-war playmates will only stick around for so long until they find other and more pleasing things to do.

After that, you and your grudge, when mentioned, may net an eye roll, an ugh and an epithet because you have reduced yourself to a two dimensional character defined only by your grudge. But, that's likely all you will get when anyone recalls you at all.

From The Fountainhead, by Ayn Rand

Mr. Toohey: "Mr. Roark, we're alone here. Why don't you tell me what you think of me? In any words you wish. No one will hear us."

Roark: "But I don't think of you.”

Importance or Power: the wide gulf between the two in the SCA

These are the things I find of Importance within our club:

• Fun: This is what a hobby is supposed to be
• Friendship: The moment that it all clicks into place and you realize that you have come home to a family who love you, no matter their relation via blood.
• Passion: falling in love with an art, fighting, service or some corner of the SCA or medieval period which you may not have even known existed before. Or meeting the medievalist of your dreams.
• Learning: keeping our medieval arts, martial arts, crafts, sciences alive through continual teaching and learning with information always moving forward.
• Respect: Meeting people of so many different background, abilities, real lives, knowledges, and learning how to work with them. When you give respect, you get respect.
• Service: If we're gonna have a game, someone needs to do some work. Pitch in when you can and be thankful for those who pitch in the rest of the time. Say thank you. Say it often, loudly and in public.
• Stewardship: Leaving the SCA better than you found it: event positions, offices, new ideas, regalia, recording our own history and training those who follow us in these positions.
• Medieval Ideals: Chivalry, Courtesy, Courage and more. This is what we are here for, right?

However, if we are very, very lucky- we find a nexus of a few of these Important factors (which are likely different in ranking for everyone) and that's when there is a true magic. We work, we serve, we enjoy, we laugh, we come together and we are all at our best.

Here is where I believe Power exists in the SCA:

• An electric socket
• Sketchy extension cords that probably violate a safety code or 5
• Gasoline generators (also sketchy)
• A breaker box (sometimes full of spiders)
• A knife switch beside the breaker box (quite satisfying to throw that switch)
• Powering that AC which makes us that sweet, sweet cold air
• Lights during night courts (heralding by torchlight truly sucks)
• Air mattress pumps
• Professional kitchens at campsites (triple double ovens- oh yeah)
• 10 Norse lads (and/or lasses as we are equal opportunity raiders) crewing a viking boat. Rowing is a lot of work and you have to have some tough arm and chest muscles to pull those oars and still move the next day.

I am, however, thankful for all of these as well. (Especially the AC and lights in the bathrooms at night).


If you believe there is actual Power to be had in the SCA- it's time to check yourself. If you attempt to use that imagined Power as a bludgeon, especially towards those of lower rank- it might be best to go find something else to do for a while.

The Year of Sweet Corn

Dedication: To Cordelia on the anniversary of her entry into this world. Thank you for being one of my dearest and most morbid friends. Because of you, I have kept writing, always hoping just one I would write any piece as good as your work. This one is just from the heart, well, my black heart. Birthdays are for personalized gothic horror, yes?

The Year of Sweet Corn


Once, there was a Seneca girl who was not much like the other girls on the reservation. She was not an Indian princess. Her tribe, like most, had no such thing and she learned as a child to roll her eyes at such tales. To most, she was not even of the tribe because her mother was a white woman whom her father adored and married.

The odd little girl learned her histories and loved to sit by her father,, an elder and listen to the language of their people pour from him like a waterfall on rough stone- jagged, powerful, and beautiful. He told stories of the tribe and in the low light of dusk, he made the tales come alive. His daughter's heart was so full on those nights were she could nearly touch their gods and goddesses, feel the sweep of twirling woven cloth as he spoke of ancient dancers. She could taste corn that had been blessed and blessed again, a sweetness like no other and she could hear a heartbeat rhythm that could have been her own and could have been the sky or the earth or the fire or all of those at once.

Although her parents loved her very much, she found that she did not easily fit into the shapes of life that most people occupied. Especially, she did not enjoy the molds into which little girls were supposed to jam themselves and emerge with long eyelashes and a coquettish grins. That, simply, was not her style. She found those girls false and empty headed. Yet, she tried and went to gatherings of 'kids'. Milling about the edges of the soda and chips, she would find the first moment when no one was watching her and she would slip away.

Instead, she would walk. She loved the night and dark things. She found beauty where others felt their hearts begin to beat faster. Where most people walked with extreme caution and the highest alert singing in their sinew, she ran heedless into the shadows and the shadows loved her for it. She could just sit in the forest and read, listen to music on her second hand disc-man or just listen to the trees and the wind and sometimes it was almost like she could hear it talk to her. She loved every piece of the land, exactly as it was.

Unfortunately, this is not a universally loved approach to life because those who cleave together against the dark abhor those who travel freely in that world. They become suspicious, then jealous, then angry and then they find a reason. It never needs to be much of a reason. Anything will do. A smirk. An eye roll. It does not matter.

On a half moon night, she walked home through the woods, having escaped another awful gossip fest. She decided to buy some time walking a rambling path home so she could plausibly tell her parents she had tried to spend some time with the other kids and that she was not completely miserable as she knew they would just feel bad.

As she was about to step into a patch of moonlight, she heard a twig break and some leaves crunch on the other side of the clearing. As she had learned, she went entirely still and her ink decorated Chuck Taylor sneaker settled back to the ground without making any sound. She silently cursed herself for wearing a black t-shirt with a massive white band logo on the front. Shit.

