Tie the Knot
Twenty-two years ago, Penny and I tied the knot. Today, we met Lindsay of the International Guild of Knot Tyers. One of several booth operators at the Forge Festival, hosted at the Heritage Square Museum. Lindsay once dismantled the engine of a Renault Dauphine he’d purchased with his own money. He wanted to put it back together according to his own specifications, and that’s exactly what he did. Lindsay gave me a history lesson in rope. Rope is what made just about all things possible, like ship building, and sailing off to parts unknown. Rope is what gets us out of a jam, and we can make it out of simple stuff like clothing, should the need ever arise. Twists and turns of wires are what transports our data over the internet. Rope is everywhere. Lindsay can make anything, even an iPad, if he wants to. He’d rather make furniture for his wife, or teach kids about making stuff, and how easy it is once you know how.
Forging goes all the way back to at least 4000 BC, and today’s blacksmiths are just as intertwined with the past as they are with the future. Love of tradition, and a desire to pass the knowledge on to the next generation of smiths is deep within their hearts. At the Forge Festival, you could take a five minute workshop on how to make a sword the size of a nail. The sword actually was a nail. There were hammers striking, and fires burning. Blacksmiths in period costume. On the porch of the octagon house, a ukulele band performed. A dilapidated train car formed a backdrop behind one of the booths, and straight down the middle of the property runs a dirt road leading back towards a whitewashed church. Lots of people traffic. Even a food truck.
We walk the show, front to back, then back to front. I meet a lot of folks along the way. Jaime, who posed in front of the train car for me. Carlo and his mom, Carmela. Tiphani and Gil, kissing at the fire hydrant. A man and his two sons, 20 and 13. “I made a lot of mistakes when I was young.” The “go fuck yourself” lady, laughing her head off. Thomas declined to be photographed. He’s a cinematographer, and we compared camera notes. Others whose names I didn’t get.
We made our way to Houston’s afterwards. Neither of us had been there since before we knew each other. Houston’s has their own artichoke farm up north, and a secret way of making them that involves an ice bath, steam, and grilling. Before dinner, we encounter Marco and his family. They’re celebrating Marco’s 46th birthday. He’s a wedding and street photographer, so of course we talk shop. The thirty-five minute wait for a table turns into forty-five. Christina, who’s on her way out and past optimal alcohol, asks my point of view as a photographer. I tell her I love people and their stories. I ask for her point of view, but she doesn’t want to give it. She doesn’t seem eager to walk away from the conversation, either. But the hostess indicates our table is ready, and we are ready, too.
We tie the knot, and the ones we love make a rope with us that allows us to grow into the best possible version of ourselves. Through twists and turns, that rope allows us to extricate ourselves from the hairiest of situations, to pull up others, to pass the torch. Everything we need is right here with us. We just have to tie it all together as best we can.