Renewed

The Greeter

The Crow’s Soul Weighs Heavy

Growing up I had my favorite yard birds. The cardinal and the blue jay were obvious favorites because of their bright colors, but the crow was appreciated for reasons that were different and far more profound. 

The backyard of our first house was large and square-shaped. Several old trees peppered the back yards throughout the neighborhood. I loved playing outside. At a very young age I caught a small black racer with my bare hands, fed peanuts to the squirrels, and learned how to trap and release frogs. My father always had a few bird feeders overflowing with seeds and took it upon himself to feed the local stray cats. The yard was always buzzing with activity. 

One day when I was about six years old I was standing in the dining room when my father came in from the back yard. The heavy wooden door creaked as he pushed through. Annoyed but not surprised he said “One of the cats caught a crow” as he walked past me.  

Curious, I ventured outside. 

I never saw the cat or the crow she caught, but I was taken aback by what I heard. 

A chorus of crows, all coming from the same tree. Loud and panicky, yet unmistakably focused. The sun was low in the afternoon sky behind the tree. Beams of light poking through the leaves illuminated the silhouettes of fluttering wings and open beaks. I had never seen so many crows in one tree. I had never heard such collective chaos. I was used to the typical calls of crows, but this was entirely different. 

“They’re saying goodbye” I whispered to myself in astonishment.

I stood there for several minutes, watching, listening. Right on the edge of the concrete slab; I never crossed into the grass. As intrigued as I was moving in to get a closer look felt like intrusion. This was a ritual. 

They were experiencing sorrow.

They understood what they had lost. 

They gathered to mourn the dead. 

Young as I was, I knew about death. A short time prior to this my mother’s dog got hit by a car. Patches was older and had been a part of the family long before I was born. My parents had friends over and it was dark out when they left. We were all in the driveway and everyone was exchanging small talk when patches got out and ran into the street. A young man driving by hit her. I remember the commotion as everyone rushed down to the street. The young man felt terrible. He said he didn’t see her until it was too late and apologized. My parents held no grudge. They knew she was old and it was dark out. They moved her up the driveway closer to the house. 

She was completely still. A small trickle of blood was slowly moving from behind her head. My mother, crying, knelt down beside her gently petting the soft, curly fur around her shoulder. She was already gone, but my mother still wanted to say goodbye. 

I had watched my mother perform the ritual of letting go. I could recognize it when I saw the crows do it. What I found so compelling about the crows was that it was the first time I witnessed a group of animals expressing grief. 

Growing up Catholic I was often confronted with people who claimed that animals didn’t have souls. When I was younger I didn’t know what to say so I would just nod politely. But I never believed that. Even if I couldn’t define it I knew something was there. Something bigger. Something magic and profound. The crows could feel it too. 

Crashing Down

You didn’t realize I could see your soul.

Lost and mangled,

Resentful thoughts with a mouth full of excuses. 

People like you love to be in control. 

You crave it because you think it gives you power.

But you don’t know what it’s like to harness the real thing. 

Power that comes from the inside.

The kind that burns through your chest. 

Purpose through the chaos. 

I will not be held back. 

I left you a long time ago,

All alone with your bad decisions. 

Curious, you ask “Do you ever miss me?”

The answer comes swift and sure.

“I miss the person you could have become”

I came back to watch your world come crashing down.

You will rise above but only as ashes,

A warning to others.

Fifteen

This little darling turns fifteen today. I adopted him three months after I moved to Orlando and he’s been with me ever since. Happy Birthday Jet! 

Fencing

My friend Tink had been part of a group called the Society for Creative Anachronism and had been trying to get me to go to events for years. I was always interested, but between DRIP and my day job I never had the time. It wasn’t until her wedding at the end of December 2017 that I got introduced to Cuan, another friend of hers who participates in the SCA. He spoke fondly of the activities in great detail. He mentioned the fighter practice on Wednesday nights which he and Tink both did, and also of the art nights on Thursday nights. He messaged me all the information and encouraged me to go. 