A clamor of girls from the party tumbled into the clearing, loudly and perhaps a little drunkenly, shushing each other.

"Shut up. I know she came this way. I SAW her!'
"Shhhhhhhhh"
"Bitch. I so want to kick..."
"Holy shit. She's right there"

Like a pack of wolves, the hair-sprayed and mascaraed platoon finally noticed her and all slowly turned to face her.

The lone girl with the goth t-shirt and the punk rock style set down her purse by a tree, hoping it would still be there when she was done getting her ass kicked. This wasn't the first time she found herself outnumbered or cornered, just the first time it had happened in her woods. Wondering how they had found her, she pulled her hair back and secured it with an elastic. Her hands fell to her sides as she took one last deep breath.

Stepping out of the trees, she moved into the moonlight and paused in the clearing. This was going to suck. A one to five tramp ratio was not good odds, even if they were a bit drunk. The girls began to move forward with their sharpening grins, but behind them, in the shadows, something else was moving.

The shapes were large, too large for people. In the fitful moonlight through the leaves, it looked for all the world as if boulders had stacked themselves into cairns and were shuffling forward. she was looking at walking legends: Stonecoats.

The girl began to open her mouth to tell the awful girls to run, because she realized that she was seeing a story come to life and was pretty sure about what would come next. A hand settled onto her shoulder. A massive hand of shifting pebbles, stones, and rocks of all sizes held together in some kind of beautiful and terrifying dance set with such care upon her shoulder. A bass rumble behind her said "No. You are to watch. You are to understand and remember."

The girl swallowed hard and then tried to be as still as possible, to be a threat to no one. Still, the wolfish girls snarled their curses and staggered closer, not noticing a creature like a mountain in front of them, not hearing the nearly silent mountains closing in behind them.

The rock giants stepped up, one behind each girl. The Stonecoats of myth and legend casually thumped each girl on the head and caught their bodies as they fell. She felt the weight of the rock giant lift from her shoulder as he rumbled "Get your things and come with us." She did as she was told. Very, very precisely. She searched her brain for anything her father had told her about these beings, but decided to keep her thoughts to herself.

It seemed like they had walked a long way, but that was probably just what happened when you walked with a group of living (wait, were they living?) myths. They came out of the forest and into cleared farm land. In the distance, lights of homes could be seen here and there and the girl realized that she knew right where she was- less than a mile from her own home and in one of the largest corn fields on the reservation.

The spring and summer had been terrible for crops- too much sun and no rain and then too much rain and no sun to be had. The corn was stunted, the ears small and everything seemed to be wilted. As the Stonecoats and their prizes approached, a woman emerged from the corn. Her skin was pale, her hair paler still, and her teeth were brilliant white and straight like perfect white corn. Her dress was the green of stalks and husks and as she moved she sounded like the sigh of the wind through the cornfield. With a gesture, she pointed the Stonecoats to rows of the field where they dropped their female burdens.

The goddess of the corn sang quietly, plaiting her corn silk hair into small, neat braids and cutting one off for each girl that lay by the field. She tied their hands together with the silken braids and then made a small cut in the neck of each girl. As the corn goddess finished, a rock giant gently collected each girl by her feet and trundled away down the long rows of corn, the girls and their trails of blood glinting in the moonlit furrow behind them.

The giants were gone. The dying girls were gone. The half Seneca girl stood beside the field with Onatah, the corn goddess, and could not find a single word to say. The rustling gowned goddess noted the girl's discomfort and turned toward her, slicing one last braid from her hair and tucking it into the pair of slightly unsteady human hands. Leaning down, the cornsilk goddess kissed the forehead of the girl and whispered "You are more Seneca than all of them together and are always safe here. Take this braid to your father. Tell him the Corn Maidens have been chosen and sacrificed. It will be a sweet corn year."

With no further words, the pale goddess turned and melted away into the field and the Seneca girl ran for home. When she arrived she attempted to compose herself, but her father saw the look on her face as she tried to creep by to her bedroom. "Child, what is it?" he asked with a gentle voice. Still trembling, the Seneca girl held out the gleaming cornsilk braid to her father. He plucked it from her hand with a smile. "A sweet corn year, I see. Wonderful! Go to bed dear. We'll talk... eventually." Smiling, he walked off toward his library, muttering something in Seneca, as he navigated through some piles of books and stepped over a napping cat.

The Seneca girl went to bed and yes, the corn was especially sweet that year. The fat cobs were swathed in gowns of pale and soft green leaves, flowing long corn-silk tops and when shucked, the corn was white as pearls, straight as arrows, perfect like baby teeth.

It was a memorable harvest.

South. East. South.

It was never a case of the mountain not being there anymore, but rather that the mountain was still a little bit there and you just needed to know how to look for it.

In memory it remained indomitable and black, only ever glimpsed with the right kind of eyes. Small eyes that saw in pixels. Unrefined animal eyes that saw in only shades of grey and motion. It was especially revealed in strange edges of visions when an eye did not look directly at the mountain, but to the side of it. In the periphery, sharp planes and time-worn but geometric shapes played in the margins between vista and simple brain.

The Monarch butterflies remembered the mountain, mostly because it was hard to forget something you could still see. In the foreign light of their insect eyes, the mountain still stood. Indomitable, and a bit blurred about the edges as if swathed in a mist. However, the sun shown upon its frozen, jagged planes and lines, and it sometimes winked a knowing brilliant gleam from an inky black and glinting jet facet.

