Family Lore Quotes

You're still... Declan?"-- --Voice hoarse, he said, "Aye, it's me. I will never be your perfect Viking, Regin! I've made unforgivable mistakes. I've no family or friends, and my men hold no love for me. I'm scarred inside and out. And I'm bloody askin' for you anyway!

I once spoke to someone who had survived the genocide in Rwanda, and she said to me that there was now nobody left on the face of the earth, either friend or relative, who knew who she was. No one who remembered her girlhood and her early mischief and family lore; no sibling or boon companion who could tease her about that first romance; no lover or pal with whom to reminisce. All her birthdays, exam results, illnesses, friendships, kinships—gone. She went on living, but with a tabula rasa as her diary and calendar and notebook. I think of this every time I hear of the callow ambition to 'make a new start' or to be 'born again': Do those who talk this way truly wish for the slate to be wiped? Genocide means not just mass killing, to the level of extermination, but mass obliteration to the verge of extinction. You wish to have one more reflection on what it is to have been made the object of a 'clean' sweep? Try Vladimir Nabokov's microcosmic miniature story 'Signs and Symbols,' which is about angst and misery in general but also succeeds in placing it in what might be termed a starkly individual perspective. The album of the distraught family contains a faded study of Aunt Rosa, a fussy, angular, wild-eyed old lady, who had lived in a tremulous world of bad news, bankruptcies, train accidents, cancerous growths—until the Germans put her to death, together with all the people she had worried about.

Apparently, he’d killed so many family members that he must have significantly affected the Lore’s population. Doing my part for the environment.

Birthdays, like weddings, anniversaries, baptisms, bar mitzvahs, wakes, are occasions to retie family ties, renew family feuds, restore family feeling, add to family lore, tribalize the psyche, generate guilt, exercise power, wave a foreign flag, talk in tongues, exchange lies, remember dates and the old days, to be fond of how it was, be angry at what it should be, and weep at why it isn't.

If we could believe that he [Jesus] really countenanced the follies, the falsehoods, and the charlatanism which his biographers [Gospels] father on him, and admit the misconstructions, interpolations, and theorizations of the fathers of the early, and the fanatics of the latter ages, the conclusion would be irresistible by every sound mind that he was an impostor... We find in the writings of his biographers matter of two distinct descriptions. First, a groundwork of vulgar ignorance, of things impossible, of superstitions, fanaticisms and fabrications... That sect [Jews] had presented for the object of their worship, a being of terrific character, cruel, vindictive, capricious and unjust... Jesus had to walk on the perilous confines of reason and religion: and a step to right or left might place him within the gripe of the priests of the superstition, a blood thirsty race, as cruel and remorseless as the being whom they represented as the family God of Abraham, of Isaac and of Jacob, and the local God of Israel. They were constantly laying snares, too, to entangle him in the web of the law... That Jesus did not mean to impose himself on mankind as the son of God, physically speaking, I have been convinced by the writings of men more learned than myself in that lore. [Letter to William Short, 4 August, 1820]

Family lore given to us as children has such hold over us, such staying power. It can form the bedrock of another kind of faith, one to rival any religion, informing our beliefs about ourselves, and our families, and our place in the world.

Because it is the lot of mothers to remember what no one else cares to, Mrs. Dutta thinks. To tell them over and over until they are lodged, perforce, in family lore. We are the keepers of the heart's dusty corners.

Civilizations are the generations of the racial soul. As family-rearing, and then writing, bound the generations together, handing down the lore of the dying to the young, so print and commerce and a thousand ways of communication may bind the civilizations together, and preserve for future cultures all that is of value for them in our own. Let us, before we die, gather up our heritage, and offer it to our children.

How do lineages of women from colonized places, where emphasis is put on silent enduring, learn when and where to confide in their own family if forbearance is the only attitude elevated and modeled?)

Americans. They came right out with things. Hitchens family lore related the tale of how once, when I was but a toddler, my parents were passing with me through an airport and ran into some Yanks. 'Real cute kid,' said these big and brash people without troubling to make a formal introduction. They insisted on photographing me and, before breaking off to resume their American lives, pressed into my dimpled fist a signed dollar bill in token of my cuteness. This story was often told (I expect that Yvonne and the Commander had been to an airport together perhaps three times in their lives) and always with a note of condescension. That was Americans for you: wanting to be friendly all right, but so loud, and inclined to flash the cash.

It’s silly to have a nickname for a nickname, but we’d always loved taking apart each other’s names and seeing how else we could arrange the letters into love.

You’re with a man who has never appreciated the everything of a wonderful woman. It is beyond him.