Unfortunately, January got off to a rough start which included the announcement that DRIP would be closing its doors. The closing process became my focus and it wasn’t until the dust settled clear into February that I showed up to a Wednesday night fighter practice. 

I had been a part of DRIP for ten years when the doors closed. It had been such a major component of my life that it felt odd to have it gone so abruptly. I had been wanting to rebuild my social life as well. The previous two years had been so emotionally painful that I spent a significant amount of time alone. I was trying to get out more. 

When I got to the park the group was easy to spot. Amidst the kids soccer, basketball games and tennis matches this group was dressed in armor and swing swords. I searched for Tink and Cuan so I could be with someone I knew but to my horror neither one had shown up that night. I was standing on the edge of the field in shorts and flip flops, looking hopelessly lost. 

It was Deb who spotted me first and took me under her wing. She introduced herself and said she had come to watch her husband Val. He was a heavy fighter but had recently had shoulder surgery and she wanted to make sure he didn’t hurt himself. She explained how the fighters were split into two groups: heavy and rapier. The heavy fighters wore full metal suits of armor and held large swords and shields. The rapier fighters wore lighter clothing and typically only carried a single, smaller sword. 

Deb helped me get familiar with the background of the SCA as we watched the heavy fighters. The loud cracks of the weapons hitting the metal armor commanded our attention. It’s not every day I get to see a Medieval battle in a park. 

I was lost in the moment when I got approached by two of the women from the rapier side. They cheerfully introduced themselves and asked if I’d like to learn fencing. I politely declined their invitation. I had no armor, no weapon, and I had only come to watch. The girls insisted and Deb nudged me. “Oh, come on” she smiled “playing with swords is fun!” 

The girls lead me across the field and put me right in front of Tim. Tim was charge of the rapier side. He was man in his mid-forties, with eyes full of kindness, and incredibly knowledgeable. He gave me one of his swords and intense beginner lesson. I learned how to hold it properly, basics of the footwork, and the mechanics of leverage. He would pause periodically to apologize for bombarding me with all this information. “That’s ok” I reassured him “this is really interesting. I didn’t realize there was so much to it!”

I was hooked. 

Over the next several weeks I kept coming back. I loved the historical element as well. There was German fencing and Italian fencing. Tim favored the German style, but there were other instructors who knew the Italian style. Everybody learned and shared techniques. I enjoyed asking people why they gravitated towards a particular time period or style of fencing. The history of how fencing developed was interesting as well. I was slowing learning how to move, how to balance the sword while moving my feet correctly. 

Tim and I practicing. Photo by Amber Cruz-Martinez.

After a while I met up with Tink for her birthday and told her how much I loved the group. She was shocked I got into the rapier side, she had assumed I would have done the heavy fighting like her and Cuan. When she asked how I ended up in rapier I laughed and told her “they literally asked me first”.

I learned to show up in sneakers and pants. Even though the blades were dull and corked at the tip you still had to be covered. Tim always had a spare sword, helmet, and gloves for me. First was practice drills, then the fighting. Since I was so new I mostly stuck with drills. It defiantly gave my arms a work out and I found myself switching hands often. 

I would go to work at the bank and amuse my coworkers with fencing stories. They already knew I had three cats and enjoyed watching documentaries, this was definitely pushing me farther into left field. They would lovingly tease me to be more normal. 

Typical fight nights are usually followed by a group trip to Gators Dockside for drinks and snacks. It was on one of these trips that I joked with Tim about my love of documentaries and how my coworkers thought I should be more normal. Tim smiled and said “You’ll fit in with us fine. You can be as strange as you want to be”. 

I know in my heart my coworkers meant no harm, we love to tease each other back and forth. But I can’t tell you how good it felt to have my uniqueness accepted and encouraged. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I had been reassured like that. Seen and appreciated for who I am. I felt like I had waited years for that. 

Tim was booked to teach some fencing classes at the Mermaid’s Faire in July. It was a symposium featuring several fighting and clothing workshops near Tampa. He encouraged me to go since I had never been to an event outside of the fighter practices. There was one catch, I needed some garb to wear. 

