Actually Written Back in June

So, this year was the first Border War I've been to in ages - you wouldn't believe how much I've missed playing with the people I grew up around, how amazed I am at the little McCords all grown up, how much I wanted to cry when I saw the bridge gone (and wondered where on earth the fighters were going to shower) and so on. That park . . . well, this year was Border War 23. I remember Border War 1 - that's a lot of Border Wars. Even the bad parts don't outweigh the awesome that is Bertha Brock park - never mind the mosquito bites, never mind the eight million miles uphill to camp, never mind all of it . . . just being there is amazing. It feels a lot like going back to camp, all quite and serene and OMG fun at the same time.

I remember playing with Jill and Chris and Rolf when their parents were prince and princess, and then king and queen.
I remember SO MANY Fum courts I've lost count.
I remember hanging out with the Donnershafen kids (okay, that was a Winter Revel, but still) and my dad telling me I smelled like furniture polish (drinking cognac tends to do that to one) and me kissing Karhu and that other guy (Cuvara? Something like that), having one on each arm.
I remember my first near-sexual experience being with some guy I don't remember now (but I think he's married and a knight!!!!!) with black hair and glasses - we went down the trail from Palmer Lodge and to the right to a stone bridge and right there in the middle of the bridge, leaning against the side, well . . . anyway.
I remember finally kissing Julie (hi, honey!).

The first time I got drunk was with SCA people from the western side of the state - I grew up there, I lived there forever. My dad was famous amongst all those people; now, years after he's moved several states away, I still have people doing double takes and saying, "Hey, aren't you Fum's kid?" When I go to events over there, particularly anything at Bertha Brock, or Val Day, I feel like I'm going home - more than I do when I'm going anywhere else. I could be going to visit my mom in the house I spent most of my life so far in (wow, that won't be true any more in another two years) and it wouldn't feel as much like home as those places, with those people. I'm not sure what it is, or why it happens that way . . . but it does. There's the smell of bonfires and mead and sweaty fighters, the sound of drums and people laughing and singing, there's the roads that I know so well that I could traverse them barefoot and blindfolded and still know exactly where I'd be and how long it would take - yes, I know from experience.

The memories in those places are a mile thick, and the relationships I've made there are bigger than that.

Fuck, I wish I could spend more time at home.