For those unfamiliar with mummering, it involves people disguising themselves and coming to your house to make you guess who they are. Their heads will be covered with cloth, making them resemble the Scarecrow from the 1939 movie version of The Wizard of Oz. Their hodgepodge clothing might be stuffed with rags or pillows so that if you poke them (this is a poking situation), you won’t be able to ascertain their body shape. If you answer their knock on the door, they will distort their voices to ask “Any mummers allowed in?” I’m not sure what happens if you say “No.”

Once you figure out a mummer’s identity, they will remove their mask. Then you’ll get to feed them, provide drinks, and become a mummer yourself so that you can join them at their next stop.

This sounds like a zombie apocalypse movie to me.

Mummering has a long history in Newfoundland, most likely brought by settlers from Ireland in the early 19th century. Still, I can’t unknow the fact that mummering was outlawed in Newfoundland in 1861 after a group of masked mummers killed a man.

Which basically confirms every one of my deepest fears.

Newfoundland may be ground zero for mummering, but since the tradition usually occurs around Christmas, I thought a June visit would be safe. It wasn’t. The St. Anthony Iceberg Festival celebrates icebergs, Vikings, spring … and Newfoundland culture. This meant that most of the events happening throughout the region happily promised a visit from mummers. I took these as warnings and knew I’d have to choose carefully if I didn’t want to miss out on other experiences.

I took a closer look at my fear. Which part of mummering concerned me the most? It was supposed to be fun. What made me want to hide?

Covered faces. Disguised voices. Concealed identity. What could possibly go wrong? But if I was being honest, the scariest part to me was that a mummer might force me to engage. I avoid audience participation at all costs. I did not want to be the target of revelry, no matter how “fun” it was cracked up to be.

Continuing southeast across Newfoundland, I finally found a mummering experience I could deal with on my own, safe terms: a performance at the Twillingate New World Island Dinner Theater. It was a Newfoundland “kitchen party” filled with songs and traditions, including … guess. Up on the stage far away from me, dancing mummers appeared. They pranced around with ugly sticks and enthusiasm. I told myself they couldn’t reach me without alighting from the stage and bolting over rows of tables. There was no chance for contact. All I had to do was watch and learn.

I did not hyperventilate or run from the room. Nor did I look away.

But–I still don’t want to meet mummers up close and personal.

Context is everything. I do understand the need to create diversions and entertainment in the midst of a long, isolated winter.

But, please, don’t come to my house.