Most people in the SCA had a persona, a name and cultural background for the person they chose to be, and the historical clothing to match. Tim’s persona was 16th century German, but I hadn’t settled on anything specific yet. I had only fought in yoga pants and had nothing historically accurate to wear. In truth, historically most fencers were men, so today most of the female fencers wear masculine styled clothing. Luckily, I had met Sibilla a few weeks prior and she was the first female fencer I had seen fight in a dress. Luckier still, she makes her own garb and is close to my size. She sent me Norwegian garb to wear just to get me through the first event. The bag was stuffed with clothing and I couldn’t wait to try it on. 

The Norwegian garb came with a dress and an apron. The stitching was incredible and the detail was lovely! Unfortunately, the dress was a little snug and I couldn’t fit the apron over it comfortably. I became worried. This was my first event and I wanted to look the part. I was afraid I would be judged harshly for not wearing the entire outfit. Not to mention the only shoes I had to wear were glaringly modern sneakers. I messaged Tim and asked if he could bring one of his spare tunics. I figured that way I’d at least have an option if the dress became too uncomfortable. 

Tim said he would bring the tunic and reassured me about the attire. He said that people would be understanding since I was so new, and told me to let him know if anyone gave me a hard time. He could see I was nervous and spent a great deal of time answering all my questions. I finally confided in him that I was going to be on my period during the event. I knew it was going to make me tired and moody and I didn’t want it to seem as though I didn’t want to go. 

He smiled knowingly, and reminded me that he has a wife and two daughters. “I know how it goes.” 

Still overcoming a little embarrassment, I smiled back. “I appreciate that, but please understand, I have a father and brother who have not always treated me kindly in that regard.”

Once more he reassured me that everything would be okay. 

The day of the event Tim drove myself and Lee, another fencer. Lee is quite the character. In our group Lee, at 59 years old, is one of the oldest fencers but certainly has one of the youngest souls. A self-described bullshitter with a twirled mustache, permanent glint of mischief in this eyes and full sized Spider-Man themed tattoo all over his back. He is one of the only people in our group who has no persona, doesn’t align himself with a particular style, or show much interest in the history of fencing. He just loves to poke people with swords. We spent a lot of the car ride listening to him regale us with stories of how he met his ex-wife, whom he is currently dating again. They were both photographers and he loves telling people that they meet while “shooting children”. He and his ex-wife/girlfriend also own three greyhounds and three ferrets.

Once we arrived we were delighted to find the the event was indoors. Most fencing events are outdoors, but it had a large enough space upstairs to accommodate the sword swinging. It was mid July so we were thrilled to be in the AC all day. 

As we walked up to the building Tim was greeted by a woman named Crissy. She was a kindly middle-aged woman who had known Tim for years through the SCA. I had never met her but she greeted me by name and ushered me over to her car. 

“You must be Melissa” she said cheerfully as she handed me a large bag stuffed with fabric. “Tim asked me to bring these for you to see if you wanted to wear them”.

I was confused but she went on to explain that Tim had messaged her the night before and asked if she could bring extra garb for me since the dress I’d borrowed might not fit. I thanked her and went to try on the clothes. In the end, the best fit was still the Norwegian dress I’d gotten from Sibilla, but I was so appreciative of Crissy for the alternatives. 

I found Tim a little later making trips to the car for his gear. “You didn’t tell me that you asked Crissy to bring extra clothing for me. That was so sweet! You didn’t have to do that!” 

Without missing a beat he replied “You said you had wanted to wear a dress, I wanted to make sure you had one”. 

The fencing classes were all very interesting and I got to meet at lot of wonderful instructors. Some classes were more historical while others focused on fighting techniques. Tim had brought a lot of historical fencing texts and it was interesting to see the centuries old illustrations that accompanied the explanations. In our fencing group we play for sport, not to kill. But back in the day it was quite the opposite. Matches were typically short since people were injured or killed quickly with the sharp blades. The pages of the book were filled with savage techniques, designed to win quickly and ruthlessly. Tim laughed at my shocked reaction to the often comically graphic illustrations. “Yeah, fencing was a lot different back then.” 