It was not a kind place, nor had it ever been such. The butterflies that stopped there to rest were sometimes just gone the next morning. The massive clumps that hung in trees like overburdened grape vines depleted in numbers overnight. There was no sign of fallen butterflies upon the ground. They were simply vanished. The remainder of the flight would then take off as a rather truncated flock, no longer a glorious spectacle in a cloud of color with the gentle susurration of millions of wings. Instead, the sound was that of a rustle of some dozen satin ball gowns as small orange clouds curled away like smoke into the mists.

Once those survivors were gone, no eyes were left to notice the butterflies remaining behind the wine-dark glass, each flying frantically in an attempt to reach the sunlight and their fellows. Following the instinct to fly, they battered their own wings and wore down their stored nutrients. They slowed and then stopped like a child's toy as the battery runs low. Nothing outside the glass was left to witness the battered insects give in to the cold inside the mountain. Each by each, they tipped over and fell dead. The mountain fed and was sated.

With enough years and generations, the island had culled out the butterflies that would rest upon that mountain. Over the ages, the tiny minds of butterflies became hard wired against stopping on the island overnight. Their minuscule memories or, perhaps seeing the mountain in the far distance somehow dissuaded them, so they flew on. The Monarchs changed their route of travel and did not stop. The lighter than paper insects began taking their pass over the lake as one long flight. It was grueling but that was somehow better. The new route created some loss, but ameliorated the yearly decimation of their species.

The stream of southward flying amber and black wings would suddenly turn at 90 degrees east and fly for about five miles. After that, their course with abruptly correct to south and the creatures that hardly possessed a brain and had never flown this migration path somehow knew precisely where to go and where to avoid.



Between the coming of people and the departing of the butterflies, other species, mostly small mammals, birds and fish would try to make a go at a colony on this island seemingly without predators.With smaller populations, the mountain needed to wait for there to be enough living creatures, breeding creatures and extra creatures that some could just become lost as they slunk, or crawled, or fluttered, or hopped, or swam around their home island of black glass and basalt. The diet of the mountain dwindled and year by year it became a bit harder to see. Misty, sliding further into the periphery of the eye and also curling in upon itself in some atrophy of starvation.

Humans have always had a difficult time arguing with any disparity between eye and mind. The changed course of millions of butterflies was quite noticeable, but it took humans rather a long time to notice since the navigation of the Monarchs took place far out in a deep lake. Humans had few vantage points from which one might glimpse this spectacle and most of those were boats.

And thus, via boats, early people came to this strange island. The first people were of the oldest tribes who searched for good hunting, fishing or resources. None of those were found save shards of black glass that could be chipped and flaked into wickedly keen edged weapons. Unlike with the small animals, the tribal people noticed when fewer people returned and boarded their boats at the end of the day than had disembarked in the morning.

They searched until the sun was setting, the light burning gold over the black planes and angles of the rock, blinding the searchers. When no trace of the missing was found, they retired to their boats and moved further out into the water. Lashing their crafts together for the night, they passed a solemn and near silent night on the water. In the morning, they searched again and saw only strange reflections of their own faces, reflected back with rippled details that sometimes did not look like their own visage, but rather that of the missing.

There is something that reads as deeply wrong to the human mind when you look into a reflecting surface and note that your reflection does not precisely mirror the actions of your own body. The head in the mirror turns slower, the smile lasts too long, the expression in the face is not your own or someone is standing behind you but that image exists only in the faces of the obsidian and there is no one behind you when you turn to check.

Thus, the first peoples left and told stories of terrible loss and a mountain of death to any who would journey to this black island of nothing but sharp edges, pain and loss. The mountain sat for many ages and again became hungry again. From Black Island, one might notice the occasional rumble like thunder from far beneath the mountain. The very earth there growled, considering releasing a bit of magma from the center volcano but usually only managed a few wispy belches of smoke. From time to time, a group of brave men in small boats would come and try to prove themselves against the island. They were not victorious in anything but feeding a nameless monster that contentedly returned to slumber when the few surviving voyagers ran screaming toward their boats in hasty departure.

Many years passed and the mountain noticed boats. Large boats. Large boats that must hold many people. As the mountain was invisible to most eyes, the larger ships just did not come its way. Somewhere in the black heart of a black volcano, amid the chorus of weeping voices in many languages, an idea emerged. The mountain consolidated to one last tall peak. Pulling back the energy of the many lives that bound the island together, the outlying volcanoes, the young ridges of obsidian began to crack and with just a single year of ice and heat, they crumbled into the water forming an inconspicuous shoal in an otherwise very deep channel of the giant lake.

The last volcano slipped almost entirely behind a veil of mist and shadow and light and illusion and discomfort to any eye that might land upon it. Black Island, above and below the water line, waited and it was quite ready. Those ships did come. Oh, yes. Full of people and treasures, they ran at speed through the deep channel night and day. Most were lucky. Others were not.

With a keel torn asunder, rudders detached and holes sliced through the hull by sharp volcanic glass, there was very little time for the people on board to make decisions. Some ships began their sinking right there where the damage occurred. Sometimes survivors of these accidents would see the Black Island and swim furiously for its shores. Washing up on the sharp, black shore, they called themselves lucky for a little while. Soon, concerned with the lack of fresh water, game, vegetation or cover they grew anxious about how they might survive until rescue. They needn't have worried. Soon they were just reflections in the midnight glass.

