The way the weather affects everything is funny sometimes. It’s like a secret little signal for me. Every year, I can feel it in the way the temperature shifts; the moment the wind picks up and the leaves tumble down at my feet for the very first time. When that cool breeze first hits my face after a long, grueling summer; the woods begin calling out to me. A desperate voice from a patch of forest deep within Plantersville, Texas. My missing magic seems to hide there.

As if in an instant I find myself there again, lacing up my beloved corset for the first time in a year. Running my fingers across its delicate embroidery as I struggle, pulling in everything about myself that seems to get in the way. It’s always easier with a helper. He laces me up from behind in the morning at camp as I stand patiently; as I stroke the fabric softly with my fingertips, bumpy and pleasing. It seems I’m enjoying this more than he is. I’m silently giddy. In just a few short moments I’m strapped in and satisfied with the look of the thing and the way it feels up against me, tight as an unforgiving hug.

In the early daylight at camp the mist rises off of the quiet paths surrounding the waking patrons. It flows through the forest like so many ghosts, leaving millions of tiny dew drops in its wake. Miniscule globules of water, each one resembling its own little Neptune. They make my feet and clothes always a bit wet, but not completely so.

My memories of the place dance in and out of my mind like fluttering dragonflies, taunting me with the release of only a few small details at a time.

Inside the monstrous wooden gates of the faire the magic of the forest is amplified. The scents entice my senses instantly; of sandalwood and sweet grass, of frankincense and pine needles, of candles of a million different flavors, and of roses resting in baskets carried by gypsy-clad maidens aching to make a buck. A group of fairies rests beneath a large oak tree on blankets made of colorful flowers and scavenged leaves. Their wings are astoundingly large, draping back and down at their feet, created of a fine fabric which seems to catch the light in just the right way. I find myself at the Mud Show, where medium to large sized crazy-men leap half-naked into a pit of muddy water, only to emerge again caked in a light-brown clay, then to scrape the muck from their eyes and hurl balls of the stuff into the crowd.

A corset like mine demands a certain posture everywhere I go. Bending down to pick things up can be challenging and requires a bit of finesse. My corset supplies a bit of magic for me, right along with the bells and the incense and the sweet-grass in the air, and the smell of the campfire soaked into my clothes and sheets for weeks after the annual trip to faire. My corset is a part of me and I a part of it. It holds me in a way that makes me feel as though I’m keeping secrets, and I adore it so much I never want to take it off.

At my feet the fall leaves are pressed into the mud like fossils. A hazy amber sunlight streams through the towering East Texas pines. The canopy of trees breaks up the warm veil of light into thick golden threads that cascade off of every level of thing around me, intertwining with the shadows cast by admirable branches. There’s a faint scent of baked goods and coffee wafting about my nostrils as well, surely from the English café just across the clearing. Walking around inside these walls I see some of the most detailed, impressive, articulate costume work I’m bound to see anywhere. A pirate stumbles out of the tavern across the way; 10am and he’s already at it. Sounds of the joust beginning can be heard down the path, as massive weapons thrust by broad, sweat-laden men on grand horses clank against hefty sets of plate-mail; created just a few shops down, courtesy of the resident blacksmith.

My feet are blistered and weak yet somehow they make it through the day, surely on the wings of a few naughty honey-mead fairies. Back at my temporary canvas home in the darkness I listen intently to the sounds of the site. The crickets chirp relentlessly from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, holding tempo with my heartbeat. In the darkness there is drumming and fluting; there are women laughing and men chanting phrases of old; there are fires crackling and owls hooting. In the night all of nature is one out here, human and wildlife and otherwise. Above my head the stars twinkle at me from the blackness of space. People walk through camps and talk to strangers; they sit down at unfamiliar campsites with guitars in-hand and sing a harmony they never knew possible. It’s so cold my body seems to have forgotten it has toes, as so many people holler joy out into the darkness. Every campsite its own temporary little home, cozy and simple, decorative or not, enticing with so many little flames burning like nightlights, beacons of warmth in the deathly cold. Some of them stream classic rock out of their pop-up campers; a group of ravers spin glow sticks across a darkened ditch. This world is where the faire truly lives. It’s where the character- actors relax and unwind after a day in speaking in the native tongue of the time. It’s where they intermingle with the regulars and the party animals. It’s where friends drink mead until they’re puking up their guts; some of which will surely stumble clumsily out of a stranger’s tent in the glaring morning light doomed to follow. It all looks so different during the night.

After a few short hours of strolling around in the freezing darkness campsite hopping, it’s time to get some rest. He helps me to remove the special little piece of embroidered art I’ve had the honor of keeping snuggly close to myself throughout the day. I can feel him pulling and tugging at the strings in the back of my corset; tighter then loser, tighter then loser still, until I’m finally able to take it into my own hands. I place my fingers on either side of the clasps at my front, pulling each of the 5 apart from its counterpart, allowing all of my womanly charms to be set free in an instant. The breath I didn’t even know I’d been missing then returns, and everything seems to slink and slow down for a moment as I’m released, as if suddenly set free via broken dam. I could die in this moment and be happy. It’s a wonder I enjoy wearing my corset so much, when what really reminds me of a place like heaven is having it removed when the day is done.

In the morning the rain thumps furiously against the outside of our temporary canvas home. Little splats of water slam against the border separating our world from the weather. The little splatters starburst out into little worlds. Little stars exploding into miniature nebulas devoid of color. Outside there are no drums. There are no people hollering out their joy. There are no campfires and no campfire smells around anymore. The storm lulls the party-animals further into their sleepy doldrums.
He laces me up again later that morning. That old familiar hug returns, that old familiar and demanding friend of mine, stealing my breath for the good of all who lay their eyes upon it.

Though the weather still fogs up our brains as the opening cannon rings out from somewhere in the distance, something drags us on into the mud and muck. Inside the gates of a world away from worlds it’s happening again. The magic is real in the moment. Nature is everywhere. Nature moves through everything effortlessly. Human nature as well is tangible in this world, and whether troubling or triumphant, it cradles us as the trees seem to do. When suddenly the sun begins to peek out from behind the clouds and through the trees above our heads, there’s a sense of collective joy among with passing crowd. The kilt-wearing rock stars of fair, Tartanic, begin to play somewhere beyond the trees as we make our way toward the melodious pipes and drums. I look down at my feet; my toenails are imbedded with layers of dirt and grime, dried mud has splashed up against my shins, and the bottom rim of my dress expresses the same abuse at the hand of the unexpected weather. There’s still a magic in the air; a magic that saturates everywhere; a magic that stays with me when I leave it.

At home a few days later, I pull my beloved costume out of my backpack. I press the green rustic cotton of a peasant’s dress against my face and inhale its smell in deeply. I reminisce about the corset. The struggles and the improvisations and the waltzing around in an uncomfortable yet strangely pleasing posture all day long, to have it all simply set free in the moonlight before we lay our heads down on a leaky air-mattress; only to rise and do it all over again the next day. My treasured costume has managed to absorb the pervasive smell of so many collective campfires; it is musty and sweet and brings me back immediately as nothing else seems to have the power to do. At home I soak my feet in an Epsom salt tub; I use my cell-phone without the fear of losing signal. I take a shower like it’s the first time in years. I use the bathroom in an actual bathroom, in a place where I don’t have to worry about catching something from the stranger that might have frequented the toilet before me.

I am home.

But a piece of myself won’t be again until next year’s faire. Memories of the weather always remain, cold and wet and miserable and challenging; changing at a moment’s notice and producing anxiety under a canvas roof.

The fair is rain or shine. The fair is everything to me.

So I say, lace up that corset and let the cannon ball fly.