I’m running Field for an SCA event this weekend. That basically translates to “help set up the baronial and Minister of the List tents, as well as the list field fences themselves.” We had plenty of help, but I’m not thirty anymore. Shoot, I’m not even forty. I’m the guy with the gray beard and the three hundred foot heavy-duty outdoor tape measure* and the little red flags who tells you where to set up.
At least tomorrow is a no-heavy-lifting day.
Moe Lane
*It feels glorious to have one of those, in fact. There is nothing quite so grown-up as knowing that you are a person who needs to keep a three hundred foot heavy-duty outdoor tape measure in the trunk of your car. You can feel the universe taking you ever-so-slightly more seriously.
((Stares and Point Ominously))
“You have been MEAURED. And, you have been found Wanting.
[pause]
Move your tent about three feet back and you should be fine!”
–Moe, probably
Measured! MEASURED dammit.
Does this make you a surveyor? That job shows up a lot in CVs of founding fathers.