Others went down with their ships and were probably the lucky ones, unless that ship sank at the roots of the black shoal. In that case, they just became rippling faces in the midnight glass facets that were underwater.

Wrecks small and large would be shifted away to deeper places in the lake. The shoal would sometimes rearrange itself to be much lower like a channel but in an entirely new spot. The peaks of the shoal would then be found closer to the formerly safe passages, sometimes just 20 feet beneath the waterline. The perfect depth for snagging a moderately drafting boat that had considered itself safe to run at speed. Oh, how the wood would cracks and shatters, and upon hearing those sounds, the hungry black glass would let itself be glimpsed by the ship wrecked humans.

The island did not know how much or what it had eaten. It was just a monster of rock and intent. A darkling maw waiting for the next bit of prey to arrive. The prey always came. It still does sometimes. The mountain remains hidden and sated. The ships remain sunken and full of fish and death. The black windows of obsidian below and above the water line can still be viewed with so many pairs of eyes of so many species trying to look out.

But, the butterflies can see the mountain. They have not forgotten to cross the immense lake and make no stops. They fly south, then east, then south again and are precise in their directions.



Copy write 2019, Kristen Gilpin
All Rights Reserved



Sources and Inspiration:

NOTE: The pop articles state something very different than the scientific articles. Lincoln Brower does not ever suggest a giant mountain, rather how flyways develop around obstacles. But a mountain that could 'go away' with little trace. to me, means volcano. Sure enough, Lake Superior's Superior Shoal is a massive conglomeration of basaltic lava flows which are mostly well below the center of the lake- except that pesky part that is only 6 meters below the surface of the lake near a busy shipping channel. So here we have butterflies, a missing mountain, 20 square miles of underwater shoal and debris, a area previously volcanic active and a rift which can sweep away rather a lot of rocky mess. To me, this equals a story

1. Gizmodo Article (2013)

2. MONARCH BUTTERFLY ORIENTATION: MISSING PIECES OF A MAGNIFICENT PUZZLELINCOLN P. BROWERDepartment of Zoology, University of Florida,Gainesville, FL 32611, USAThe Journal of Experimental Biology 199, 93–103 (1996) 93Printed in Great Britain © The Company of Biologists Limited 1996JEB0122

3. Lincoln Brower (1931-2018) Memorial

4. From Wikipedia: The Superior Shoal  is a geologic shoal of approximately 20 square miles (52 km2) located 50 miles (80 km) north of Copper Harbor, Michigan in the middle of Lake Superior, the highest point of which lies only 21 feet (6.4 m) below the lake's surface.[1] The shoal is a hump of Keweenawan basaltic lava flows with ophitic interiors and amygdaloidal tops in an otherwise deep part of the lake, and though fishermen had known of its existence for generations it was only officially charted in 1929 by the United States Lake Survey.[2]:193 It has been theorized that the World War I French minesweepers Inkerman and Cerisoles, which disappeared during their maiden voyage on Lake Superior in mid-November 1918, may have run aground on this shoal[2]:192 and some have theorized that it may have been to blame for both the disappearance of the "Flying Dutchman of the Great Lakes" on November 21, 1902 and the sinking of the "Titanic of the Great Lakes" on November 10, 1975 (the SS Bannockburn and SS Edmund Fitzgerald, respectively).[3][4] It is one of the known off-shore spawning and foraging habitats for the juvenile lean lake trout.

5. Monarch Butterfly Migration: A Mystery Of The Natural World - HD Documentary

This Olde (Cat)House current cast and alumni

I cannot save them all, but I have helped to save these:

1. SubZero: Angel
2. Annabel Lee: Jennifer F.
   
3. Montressor: Kelli S.
4. Edgar Allan: Kelli S.
5. Lenore: Jennifer F.
6. Catherine Earnshaw: Lisa S
7. Linton: Lisa S
8. Heathcliff: Leigh H.
9. Dorian Grey: Angela W.
10. Mina Harker: Angela W.
11. Mycroft Holmes: Christopher C
12. Sherlock Holmes: Christopher C
13. Irene Addler: Christopher H
14. Josiana: Leanna M
15. Quincey Morris: Arlene L
16. Jonah Hex: Arlene L
17. Isolde: Cathy T.
18. Dana Scully: Kristen G.
    
