Saturday was interesting. My assignment was to drive down to the Mankato area (about two hours southwest of here). That didn’t seem like a major challenge. The road is Highway 169, which is easy to get to from here, and (as a bonus) provides one of my favorite drives in Minnesota. Much of it passes through a pretty valley. And the leaves were beginning (just beginning) to turn.

I gave a ride to a young fellow who’s just joined the Viking Age Club & Society. He showed up at the time appointed, and off we went.

What I didn’t anticipate was that the Renaissance would bar the way to the Viking Age.

The annual Minnesota Renaissance Festival is in Chanhassen, and Highway 169 is the major access route for most of those who attend. I hadn’t thought of that. But, frankly, even if I had I wouldn’t have expected it to be a problem. The festival opens in the morning, and we were going past in the early afternoon.

But it was nearly the last weekend for the event, and it was a beautiful day, and (apparently) everybody in Hennepin and Ramsey counties decided that this was the day to go. Traffic had backed up for miles and miles. We crawled for nearly two hours. When we finally passed the festival site, it appeared that every spot in the parking area was already filled. I don’t know what the people who suffered that sclerotic drive along with us did when they finally reached their destination.

So we arrived at the farm we were headed for a full hour late. Once we got going it went fine, and a guy who’d never used a sword before “killed” me repeatedly.

Sometimes even Harald Hardrada must have had days like that.

Then we all went out for burgers, and eventually we headed home.

Traffic near the festival was now clotted with people leaving, though it wasn’t nearly as bad as coming in.

On the other hand, nobody rear-ended me coming in.

The traffic had slowed to a stop, and suddenly we felt that familiar kick from behind. I got out and found a lady checking the front of her minivan. There was a parking ticket from an area theme park on her dash (Chanhassen is the entertainment nexus of our state, I guess), and I surmised that she’d taken her daughter (who was sitting in the passenger seat) out for a fun day, until the unthinkable had happened.

Actually the right word wasn’t “unthinkable” but “negligible.” Neither of us detected any noticeable damage, so we exchanged information and continued on our ways.

I rather like being the injured party. I do gracious pretty well. I’m not so good at “apologetic without actually saying you’re sorry, because the insurance people don’t like that.”

It was nearly 9:00 before we got home.

I think even Harald Hardrada would have told me it was a full day.

Though I think Harald would have taken a harder line with the other drivers.

This link takes you to a site where you can vote on a number of historical preservation projects up for grants in the Chicago area. Among them is “The Viking.”

“The Viking” was (I’m pretty sure) the first Viking ship replica ever sailed. It went from Norway to America in 1893 for the World’s Columbian Exhibition. Since that time it has languished in less-than-ideal storage conditions in various places, and it won’t be around much longer if a restoration isn’t done and suitable shelter found.

The deal here is that you can vote on which of several projects will get preservation grants. You don’t have to be a Chicagoan (I’m registered) and you can vote once a day until the deadline. As I understand it, it’s not winner-take-all, and the voting won’t be the only determining factor in the final decisions. But it can’t hurt.

The ship is doing pretty well in the race so far. It’s Number 3 in votes. If you’re at all interested (or if you’re interested in another of the projects), I encourage you to register and vote. “Early and often,” as they say.

If so, adding phrases like this to your vocabulary will help you appear as if you spent too much time in the classroom. “Dic mihi solum facta, domina.” Just the facts, ma’am. (via Amy’s old book blog)

Legendary French mime Marcel Marceau is dead.

All over France he will be memorialized today with a moment of talking.

It looked like a re-play of last night as I drove home. The sun had been shining, but now clouds were driving in, dusty-looking and gray as the contents of a vacuum cleaner bag.

So I canceled my evening walk. And then the sky cleared up. I should walk now, but I’m washing clothes, and I just ate, and… well, I’m lazy.

Tomorrow we’re going to have live steel combat practice at a Viking Age Society member’s farm down near Mankato. The weather’s predicted to be good.

And it gives me an excuse to put off maintenance chores around here.

I read this via Gaius at Blue Crab Boulevard: Jesse Macbeth, who made himself famous by “confessing” to Iraq war crimes, admitted in court today that he is “a fake and a liar.”

The Left tried this game back during the Vietnam years too and, sadly, the mainstream media didn’t have anybody to check their work back then.

Nice to know that some things have gotten better over the years.

Jesse Macbeth should pay more than spending five months in jail, though. He should be tried for treason.

I was, frankly, a draft avoider back in the Vietnam days (long story—I just didn’t think I’d make a very good soldier). But even I was angry then—and remain angry today—over the way our soldiers in that war were robbed of their honor.

Nobody pays a higher price for service to their country than soldiers. Most of them don’t really want to kill, and none of them want to die, but they do what must be done, in part, because they trust that the people at home will honor their sacrifice.

I don’t care if you think America is the equivalent of Nazi Germany. If some German made up false stories about Wehrmacht atrocities in World War II, I think he should be tried for treason too.

Warriors are special. We owe a debt to our warriors. A society can get along without almost any profession. But warriors will always be necessary, and will always deserve special veneration from those of us who sit safe at home.

Can’t post much of anything tonight. I drove home in snake-floating rain, liberally mixed with hail, and a minute after I got into the house, the power went out, where it stayed until about fifteen minutes ago. This left me unable to do much of anything, except read Andrew Klavan’s Hunting Down Amanda by candlelight. Now I’ve got stuff to catch up on. See you tomorrow.