I haven’t been fully decked out in drag since that all-male production of “Gilligan’s Island” at summer camp years ago (where I made a killer Ginger). The “cross dressing” I refer to here is purely symbolic. When you find yourself both male and American and a vendor at the 20th Annual British Faire sponsored by the Daughters of the British Empire, you will find that you’ve jumped a number of societal fault lines (which also goes to show I still remember some of the vocab words from my cross-cultural journalism class).
“What were you doing in Kansas?” would be a good question to ask had you known to pose it. There were times when I was pondering the same question. Let me backtrack a tiny bit to set the stage.
I had previous volunteered to help my aunt and grandmother with their antiques/English fares booth. I arrived in Kansas City on Thursday afternoon and soon was put to work. I primarily played the part of a work mule lugging boxes, tables, shelves, and other items. With all the moving I’ve been doing lately, this was something I can do on autopilot and was no trouble at all. The slightly bigger challenge was trying to stay out of the way when we arrived at the event site and the booth was set up Friday night.
The event was based out of the Lenexa Community Center (which means nothing to most readers, so I’ll include this map to give the curious an approximate idea where I was). From my viewpoint, we had one of the more intricate booths. While others were doing simple “table top” presentations, we had multiple shelves, additional side tables, and plenty of cloth and ivy garlands.
Of course, this sight is fairly standard to me. When your family members run a business of antiques and collectibles (and work out of the house to prepare them), you develop skewered presentation expectations.
Running in grandma and grandpa’s house was explicitly banned by my parents when we were growing up (it probably still is, though it has been a while since I have heard that policy repeated). There was a constant, justified fear of slamming into something old and/or fragile. I don’t remember breaking that much stuff, though with my wobbly legs, I remain paranoid that I’ll trip and take out something from 1897.
In addition to offering aged items, the business also featured hand crafted artistic pieces (like dolls, painted plates, porcelain teddy bears, to name only a few) that were made in-house. Smith grandchildren learned not to be shocked if they peaked in the oven – hoping to see baking cookies – and saw pale, eyeless faces staring back instead. It simply meant our aunt was working on another batch of dolls and we would have to wait for the heads were done drying (and possibly a bunch of disembodied arms and legs as well) before receiving fresh baked goods.
Books were another common commodity. There were always stacks of tomes tucked about in every possible free place. Some were decoratively arranged if they were on a shelf or table. I’m still awed by the memory of the great authors’ names appearing on gilded-lettered tomes around the fireplace. Despite the availability of classics by Dickens, Dumas, and others, I largely left them untouched because I was afraid of cracking the binding or tearing a page. Alternative reading materials were readily available, however. My grandmother would check out a voluminous amount every time she hit the library. These books were more easily accessible, especially since they could banged around with less misgivings.
As the setting up process at the booth began to be completed, it looked like portions of my grandparents’ house had been plucked whole and transplanted into the multi-purpose gymnasium. The plastic ivy, the carefully arranged tea sets, the stately tomes – all seemed to have magically transported themselves from the sitting room or living room.
I’m sure it didn’t hurt that this was the eleventh time my aunt and grandmother had attended this fair. They said they were still working the kinks out, but obviously had a good idea of what to expect. But I didn’t. As we packed up that night to head home, I honestly had no idea what to expect when I would return the next day.
Saturday was both busy and educational. My first conundrum was on what to wear. I’d been watching other groups set up the night before, but clues were inconclusive. Some had outfits featuring the Union Jack or old family crests though I did spot a person wearing a USA sweatshirt (which I thought went in the opposite direction of what was expected, but that was me). Since I lacked anything with St. George’s cross on it, but wasn’t willing to go completely “native” (as in American), I split the difference: I wore my MU English major t-shirt beneath a nice striped dress shirt. I figured the irony would carry me through at the least.
We returned to Lenexa just before the doors opened to the public. I had a brief amount time to take in some of the other booth. There was lots of tea. There were pastries that looked scrumptious. If a table sold books, there was usually a Princess Diana volume or two included. A man was selling glass mosaics that were simply astounding.
Of course, intermixed with all the impressive displays were some underwhelming entries. If you’ve ever walked through an antique mall, and with my upbringing I’ve strolled though hundreds, you’ll quickly recognize that some people work hard to showcase something special while others are content to phone it in.