    
19. Cheeto: Mira and Zayn
20. Dorito: Mira and Zayn
21. Caramel: Sue B
22. Sable: Sue B
23. Cordelia Naismith: Ashley A
24. Lily Durona: Ashley A
25. Rowan Durona: Jayne G
26. Elli Quinn: Susan G
27. Miles Vorkosigan: Rick F
28. Ivan Vorpatril: Rick F
29. Lucy Pevensie: Lisa D
30. Edmund Pevensie: Lisa D
31. Peter Pevensie: Jamaal T.
32. Susan Pevensie; Kristen G
33. Gypsy: Dawn H
34. Silva: Dawn H
35. Auggie Pullman: Kimberly
36. Charles Bingley: Joyce B
37. Fitzwilliam Darcy: Joyce B
38. Allan Quartermain: Daryl and Lisa P
39. Atticus Finch: Angel and Denise M
40. Scout Finch: Angel and Denise M
41. Emily Cratchit: TNVR
42. Armand de Romanus: Working
43. Augustin de Lioncourt: Working
44. Lestat de Lioncourt: Patricia M
45. Deirdre Mayfaire: Working
46. Mona Mayfaire
47. Merrick Mayfaire
48. Emily Bronte: Working
49. Charlotte Bronte: Working
50. Nymphadora Tonks: Kerry G
51. Luna Lovegood: Working
52. Sirius Black: Bethany C.
53. Albus Dumbledore: Ulthar
54. Andromeda Black: Lisa B
55. Bellatrix Lestrange: Lisa B
56. Cuthbert Binns: Crystal G
57. Filius Flitwick: Crystal G
58. Helena Ravenclaw: Annarely M.
59. Poppy Pomfrey: Nate L
60. Minerva McGonagall: Talina D
61. Sybill Trelawney: Victoria
62. Wilhelmina Plank: Victoria
63. Percy Weasley: Ulthar
64. Fleur Delacour: Kerry G.
65. Ginny Weasley: Ulthar
66. Charlie: Beth C
67. Mr. T: Ulthar
68. Maria: Earl and Janet S
69. Hawthorne: Bethany B
70. Rayne: Hexy
71. Lala: Rachel B
72. Nigel: Susan G
73. Salem: Laura S
74. Lavender: Susan H
75. Magic Mike: Shayna R
76. Thunder: Maya H 
77. Lightning: Maya H
78. Idgie Threadgoode: Amanda V
79. Ruth Jamison: Amanda V 
80. Merry: Working 
81. Giles Corey: Working
82. Livvy: Working
83. Providence: Libby and Steve
84. J Alfred Prufrock: Kristen G, Whitney
85. Flapjack: Melissa M
86. Waffle: Karen O
87. Maple: AJ L
88. Elizabeth "Beth" March: Daryl and Lisa P.

Available for Adoption!

1. Bright: Bright white young gentleman with tabby grey patch eyebrows. Loves head scritchings like no other.
2. Jolly Mostly grey tabby with white feet and belly and a few random white spots on his coat. He loves to run and play.
3. Frolic: Interesting grey tabby with cool markings on face. Also fast and likes to play. Right now, little buddy has a cold and is being treated. Poor guy.
4. Blithe: White with harlequin grey tabby patches. He's soft like a stuffed animal.
5. Josephine Jo March: stunning color patched tabby in grey and ginger girl with a white belly
6. Amy Curtis March (Available): beautiful brown marbled tabby girl
7. Margaret Meg March (Available): beautiful brown marbled tabby girl
8. John Brooke (Available): handsome brown tiger tabby lad

On Lemons

On Lemons

At the recent Trimaris Royal University, I presented a class entitled "On Lemons: Origins, hybridization, species, uses, records and dispersion throughout the ancient world."

The entire presentation can be accessed the title above or the image in this post.

This is the first in the series of medieval horticulture "whole history" presentations where I plan to present not just a fruit, plant, herb, etc- but how it was used and effected the ancient world.

Some plants, cultivated and wild, played large parts in mythology, literature, cuisine, trade and art with a wide area of influence, while others were geographically limited in scope or were only utilized for a brief period of time. It's kind of a weird niche, but it's a topic that has long fascinated me. So, I'll be down a rabbit hole of fruits, vegetables, flowers and how they changed in use and flavor and how they changed the places and people where they were introduced.

This appeals to my storyteller approach of history and science and art and culture and belief and cuisine and how those elements were interwoven and tethered to one another as time unfurled. I've always preferred this method of research and teaching, and it seems that I finally have some time for it. teaching, and it seems that I finally have some time for it.

Next on deck will be the apple.

My loves converge: Pangur Bán. Cat, poetry, history and medieval scribal arts

Many know that I study the medieval period, especially the art form known as illumination. This art was used to decorate the books of the middle ages and comes in all sorts of forms from glorious to silly, breathtaking to irreverent.

I also foster cats and kittens and work with a non-profit in Tampa, FL named St Francis Society. This group has been doing great work helping the cats of the Tampa metro area have better lives.

I also have an appreciation for poetry both modern and medieval.

If you combine all of these things that I love into one place, you get Pangur Bán.

The poem Pangur Bán comes to us from the 9th century and was written by an Irish monk in a book known as the Reichenau Primer. The Primer itself is a collection of hymns and grammatical texts that was likely pen practice for a scribe. Preserved in the book is also the poem in which the author compares his work of study to the work of his cat hunting mice.

The cat's name in the poem is Pangur Bán, which is not so much a name as it is a description of the cat. In Irish, the word Bán means fair or white. Pangur, however is not an Irish word. The Welsh word pannwr means fuller, which was a job in the middle ages. A fuller used a combination of washes, scouring and felting to remove oils, dirt and impurities from wool cloth. At the end of the process, the wool would be a bright clean white, as well as soft and strong. In short, Pangur Bán was likely an all white, stunning cat. Today, we'd probably say the cat was dazzling white or sparkling white in color. He also seemed to be especially good at mouse murder, enough that he inspired a monk at study to write a poem about the similarities of their dedication to their respective work.

So, here is the poem, translated from the Irish by Robin Flower.

Pangur Bán

Cat and mouse, Hours of Charlotte of Savoy, 

Paris, France, ca. 1420-1425, f° 165r (detail)

I and Pangur Ban my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at:
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill-will,
He too plies his simple skill.

'Tis a merry task to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our task we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.

