Dear Diary,

The queens are dead.  Long live the Queen (o’ da Bog).  I am no longer covered in bees, though I am likely to continue murdering yellow jackets for at least the next two weeks.  Every day or so, assume that I’m lighting the ground on fire.  Ahem: “GROUND’S ON FIIIIIRE.”

Today I set up a proper tent in its proper location and bribed some of the fellahs to bring me a picnic table, and some other fellahs put some stuff together for me and hung my nice homemade fly while I swooned and fanned myself and offered them cold ones.  It was nine million degrees.  And then with the kitchen building and the wall hanging and the organizing and the wearing of the pretty linen and silk clothes and the aaaaamberrrrrrr.

And then came the bronze-ogling and the linen trade.  Richard and I have a deal.  I think we came up with it not long after I was inclined to weave him the maddest of all belts–white on white wool of varying weights in an intricate stripey pattern visible only to the most intent of starers–and he was inclined to give me a replica of Altuna.  In addition to the helmets, he makes a few fantastic little things out of bronze, and I make clothing that he finds fantastic, and we trade.  We trade first.  No one else gets to pilfer the bronze items until I’ve gone through them, and no one else gets to go through Crazy Lanea’s basket of handmade clothing until Richard has gone through it.  And while I understand that many people don’t have a way with the fabric, I think I’m getting far too fantastic of a deal in all of this.  I mean, making clothes is easy.  Pouring bronze and carving antler and hardwoods would likely cost me some fingers and toes-es.  And maybe a leg.  Apparently, I am a danger to myself.  Anyway, each of us spends the first few days of Celtic Summer Camp listening to little comments like “why don’t you two go trade instead of sitting here yakking like middle schoolers” or “I would be so much more inclined to do some camp work if I knew I would have a nice new outfit to change into” or “Richard, get your butt over to Lanea’s now–cuz I want some fricking new clothes and she won’t let me see what she brought until you’ve picked out what you want, slowbee!”

I walked away with a gorgeous antler-handled bronze sickle and he got some tunic-y goodness.  All is well in the universe.  And then the first of the guys descended on the basket and it was a madhouse.  It’s like they have no Mommies to sew for them or something.  (Oh man, what a sad thought, Mommy-less-ness.  Now I’m all teared up again.  Sap.)  Have I mentioned that Etaine and I are the only girls here so far?  This year, well, it’s kind of a sausage-fest first week.  Seriously–we’ve decided to eat sausage every day in honor of the sausage-fest that is this event.  Saturday, we ate fantastic Boar’s Head hotdogs.  Man, those were good hot dogs.  Sunday: Chicken and roasted garlic sausages.  Monday, well, Monday is far away.  I think.  The wasp-piiizon is still in me, and it’s apparently mixing with some adult beverages and makin’ my head foggy.  ThankyouandgoodnightPittsburgh.  It was the best day ever.

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