Maybe my relationship with pornography was complicated, but I wouldn’t let Jeremiah or anyone make it uglier than it felt in the moments it didn’t feel good.

We are wild and have no laws.

I smiled back at her. Neither one of us looked the same. We looked like the thicker, gray-streaked, slightly less lost versions of ourselves we now were.

My anxiety has medication, so go tell your anxiety to fuck itself. Because, I fuck who I want.

The alone time was a blessing.

Are you seriously for real right now? You want your family to think that I’m your girlfriend?” “Yes.” “You want me to lie to your family?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because I promised my mother that I would attend these events, and she is under the impression that I have a girlfriend.” “Why would she have that impression?” “Because I told her I have a girlfriend.” “And you don’t have a girlfriend?” “What do you think?

The Divine does not live in fear, and the godly lives in each of us. This is one journey, and beyond this there is another. There is no veil between this world and that one. They are the same world, the one before, this one, the one that comes next, a string of pearls, ends tied so tightly you cannot feel the knot that binds.

Oh, I may not know much about living my own life, but I'm smart for others. And I know the heart is a burial ground for memories that shame and hurt. You can visit and place flowers there and make it a tomb. Or let those things act as fertilizer and pay no homage. p. 351

Gro Rollag was no beauty, but she was a strong capable young woman with a long face, prominent cheekbones, high forehead, and a kindly intelligent look in her rather narrow eyes. According to family lore, she was not the most conscientious housekeeper because she preferred reading to housework. A love of books and reading ran in the family. Of all the possessions they were forced to sell or leave behind in Norway, what the Rollags remembered with deepest regret was the library they inherited from an eighteenth-century ancestor - lovely old books sold to pay for their passage to America.

In that moment he knew she could shatter him. Break him into a million pieces and he'd never recover. Not in this lifetime. He realized all the lore in his family was truth. Ferraro men. When then found the right woman, loved her with everything in them and they did it only once. Francesca was his once.

her skintight neon jumpsuit looking like it’d split open if she released even the littlest fart.

Mainly because she knew it took steady hands to keep a dream afloat, and while Yadi’s hands were inspired, they also trembled.

their

I don’t want it like this. And it’s been happening since you were cleared to try. It’s starting to feel transactional. I’m not a fucking stud horse.” “Oh,

She rolled her eyes. Just like a man, about to kick the bucket and still making his descendants kiss his hand. And before he was even in a casket!

Pastora had murmured that she would talk to her daughter, but in reality, she was struggling to approach this wake with as flippant an attitude as Flor seemed to have.

were eating, nutritiously so; it meant the family supplied several portions of meat for those boys to delight in.

Slighted things needed you to witness the wound you gave them. p. 300

not respond. Camila and Flor exchanged

If one must answer a call from Pastora, apprehension was advised; her mouth had never known silk.

They acted like their tongues were taken out to be sharpened daily, but rarely to slice a sliver of the hides of their husbands.

ONA: Flor’s daughter, possessing a magical alpha vagina, b. 1988

Says the girl who never met a past boo she wanted to leave in the past. Every one of your breakups lasted a hundred years.

On the night they were married, Mamá. And now, six months later, he hasn’t gotten whatever that illness is out of his system. Such little respect he’s had for her.

All Yadi’s years in therapy had taught her to probe gently. She was also someone good with computers, who reluctantly agreed to make Flor a graphic she could forward in the family group chat.

Gladly. And El Pico Duarte is in the other direction.” She pointed with her lips. “You could still be a good person, Santana. It isn’t too late. Even if you are a compulsive, manipulative liar.

Yadi opined that even if Tía Mati walked in on the man having a threesome with his newly pregnant girlfriend, cameras on as they live streamed to OnlyFans, Tía still might not know how to leave.

It was the first time in their relationship she had the thought that life to him was only a great big joke he loved telling and was too self-centered to realize no one joined him in the laughter.

The conversations with her siblings and daughter felt fraught with the questions of life and death. She hadn’t meant to mine everyone else’s life experiences. She’d only meant to make room for her own.

She’d rented the hottest nightclub in the Bronx for her fiftieth birthday. Her English was more proficient than all her siblings’, and she made use of it in her approximation of a Dominican-York socialite.

but I want to ask if she thinks that people are most interested in becoming parents after they became jaded. When our own hope buoys us to keep going, there is no need to go searching for it in another’s new and fresh world gaze.

I wanted to give him a laundry list of the symptoms I’d felt in my body that day: a cramp in my right side, tender breasts, and high irritability. I might be ovulating right this moment, and I didn’t have time for an argument. We didn’t.