At one point in the day I got to fight Lee. It was a tough match. Lee is far more experienced, loves to bait opponents, and fights predominantly left-handed, while I fight mostly right. I took a few good hits from Lee before the match ended. I did about as good as I expected to. We were refereed by another instructor whom we’d only meet that day. After the match he approached me and said “I can tell you are new at this, but you’re not a timid fighter. That’s good!” I felt so encouraged. 

Amidst the shuffle of classes and events Tim would periodically check in on me. He learned the signs of when I was getting tired and would remind me to take breaks for snacks and meds. He introduced me to other members of the SCA, made sure I had the appropriate gear to fight in, and took care to make sure I sat with him during lunch. I never once felt out of place. 

Towards the end of the event I got Lee to take a picture of me in the dress. 

Photo by Lee Isbell.

He directed me to hold up my arms and turn my body. I had forgotten that he was a photographer. I laughed and told him that normally I’m the one taking pictures. It was a nice change to have a photographer take a photo of me. 

Once the event had finished most of us end up at the Coney Island Drive Inn for some food. The place became an unusual mixture of rednecks and people who looked like they had just left a Renaissance festival. We filled up on hotdogs and good conversations. 

Me, Lee, and Tim at the end of the event. It was so bright outside I didnt realize what Lee had done until I already took the photo. He offered to retake a more formal shot. “No” I laughed “This is perfect”.

The ride home was rainy and Tim told me and Lee about a time years ago when he went to a fencing event in Wisconsin. It was held in some old church building which resembled a castle. He was inside listening to a talk about fencing, and even though it had begun to snow there was a window that was cracked open. There were some people outside fencing and he could hear the sound of crunching snow and clanking swords in the distance as he was listening to the fencing lecture. He said that for a brief moment he’d felt like he had gone back in time. 

A few weeks later during practice I was working with Christian, another instructor who specializes in Italian fencing. He took one of his older spare swords and put it in my hand. He asked me how it felt. 

“I like it, it’s not too heavy and the handle feels good. It’s nice and smooth.” 

“Would you consider taking it as a long term loan?”

I was floored. A good sword is expensive. I’d been fencing for a while but I had always borrowed other people’s extra equipment. 

“What? Are you sure?”

Christian looked at me with the utmost sincerity. “I want you to be really good at this.”

My eyes welled up with tears. This was no small gesture. Christian had been to practice sporadically over the past few weeks. He had been supporting his girlfriend Deirdre, a fellow fencer and absolute sweetheart, through her breast cancer treatments. Although she was recovering well, the past few weeks had not been easy for them. For him to offer me a sword felt momentous. 

I struggled to find the right words until “I’ll take good care of it” finally fell out. 

“I know you will” he said confidently. 

Later that night Tim approached me. He could tell I’d been crying and asked if I was ok. I explained what Christian had done. 

“Ah” he said with a smile, relieved that I wasn’t injured.

I clutched the sword close to me. “I’m so glad I found you guys” I said as I wiped the tears off my cheeks. 

For the last few years I’d felt as though my most meaningful connections with men had been nothing but miserable failures. I’d lost a boyfriend, two friendships, been to two funerals, stalked by customers at my job, been horribly mistreated by potential partners, accosted by a boss and grabbed by a married coworker. I’d lost a lot of men I had cared for or trusted in a very short amount of time. 

But I’d gained so much through fencing. I got to be surrounded by men who loved learning and teaching. Men who were devoted to their partners and their children. Men who openly expressed kindness and compassion. And the women were rock stars too. Deb took me under her wing when I was new, Sibilla makes and fights in dresses, Crissy brought me extra clothes without even knowing me, and Deirdre wants to recover as fast as possible so she can fight again. 

I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by love. Love and the clanking of swords. 

Swept