There were the ubiquitous Beanie Babies, movies for sale that were only vaguely British (like “What a Girl Wants,” and a Sharon Osbourne bobble-head that pushed multiple envelopes of good taste. The quirkiest unrelated item was a lamp pulled straight from “A Christmas Story,” except for the fact it was bent at a slightly more provocative angle (about 23 degrees by my protractor) and sporting a smart pink heel.
Some of the booths made for a laugh, but once people started trickling in, there wasn’t much time to concentrate on anything besides the customers and the money box. My mother has hosted the Book Fair at her school for the last two weeks and the time I’d put in helping her came back in spades.
I will have certain repeated phrases stuck in my head for the months to come: “A box of tea? That will be $4.24 including tax.” “You have three tea cozies? That comes out to $3.22.” “Want a receipt? I didn’t think so…”
Most of the sales were small items, like tea, pepper jelly, and children’s books (featuring British favorites like A.A. Milne’s Pooh, Michael Bond’s Paddington Bear, and the author behind the first Potter-mania, Beatrix and her mischievous cotton-tailed rabbits). We did clear some tea sets, some cutlery, and some fancier silver reproductions.
Our location certainly didn’t hurt. We were between the metal guys (with their jewelry and medieval weapons) and the area where dancers and musicians routinely performed. My grandmother said she specifically requested our corner year after year. I could see why.
Whenever the music would start up and/or the dancers start marching in, people would flock to our area. Sales would slow down as people would crowd to get a good view, but they’d be quick to turn around and start looking when the shows were over. Also, depending on how you angled, you could see flashes of the action in between the spectators.
There was Celtic music, a colonial American dance group (who performed the dances they’d brought with them across the Atlantic), bag pipers, and kilted dancers. They all put on a good show and I envied their talent (though I believe I would be forced to do myself great physical harm if I was required to wear the sailor outfit some dancers wore).
Sometimes the best performances weren’t featured center stage, but rather, going on in the wings. With certain dances, you could see the younger students or understudies working to keep up with the movement of the older dancers. Two young boys, probably not in kindergarten yet, kept falling into impromptu wrestling matches during off-dances. I was also tickled by the number of spectators, young and old, who would try mirroring a couple steps and flourishes.
To answer a question I was posed earlier: No, I don’t know if I am manly enough to don a kilt. I have a number of friends who have (and didn’t blush or treat it like a joke). I’m thankful to say my re-enactment experience has concentrated around the early 1800s where you were allowed leather or canvas leggings rather than the pre-revolutionary days when tartans were in vogue. I haven’t been handed a kilt on a hanger and been forced to make a choice, so I’m still uncertain on how I would respond. The only thing I know for sure is that I’d ask for two pairs of knee socks to cut down on the wind sheer. From there, I couldn’t honestly say.
In the middle afternoon, the crowds began to thin (as had our supply of tea and pepper jelly). I was freed up to make another loop or two since sales had slowed accordingly. The booth with the smartest handouts was that of Shakespeare troupe. My grandmother has worked with them before to put on a “Tea with Shakespeare” event. The Heart of America Shakespeare Festival, which they’ve been a part of, is one of the few Shakespeare celebrations in the United States that is open to the public free of charge. Their slogan for this year’s flyer, “Free Will.” Simply awesome.
My other noteworthy exchange was extremely one-sided, being as my partner in the conversation has been dead almost 400 years. For most Americans, Guy Fawkes Day occurs and disappears unknowingly each year. The British holiday is a celebration of the foiling of the gunpowder plot that was meant to blow the Parliament sky high on November 5, 1605. Fawkes was the leader of the unsuccessful conspiracy. As part of the annual celebration, people build bonfires, set off fireworks, and knock around effigies of their favorite Guy.
One of the sponsoring groups of the fair had a little mannequin dressed up and sitting in a wagon. He didn’t speak, but that doesn’t mean he had no message to convey:
“Remember, remember, the fifth of November…”
Don’t forget your past; rather, use it as a guide to a better future (or at the least, a more entertaining present). Aim big, so that even if you fail, your efforts will be remembered for years to come. And if you want to plot a coup, pick smarter co-conspirators.
That’s what I learned at the English Faire, and that’s what I hope you will do with the rest of your day (and if you have a spare chair in your cabal, let me send you my résumé. I promise I won’t blab the secrets in letters and blow the deal for everyone else).