Created by @LauraEAydelotte with images of materials from Ms. Codex 724 

at the Kislak Center at the University of Pennsylvania.

Should you wish to make a donation to St Francis Society Animal Rescue, you can donate at our website. We are a 100% volunteer organization and every dollar raised goes back into food, litter, medicine, medical expenses. All of our adoptable felines can be found showcased on the website as well. If you donate, let them know that Pangur Ban sent you.

My Facebook page hosts a lot of cat videos, memes and pictures. If that's your gig, you are welcome to follow me there as cat posts are all public. Some people like to send cat items directly to my house as I don't usually take from the St. Francis food pantry, leaving it for others who need more help to afford supporting our cats, but it does get expensive and the boxes for the cats are always appreciated. You can find my Amazon wish list here and those boxes are often opened during live unboxing videos where the cats come and go during the live shot. It can get pretty funny.

An apology: Comment Moderation

Apparently comment moderation has been on for this blog and comments were going into some sort of oubliette. I have turned off comment moderation and will leave it that way unless a problem arises and I need to change the settings.

In apology, I offer this tranquil beach photo as you may be reading this from somewhere cold.

Story time with Auntie Maol

Once upon a time... that is how these things start, yes?

1997, a few months before
jumping ship from PA to FL

Once upon a time there was a gothy girl with long hair and some bad ideas. She liked to make people laugh, help make stuff happen, liked to clean, dance, organize, make art, do theater and meet new people. She made good decisions and she also made bad decisions because she was just a young woman from a pretty un-supportive background who was trying to figure things out.

1. What the hell is this new life in another city, another state going to be like?
2. Who could she be, now un-tethered and a far postmark from home?
3. What exemplars did she have in her life that let her know who she wanted or did not want to be.
4. What is life in a new place with absolutely no circle of friends?

Things didn't turn out as she thought they would, but really, isn't that how these stories go? The route you plan is rarely the route you take. She worked random jobs, tried to wedge in to some groups of friends, gamed, larped and tried every opportunity to meet new people. She tried on some lives, but found that they fit poorly, so she left them for someone who would love them better.

Then a couple friends took her to an SCA event. She had been to a few a long time before and very far away, but didn't have the resources to get as deep into the group as she wished and she hung out on the fringe when she could get there.

Such grace. Such poise. So leg falling asleep.

But now, she met people who made her laugh too. They were talented, serious, brilliant, joyous, proud, silly, fiercely loving, quite odd and more diverse a group of people she could never have imagined. She tried on this life and found that it fitted quite well, so she laced up her boots, prepped her weirdo flag and strode out of the house with no jacket to cover up her strangeness. With so much variety, she was just one more star in the sky. She didn't stick out anymore, no matter her color or shape or height or age, she was part of a melange that was strange and beautiful. She found that she liked this constellation very much, so she decided to stay and shined when she could.

Over the years she fell in like and in love with so many people, and much like the lives she had tried on, some of these friends fit and others, not so much. With years, and choices and refining she thought she had landed quite squarely in a star incubator, a place where people were supported and loved and found help and commonality. A community. A family. For many years, things seemed quite good, and she learned and she grew and she reached out farther than her cluster of stars and met neighboring galaxies.

No lick brush. Hold in teeth, fine- until someone calls you on it.

They were wonderful, nothing like she was told they would be. She discovered that many of the ideas she held may have been influenced by the people around her, so she decided, quite on purpose, to try to have no expectation of a person when she met them and find out, in time, who they really were. It was hard to swallow preconceived notions, but she did her best and it turned out to be one of her better decisions ever. As her original constellation of friends cracked, blinked out, went nova or fell into black holes, she noticed that she was not so lonely without them. She had found so many other stars. Her galaxy had expanded and her tiny window into the great expanse of the possible because a wide open door.

Once she learned that you could do crazy things, like meet a person for the first time (again) there was no stopping the possibilities. Sometimes, those people that you never talked to and never spoke to can have some rather bad opinions of each other without ever having truly met. Sometimes, it behooves us to walk up, put out a hand to shake, introduce yourself and start again. She did that.

I did that.

That was about the point where I felt that I had stepped entirely out of the story that was written for me, chucked the script, fired the writers and started fresh. It was ouchy to admit that I had been so negative, let others influence me, and I'd allowed myself to become a tool for others. And then I began a resolution to become the best version of myself I could manage, knowing it would take time and effort and it would never be a finished project and would be a constantly evolving process.

What are we if we do not learn to listen, see from new perspectives, make up our own minds and then figure out that our opinions can change with new information. Without that self examination and learning how to really listen to people and admit that everyone changes with time- we become statues: still plaster, dull and pale, made for a plinth and an unchanging existence. Only anger and bitterness and rage lie that way.

So, there I was: a fairly recent peer with a few associates and students and we were suddenly this tiny mote as we drifted away from the previous household. We grew closer. I think we grew better. We figured things out together. We made mistakes, but then we didn't make them so often. It was only new mistakes, not the same old standards so at least we were moving forward.

It started slowly, but our friends became our Peers. Associates graduated. But I know how hard it is to be just a tiny group feeling like you are not enough to get anything done. So, my little household became a place where our friends could land and start their own households. Every peer setting their own tone and contracts with their own associates.

Itty bitty butterfly garden, probably about 14 years ago?