Nothing, not even making love, had ever arrived me to my own body like growing another person. It was primal, physical, the sensations that became new to me. I would wake up and brush my teeth, and the moment the toothbrush touched my tongue I would begin to gag.

Then it takes some digging with enough conviction and curiosity to overcome the inevitable defensiveness that rears its head as the veneer of innocence encasing treasured family lore begins to chip away. But while there is anxiety, and even some shame and terror, in recovering a truer narrative about ourselves, there is also something far more valuable: the possibility of a return to health, with these painful revelations serving as the first signposts marking the path out of what can only be called a kind of self-induced insanity.

Rafa was seen at the karaoke bar performing a love song at a pining waitress. Rafa was seen at the billiards on 207th instructing a pretty young thing by pawing her too-large ass. Rafa was seen entering the apartment of the widow in 5D, and he emerged an hour later without his toolbox.

The older sisters all had tacky taste: brocade curtains and brightly painted accent walls, mimicking the tropical colonial style of the country they’d left behind and the era in which they’d left it. Camila didn’t need textile reminders of home. She’d arrived like a bird that was molting.

It was a dead swan. Its body lay contorted on the beach like an abandoned lover. I looked at the bird for a long time. There was no blood on its feathers, no sight of gunshot. Most likely, a late migrant from the north slapped silly by a ravenous Great Salt Lake. The swan may have drowned. I knelt beside the bird, took off my deerskin gloves, and began smoothing feathers. Its body was still limp—the swan had not been dead long. I lifted both wings out from under its belly and spread them on the sand. Untangling the long neck which was wrapped around itself was more difficult, but finally I was able to straighten it, resting the swan’s chin flat against the shore. The small dark eyes had sunk behind the yellow lores. It was a whistling swan. I looked for two black stones, found them, and placed them over the eyes like coins. They held. And, using my own saliva as my mother and grandmother had done to wash my face, I washed the swan’s black bill and feet until they shone like patent leather. I have no idea of the amount of time that passed in the preparation of the swan. What I remember most is lying next to its body and imagining the great white bird in flight. I imagined the great heart that propelled the bird forward day after day, night after night. Imagined the deep breaths taken as it lifted from the arctic tundra, the camaraderie within the flock. I imagined the stars seen and recognized on clear autumn nights as they navigated south. Imagined their silhouettes passing in front of the full face of the harvest moon. And I imagined the shimmering Great Salt Lake calling the swans down like a mother, the suddenness of the storm, the anguish of its separation. And I tried to listen to the stillness of its body. At dusk, I left the swan like a crucifix on the sand. I did not look back.

The mythic American character is made up of the virtues of fairness, self-reliance, toughness, and honesty. Those virtues are generally stuffed into a six-foot-tall, dark-haired, can-do kind of guy who is at once a family man, attractive to strange women, carefree, stable, realistic, and whimsical. in the lore of America, that man lives on the Great Plains. he's from Texas, Dodge City, Cheyenne, the Dakotas, or somewhere in Montana. In fact, the seedbed of this American character, from the days of de Tocqueville through Andrew Jackson, Wyattt Earp, Pony Express riders, pioneers, and cowboys to modern caricatures played by actors such as Tom Mix, Gary Cooper, and John Wayne has aways been the frontier. It's a place with plenty of room to roam, great sunsets, clear lines between right and wrong, and lots of horses. It's also a place that does not exist and never has. The truth is that there has never been much fairness out here.

mother’s magic, like all of the magic for those of us who have a hint of uncanniness, is not like White people’s magic in the movies—led by ritual, called upon, granted in a ceremony of smoke and candelabras. It is not an orderly system like how fantasy novels can describe the exact structure of where and whence and thusly.

Yadi once caught her like that, chewing the cartilage of a chicken bone, the smooth ivory picked clean. It’s one of the memories Yadi liked to use when she told people why she’d become plant-based: her mother, standing over a plate that was not her own, addicted to meat to the point that she had reduced herself to scavenging

It amazes me how few questions I know to ask, or whom to ask them of, until it’s already too late for the answers to be useful. How do lineages of women from colonized places, where emphasis is put on silent enduring, learn when and where to confide in their own family if forbearance is the only attitude elevated and modeled?)

Epigraph won’t you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. born in babylon both nonwhite and woman what did i see to be except myself? i made it up here on this bridge between starshine and clay, my one hand holding tight my other hand; come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed. —“won’t you celebrate with me,” Lucille Clifton

The point in Yalbury Wood which abutted on the end of Geoffrey Day's premises was closed with an ancient tree, horizontally of enormous extent ,though having no great pretensions to height. Many hundreds of birds had been born amidst the boughs of this single tree: tribes of rabbits and hares had nibbled at it's bark from year to year; quaint tufts of fungi had sprung from the cavities of it's forks; and countless families of moles and earthworms had crept about its roots.

