I know I'm a pyrate first and a ren-folk second (due to obligations that I made on my own). . . but I do so miss m'friends of MDRF. In July we're planning a Hey-UGE picnic/party and we'd like to see all the folks we can. . . c'mon if you love the festival and join us. . .we're having kegs of beeer . . .and cider. . . and food from MDRF (or as near as we can make it). . . games, fun, chat, memories. . .and we'll be playing yet another round of MDRF Jeopardy!

www.friendsofmdrf.org is where ye need be. . .check the left column for the bulletin board and join us! Or just go to: http://fomdrforg.proboards54.com . . .and bob'syeruncle. . . you're there! We also have a leading Renspace group for ye to join and you'll find yourself hugged by fellow MDRF folk who've helped us grow since we started in 2002. We be yer first, best choice for traditional MDRF adventure and friendship.

I know I've touted our group so many times in the last five seasons, but this being our sixth makes it all that more special. I'm so happy to just be a part of friends who have MDRF in common. Every year our lil' group changes. People drift off and new people find us. . . yet we all have this MDRF bond. . .from every lifestyle and every walk of life.

'Tis not about monthly get-togethers, how drunk we can get, what cigars we smoke, or the gosip that dramatizes lives. . . it's about our friendships and how we can give a hug to someone we might not if we didn't know them from festival. It's that sparkle we find in each other's eyes at the thought of good King Henry ordering the opening of the gates at 10 a.m. on a brisk Autumn morning.

It's the miserable heat of August, yet we're wearing the equivalent of a couch on our bodies. . . it's the cold of late October when frost melts off our mugs of hot wine. It's the laughter of the first O'Danny Girls show and the sadness of the last Pub Sing. It's watching Johnny Fox burst his eyeball for the 20-millionth time and still not being able to look. . . . It's being mesmerized by Lurk as he dances 11 feet in the air on stilts.

Giant bubbles from a bubble wand, the sound of the pipe organ on Sunday, the smell of steak-on-a-stake, and the cold nectar of a morning cider. A child laughs with his grandparent at Hilby's antics, the young women swoon at the talents of Fight School, and a history teach nods with appreciation of a Tudor king selecting another bride.

You love Saturday mornings when you walk past Stupina at the fountain and you dread Sunday nights when the torch-lit parade heads out of the White Hart. When you sit in traffic, half of your garb in the seat behind you and the white dust of the lot on the hood of your car, you smile. You really don't mind the traffic going home. . . it makes your MDRF day last longer. . .gives you time to reflect on the friends you made that day and the people you feel you've always known and loved.

THAT's what www.friendsofmdrf.org is really all about. . . . the memories. . . . the friends. . . the love.

As of today I'm 45 years old and if I died right now, what would there be to remember me? Two wonderful kids to carry my stories. A grieving widow and ex-wife-widow who would join in the celebration of my life and not mourn my passing. Having someone remember me upon the day I died is morbid. I think it's really sick to only remember someone on the day they died. If one had any respect for those that passed, you'd celebrate their lives every day and skip the day they died and strike it from memory forever.

 I've said this before, but on a tombstone, the life is not represented by the birth date or the day of death, but the dash. That little symbol " - " makes up someone's whole life. Natal Day celebrations are stupid. . . Death remembrances are even more sick. . . it's the dash we must always celebrate in a life. . . living or dead. Anyway. . . I am indeed alive.

I celebrate over four decades of getting my shit together and still working at it. Here's an example. The photo below links to the School House Photo Library that my mom hung in the hallway, centered between my older brother Bob's version and my younger brother Thom's. Click the image to see me in 12 years of Public School:

45 years ago my Mom and Dad came up with my name "Steven" after someone on TV that they admired and was really humorous. Perhaps that's where my sardonic humor comes from. . . the mind of Steve Allen. My middle name was a bit of a mistake. . . Dad thought his grandfather's middle name was "Howard". . . but it was actually "Houston.". . . but I grew up with the moniker Steven Howard Kimball and it took. Mom's been gone almost seven years now.

Dad's still pushing on and will celebrate his 75th next year in October. He's moved from state-to-state and I've managed to visit him in each one. I spent many a weekend at his home in Fredericksburg, just a few hours from the Nimitz' port of Norfolk, VA back in the 80s.

When an 8-cylinder souped-up Nova flew out of the fog and into the driver's side of my 1980 Escort which stopped my heart, crushed both my lungs, rearranged my hip and pelvis and sent me first to Shock Trauma and then to the Bethesda Naval Hospital in September of 1985. . . . he was there EVERY DAY. It got to the point where I could hear his footsteps upon the carpet of the 3rd floor hallways at lunchtime. For the months of surgery and recuperation that I suffered through, he was there EVERY DAY.

Y'see, I followed in my dad's footsteps into the Navy and I remember the night I showed up at his house wearing my second chevron for the first time on my dress blues. . . . and he wept. It was similar weeping that I could see behind his eyes every day I was in Bethesda. He knew my career in the Navy was over and he shared my loss. If that accident hadn't happened, I'd have stayed in until they kicked me out. I loved the sea. . . I loved my ship (I wanted back on the Nimitz). . . I loved the Navy PhotoJournalist that I was . . . and I loved my country and was proud to be the only member of my three brothers to put his life out on the line (should it come to that) to keep everyone else safe.

My father instilled pride in me early in my life. He saw my talent in art early on but chided me that "artists don't make a lot of money and it's a cut-throat world. . . you're good but not good enough. . .yet." He told me that I couldn't make it. What did that do? Inspire me to MAKE IT just to spite the old man. It might not be the most refreshing reason in the world but like Johnny Cash's "Boy Named Sue," my dad realized that sometimes a negative can make you hard, tough, scrappy and most of all. . . determined to make it.

I give my dad full credit for my determination and drive. I give him credit for me seeking out new ways to improve myself. He knows I'm not much on taking his advice, but he gives it nonetheless. Even if his advice doesn't hold out, he always gives me a new way to approach an effort. My father's vision for me changed over the years, as any good father's would. What started out as a hope for success became a hope of happiness. He always told me to follow my vision but not at the cost of my family. He taught me to reach for what I couldn't possibly reach and be satisfied with the worst. Thus, each success earned me the pride of overcoming and making my mark. Dad gave me the pride that I needed to be good at what I do without sacrificing the present.

I don't sell Real Estate like my very successful older brother Bob. I don't market foodstuffs like my brother Thom who is slowly cornering several distribution markets and is brilliant in product placement in his field. I'm a freakin' artist. I'm the black sheep (for reasons I'll go into another time. . .trust me, it's an earned label). I'm the dreamer who was looking for a muse to set him on the path that not only made me successful, but satisified my undying need to create art.

So here I am at 45. I have successful brothers. I have a mother who taught me how to laugh who's passed on. I have a father who taught me all my life without having to preach. I have two kids who are much smarter, better looking, and more talented than I could ever be. I have friends who love me for what I am, quirks anon. . . .

 . . and I have my muse. My Cynthia. That blue-eyed, blonde with the great chest, meat on her bones, perfect teeth, and can "crack the whip" against my sloth as well as make my heart soar with a single kiss. She protects me, provides for me, dances for me, brings light when she smiles, and most importantly, inspires me.. . . oh, even more important than that. . .she puts up with me.

45. I'm half-way through life and I'm just getting started m'friends. The Pyrates Way magazine will be my legacy. I'll keep writing, drawing, photographing, designing, proofing, and editing the thing for as long as the folks that buy the magazine let me. But as of right now. . . . March 15, 2007. . . I'm the happiest man alive.

and I thank you.