So little Feileacan Ghairdin became "the butterflies"- a loose association of peers, associates, friends, small households, significant others, kids and besties. We like to camp, and eat, and picnic, and drink and just hang out together and we discovered that with a bunch of us, there were always some people interested in helping with a project. It was like watching a little campfire kindle, and then other campfires spark to life all around until we had all this light if we put ourselves together.

There's nothing traditional SCA household about "the butterflies" except that all of us are friends with someone else in one of the series of associated households? It's not a giant household- just a bunch of small households that get stuff done together. We make events, and arts, and stabbings (mostly rapier) and offices and we try to leave everything a little better than we found it.

But here's a terribly kept secret: I'm not in charge. I'm only in charge of me and getting out of bed and putting on my clothes and the things I have personally committed to.

I have several associates and students (none of whom are in fealty to me except one that requested it personally) but they all have their own minds, and ideas and they are all grown ass adults (including the 18 year old who's possibly going on 42) who make their own decisions.

It's like a girl gang, but with way less bruises
and criminal activities

They all also scare me at least a little, because they are tough and resourceful and brilliant and funny and driven and beautiful and if I tried to tell them what to do: I know that I would never be heard from again.

The same goes for all of these butterflies. We just hang out in the same garden and like the same flowers and air and sunshine (and anything Todd bakes, seriously). This is apparently a completely foreign concept to a lot of knights, who run their households in a medieval knightly fashion where they are "The Knight" and they have their vassals.

Me? I just have this big yard and a bunch of crazy winged things flying around and doing their own
thing entirely. If any of us need help or have a project, we throw it out to the great big garden and anyone interested comes to play. Some of these winged friends are more dragonfly, or snail, or bee, or wasp, or bird shaped but we all seem to get along in this big garden where we all have out own little plots of land and favorite spots.

I am absolutely eating a dessert, sans plate, at the end of serving this
feast and unabashedly licking raspberry sauce off my hand. 

Even my best friend, a peer in her own right (who sometimes people think we are each the other, but we don't understand how) gets open mouthed stares if she voices an opinion different then mine or even votes differently (gasp!). Neither she nor any of the other butterflies are beholden to me in any way and they all have their own mind and I would not dare to step in their way.

I found out recently that a misconception exists: some people seem to think some VERY different things about this gaggle of humans and me. I'm pretty sad to learn that some view me as an evil spider, plotting in my web to get more power, or something. (Especially because my bestie hates spiders) It's funny, because I don't see SCA titles and peerages and offices as 'power' but as job descriptions. I just like seeing jobs well done when I commit to them and I will try my hardest to meet my own goals. Maybe that looks different from the outside. I so very much wish I could show those who are concerned photos of our 'household retreat' where we rented a giant party house and ate, swam, drank, watch YouTube videos, laughed and did art. I also played more billiards in one weekend than I have in years before and after. (Watch it, Brenna is a bit of a shark). It was a grand time.

I like being granny in the corner that says some kooky, funny stuff, makes art, and is surrounded by great people. I like not being in charge of any of it. I like this spot where I can sit back and watch it all happening, knowing I could jump in to play at any time and feel welcome, but I don't have to and no one is counting on me to make some unilateral decision. Again, if I tried- I would probably never be found and no one would ever be convicted in my eternal absence. My friends check me, they keep me humble and if I try to climb up on some pedestal, they will laugh me down every time.

I don't want to be in charge of much of anything, except the occasional art project or hall decoration scheme.

But we can rock a picnic.

So in the end- I'm just one woman. I like cats, horror novels and films, some gin, art, learning new stuff, laughing, science fiction, bugs, travelling, plants, books, seeing new places and hearing the chatting voices and laughter of my friends as my eyes drift shut in the cabin and I sink into sleep.

If you'd like to meet me for the first time (again), I'll be waiting and ready to stretch out my hand to you and introduce myself and then discover who you are too. 

The Effort Card

In the world of academia and grant funding we are tracked very carefully. You have 100% effort to give, no matter what some boss or coach told you in the past.

The minimum effort on any grant project of which you are an instrumental part is 1%. Depending upon your role in a project and your responsibilities, your "effort card" will show what percentage of your work time is allocated to each grant. In theory those grants are paying for that portion of your time or your time is being leveraged as paid by your institution as matching funds. This is over simplified, but if covers some basics. Your amount of effort in to a funded project should equate to a dollar figure that pays your wage, per hour for the hours worked on a project.

For each program, we verify the hours of work which were promised for the percentage of effort that was claimed in the name of all persons on the proposal. Over time, you end up in a lot of projects, to some greater or lesser extent and you have to start tracking your effort on various endeavors so that you can be certain you are meeting your stated goals and requirements, covering whatever part of your salary that grants are supposed to cover and that you are not over committed.

This is tracked in a report sometimes called an "effort card" which is a rundown of all projects where your time is promised and what percentage of your possible 100% of effort is consumed by each project. So, maybe 25% on this big project where you are a manager, director or lead. 5% effort allocated to a project where you are a mentor or specialist here and there or helping in some nominal way. Down to 1% for a project where you are named, but are likely to just be occasionally consulted or needed.

When this all shakes out:
1% = 1% or your annual time / salary
Each project is added up and your card can show no more than 100% effort.
In effect, effort % = $$. You get paid for the effort in each project so that your time is covered to commit to the work in that project. Effort eventually equates to currency.

Why are we talking about effort on this usually SCA/arty blog?