They are failed by a culture that writes them off as criminal so that they must create their own internal laws. I don't argue they are freedom fighters. Or are undoing enslavement. I only mean, on this side of the world, every descendent of enslavement, of that inherited and invasive oppression, dreams of an island of their own, a slice of communal freedom, a hard-won respite from a world that reminds them time and time again they are destined to be shackled from every angle.

The first home I remember in Copper Cliff was 11 Evans Road, a tiny place: kitchen, bathroom off of that, a “front room” or parlor with two bedrooms squeezed onto the side. It was here, at the kitchen table, that I had my first lessons on the bagpipe. My dad was teaching my brother Ranald, who, at the time was eleven, and I was four. The two of them would sit at the kitchen table, music book opened, sounding away on the practice chanters. Family lore has it that I was a most annoying kid at these times, wanting to get in on the strange but enticing action. Apparently as a result of being repeatedly rebuffed or ignored, I would crawl under the table and from this ideally placed launching pad, would deliver a “lower punch,” as it came to be known, to the delicate regions of dad and brother. This finally led to their capitulation and I was allowed to join them at the table. I was ultimately outfitted with a very small child’s practice chanter, a family heirloom passed down through dad’s sister Betty, a piper herself who had died many years before in childbirth.

Only those who have lost as much as we have see the particularly nasty slice of smile on someone who thinks they’re winning when they say “Get over it.” This is the thing: If you have the option to not think about or even consider history, whether you learned it right or not, or whether it even deserves consideration, that’s how you know you’re on board the ship that serves hors d’oeuvres and fluffs your pillows, while others are out at sea, swimming or drowning, or clinging to little inflatable rafts that they have to take turns keeping inflated, people short of breath, who’ve never even heard of the words hors d’oeuvres or fluff. Then someone from up on the yacht says, “It’s too bad those people down there are lazy, and not as smart and able as we are up here, we who have built these strong, large, stylish boats ourselves, we who float the seven seas like kings.” And then someone else on board says something like, “But your father gave you this yacht, and these are his servants who brought the hors d’oeuvres.” At which point that person gets tossed overboard by a group of hired thugs who’d been hired by the father who owned the yacht, hired for the express purpose of removing any and all agitators on the yacht to keep them from making unnecessary waves, or even referencing the father or the yacht itself. Meanwhile, the man thrown overboard begs for his life, and the people on the small inflatable rafts can’t get to him soon enough, or they don’t even try, and the yacht’s speed and weight cause an undertow. Then in whispers, while the agitator gets sucked under the yacht, private agreements are made, precautions are measured out, and everyone quietly agrees to keep on quietly agreeing to the implied rule of law and to not think about what just happened. Soon, the father, who put these things in place, is only spoken of in the form of lore, stories told to children at night, under the stars, at which point there are suddenly several fathers, noble, wise forefathers. And the boat sails on unfettered. If you were fortunate enough to be born into a family whose ancestors directly benefited from genocide and/or slavery, maybe you think the more you don’t know, the more innocent you can stay, which is a good incentive to not find out, to not look too deep, to walk carefully around the sleeping tiger. Look no further than your last name. Follow it back and you might find your line paved with gold, or beset with traps.

Just as an individual can invent purposes, so can groups of people. A marriage can be dedicated to a shared ideal, to making some sort of contribution or anything else that extends the intentions of the relationship beyond the usual boundaries. A group of friends can create a purpose so that their interactions are more than just hanging out together. Some examples: Marriage: to be a model for other people, including our children, of just how great a relationship can be; to contribute to the world around us. A group of friends: to be family to one another; to support one another to have all of our lives be happy and successful.

But the Italian Strega or sorceress is in certain respects a different character from these. In most cases she comes of a family in which her calling or art has been practised for many generations. I have no doubt that there are instances in which the ancestry remounts to mediaeval, Roman, or it may be Etruscan times. The result has naturally been the accumulation in such families of much tradition. But in Northern • March, 1S97: "Neapolitan Witchcraft." Italy, as its literature indicates, though there has been some slight gathering of fairy tales and popular superstitions by scholars, there has never existed the least interest as regarded the strange lore of the witches, nor any suspicion that it embraced an incredible quantity of old Roman minor myths and legends, such as OviD has recorded, but of which much escaped him and all other Latin writers.' This

