I wonder if the Viking Age Club and Society of the Sons of Norway will be asked to participate in Walker, Minnesota’s annual Ethnic Fest again, next year.

I fear we’ve made ourselves unwelcome up there.

No, I’m not talking about the arson in the courthouse. Or the sacking of the coffee shop. Or the drunken assault on the Irish dancing troupe (admittedly a lapse of judgment on our part).

No, I’m talking about the weather. The legend of the Ethnic Fest, as passed down through the generations by the village elders, states that it has never rained on the event in its history.

Until last year, when the VAC&S came.

And this year, when we came again.

Rainy events are a drag. We can’t put out our stuff for sale (because it gets wet and loses its intrinsic market value) or our display equipment (because it rusts). Basically we just hung out in costume, most of us huddled under my sunshade (suddenly the most popular tent in the camp). With a waterproof tarp draped over it, it provided a relatively dry spot.

We did, however, do two live steel combat shows. So the town got something for its money.

It was actually raining lightly during our first show. Think of the final battle in The Thirteenth Warrior. It was pretty much like that. Except, of course, that I’m much better looking than Antonio Banderas.

By the time of the second show, the sky had cleared enough for the guys to unpack the chain mail assembly demonstration, always a venue of great fascination to teenage boys.

When all was done and we’d packed our wet canvas in our SUVs, our group repaired to the nearby Ojibway casino for supper. After a very nice buffet, the others turned to gambling. I myself went back to our gracious hosts’ home to bed, having explained politely to my friends that they were all going to Hell.

I’ve had better weekends, but at least I wasn’t in Galveston.