The SCA runs on the effort of its members. Those members are volunteers. Their effort percentage does not equal a wage, but it does consume a portion of their free / hobby allocated time. In the SCA we do not have a currency for physical payment in response to effort on any given project, office, event role, etc. Our social currency is limited to thanks, small gifts, awards and renown as your good work is made public and lauded by those to whom you report. All of those forms of currency are applicable in the SCA.

Some commitments are long term- like 2-3 year office terms or landed nobility. Some are short term and not very time consuming- like serving a few hours working at registration at an event.

Now, have a think about the people you know in the SCA. What is their effort percent among all of their various roles. Do they work outside of events on their office? When it comes to total time available for SCA play, what percentage of that whole is being consumed by volunteer time, or, their effort?

For newer members, their interaction with the SCA is likely filled with more relaxing pursuits as they

discover the SCA. With each year, they find new friends, arts, combat and projects that will bring them to a higher level of involvement within the organization. There is nothing wrong with this. We need our members to fall in like, then in love with The Dream before we ask them for deeper commitments.

With more time and volunteering and responsibilities and promises, your effort card tends to skew more toward higher levels of arts, service, combat, etc. Members begin to move from total novice to interested attendee to fairly knowledgeable members who realize they now know more skills and tricks than the new folks and they can pass that knowledge on to others.

Moving on up!

Continuing on the natural path of progression, these members with knowledge continue to learn, gain skill and probably also confidence. They can now start teaching those skills to others, leading practices and classes, answering questions. This is about the point where the effort card begins to skew from interested participant / member to volunteer. The percentages of allocated times change. Some activities are put aside. There's less down time, less hang out time and roles are picked up, usually supporting roles, at first.

With experience, the roles of volunteerism increase in a need for knowledge, people skills, problem solving and thinking on a larger scale. Responsibility increases the effort percentage on the effort card as a skilled and knowledgeable volunteer is required to take on a job. The baker cooks a whole feast. The fighter becomes a baronial marshal. The dancing girl organizes the whole ball, music, teachers, etc. The archer teaches a day long workshop on building crossbows. 

Then the next step- coordinating projects. Run a whole event. Take over a guild. Accept an office at the local level. Become an associate. Dig in to the things you love and become the master of them. Volunteerism at this level is not done for the self, but for the other. This effort card has very little free time for the duration of the volunteer commitment. 

The effort card at this point changes from something done for a brief time or done for a portion of the event to becoming a higher percentage of volunteer time, starting to approach 80, 90 or even 100% of possible SCA time. These commitments may last for years. Peers explode into the kingdom like new stars and take on associates, each needs effort from their mentor. This is where the level of play becomes very tricky as the member tries to balance all commitments, but still have fun. Having your effort card at 100% for one event is rough. Having your effort card never below 80% is a true slog of a chore. Kingdom officers, roles that require planning and prep outside of events, artists who create masterworks and then prepare to teach those skills, those who sew for the crown, are baronial nobles or sitting royalty.

The View from the Top of a Tiny Hill

It gets to be a bit of a beast, but we have a way to help mitigate the stress of a full effort card- we have our own social currency and everyone in the organization has access to some level of it. The newest person can thank someone for teaching them. The officer can take on a deputy and train them in a role, creating a new confidence- telling them they can do it and cheering them on. Peers help their associates find their final steps on the path to peerage. Royals spend a whirlwind 9 months being kingdom property and a public utility (that sometimes have people still asking them questions while they are trying to scratch their way through a door to get to the bathroom) but they do get to be the font of awards and see that their populace is recognized for their own efforts.

What does this mean? At least 75% or a person's possible SCA involvement time is spent volunteering. They work at home, at events, take conference calls in the car. Sometimes, at events, the effort card nears 100% as even free time becomes consumed by people that need to talk to the dedicated officer. This is the level of play where members have often collected bunches of accolades and awards, they are probably peers, they are responsible but they are still volunteers dedicating a very full effort card to the SCA, and that's just their free time.

The last group of volunteers inhabit the roles of the organization that can be crushing. Two years as a
kingdom officer. Four years as a territorial noble. Multiple years in corporate level roles. At this level, the effort card generally tips over the 75% mark and stays there for the duration of their roll.

This last rung of the organization is where I feel that the Social currency of the SCA becomes paramount for the survival of the volunteer. Continuing a multi year slog through paperwork, becoming grist for the rumor mill, always knowing someone disagrees with you, giving it your absolute best but still being a real human.

Praise and Recognition

All along this path for each interested new person to dedicated member, we have chances to support each other and use our social currency to show people with rapidly filling effort cards. It does not have to be a royal award, but it can be. A handwritten card. A small piece of largess. A sincerely given compliment. A toast in feast. Public recognition of time hard spent.

Without that support and social currency being equal enough to the percent of effort given, you can actually watch the slow disintegration of a contributing and long time member. Feeling unappreciated when working during free time is not an incentive to work more. It's an incentive to go find some joy, even if it is in staying home or attending an event not of the SCA.

Every day, each of us has a choice. At every event any member can stop and get an idea of how much percentage of effort is being given by another. We all have the power to praise, gift, be kind, pass someone a cold drink or just tell someone they have done well. We have the power to write letters to sitting royalty to see people formally recognized. If we do not exercise that power- we become part of the effort card weight dragging someone down. When this happens too often, the effort card flips again.

Choose to volunteer your time helping to celebrate the people that make the SCA experiences possible for all of us. Praise in public and be lavish. It's in all of our hands.