Helloooo! Lisa Mayer here– New PooPooPoo Podcast coming soon! But meantime–you know how there are some insanely smart people out there? They know everything about history, literature, artists, world cities, music, old recipes– and they already know something, anything, about something you just learned, or realized?
My friend Michael is one of those. We were emailing, and I wrote that I was teaching the kiddos at my school a song from the year 1260, about farting young bulls.
He emailed back. He knew the song, two versions of it; he recommended a particular scholar for me to check out, and he QUOTED a line from the song, and I just know he didn’t look it up.
I love and revere those kind of people because I am a memoirist and I can’t remember facts. I remember feelings; I especially remember funny or embarrassing or raw and honest feelings. Sometimes they’re from a zillion years ago– like when I was 8– and something just this week reminded me.
But back to the farting young bulls. The lyrics of the song were written by a medieval poet who walked the meadows and farmlands in the springtime– and knew what the bulls sounded like.
The kiddos at my school were shocked–but secretly delighted. I said we could leave that part out, but– “Oh no, Ms Mayer. We must be authentic.”
And so– I am planning ‘Medieval Mayhem,’ a new festival I thought of, for May.
Everyone will dress like a Royal or a Jester and I will employ strolling musicians (meaning my husband and kids) and we’ll party like it’s 1399.
We’ll have pretzels– which they liked back then, and play jousting games with cats– which they didn’t like back then. We will use beanbag cats.
And for the Grand Finale– all the parents will gather at our school’s outdoor amphitheater with the Medieval columns. And all the kiddos will stand and perform the farting young bulls song. It’s a six-part round!
I hope my brilliant friend Michael–and my Principal– will appreciate my reasoning: that when these kiddos, after a zillion years, reach my age, they might–hopefully– find themselves walking in a meadow or around a farmland, and they’ll hear certain noise– and smell a memory.