In my adolescence, my friends, my brother, and I often pretended to be knights. Our shields were metal trashcan lids, and our swords were sticks or scrap lumber with hand guards held in place by screws. Around the woods and fields we’d charge, pretending to fight the bad guys, rescue damsels in distress, and win our share of glory. Sometimes I’d saddle up the pony we owned, Fritz, and gallop around the yard slashing at the air with the sword my grandfather had made for me, while yelling insults at my imaginary enemies.
We read the stories of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, watched the movies “Ivanhoe” and “Robin Hood,” and looked at picture books featuring men in armor from long ago. One favorite book of my late elementary school years was Howard Pyle’s 1891 novel, “Men of Iron,” which told the story of Myles Falworth, first as a squire and then a knight, and his struggles to redeem his father’s name.