If a Jewess from the East – her family comes from Cairo, I gather – were to find herself in need of help in Paris, where would she go?’ ‘To her family,’ replied ben-Gideon promptly. ‘I’m not sure she has one in Paris.’ ‘Benjamin, my mother spends eleven and a half hours out of twenty-four going from sister to sister, from aunt to aunt, from the houses of her sisters-in-law and second-cousins to the grandparents of my father’s old business-partners, lugging my sisters along with her, and what do you think they all talk about? Family.’ Ben-Gideon ticked off subjects with his fingers. ‘Who’s marrying whom. Who shouldn’t have married whom and why not. Who’s expecting a child and who isn’t bringing their children up properly. Oh, was she the one who married Avram ben-Hurri ben-Moishe ben-Yakov and is now operating that import business in Prague?  . . .  No, no, that was the OTHER Cousin Rachel who married Avram ben-Hurri ben-Moishe ben-CHAIM and THEY’RE in Warsaw, where THEIR son is a rabbi  . . .  Every rabbi from Portugal to Persia will tell you that women’s minds are incapable of the concentration required for study of the Torah, yet I guarantee you that not a single word of this lore is forgotten. You can drop any Jew over the age of seven naked in the dark out of a balloon anywhere in Europe, and he or she will locate family in time for breakfast.

If you have the option to not think about or even consider history, whether you learned it right or not, or whether it even deserves consideration, that’s how you know you’re on board the ship that serves hors d’oeuvres and fluffs your pillows, while others are out at sea, swimming or drowning, or clinging to little inflatable rafts that they have to take turns keeping inflated, people short of breath, who’ve never even heard of the words hors d’oeuvres or fluff. Then someone from up on the yacht says, “It’s too bad those people down there are lazy, and not as smart and able as we are up here, we who have built these strong, large, stylish boats ourselves, we who float the seven seas like kings.” And then someone else on board says something like, “But your father gave you this yacht, and these are his servants who brought the hors d’oeuvres.” At which point that person gets tossed overboard by a group of hired thugs who’d been hired by the father who owned the yacht, hired for the express purpose of removing any and all agitators on the yacht to keep them from making unnecessary waves, or even referencing the father or the yacht itself. Meanwhile, the man thrown overboard begs for his life, and the people on the small inflatable rafts can’t get to him soon enough, or they don’t even try, and the yacht’s speed and weight cause an undertow. Then in whispers, while the agitator gets sucked under the yacht, private agreements are made, precautions are measured out, and everyone quietly agrees to keep on quietly agreeing to the implied rule of law and to not think about what just happened. Soon, the father, who put these things in place, is only spoken of in the form of lore, stories told to children at night, under the stars, at which point there are suddenly several fathers, noble, wise forefathers. And the boat sails on unfettered. If you were fortunate enough to be born into a family whose ancestors directly benefited from genocide and/or slavery, maybe you think the more you don’t know, the more innocent you can stay, which is a good incentive to not find out, to not look too deep, to walk carefully around the sleeping tiger. Look no further than your last name. Follow it back and you might find your line paved with gold, or beset with traps.

Or, in your case, as wide. Wait. Did you just say Gandalf?” “He is the founder of our order, and the first of the Five Warlocks. He comes from afar across the Western Ocean, from Easter Island, or perhaps from Japan.” “No, I think he comes from the mind of a story writer. An old-fashioned Roman Catholic from the days just before First Space Age. Unless I am confusing him with the guy who wrote about Talking Animal Land? With the Cowardly Lion who gets killed by a Wicked White Witch? I never read the text, I watched the comic.” “Oh, you err so! The Witches, we have preserved this lore since the time of the Fall of the Giants, whom we overthrew and destroyed. The tale is this: C. S. Lewis and Arthur C. Clarke were led by the Indian Maiden Sacagawea to the Pacific Ocean and back, stealing the land from the Red Man and selling them blankets impregnated with smallpox. It was called the Lewis and Clarke Expedition. When they reached the Pacific, they set out in the Dawn Treader to find the sea route to India, where the sacred river Alph runs through caverns measureless to man down to a sunless sea. They came to the Last Island, called Ramandu or Selidor, where the World Serpent guards the gateway to the Land of the Dead, and there they found Gandalf, returned alive from the underworld, and stripped of all his powers. He came again to mortal lands in North America to teach the Simon Families. The Chronicle is a symbolic retelling of their journey. It is one of our Holy Books.” “Your Holy Books were written for children by Englishmen.” “The gods wear many masks! If the Continuum chooses the lips of a White Man to be the lips through which the Continuum speaks, who are we to question? Tolkien was not Roman. He was of a race called the hobbits, Homo floresiensis, discovered on an isle in Indonesia, and he would have lived in happiness, had not the White Man killed him with DDT. So there were no Roman Catholics involved. May the Earth curse their memory forever! May they be forgotten forever!” “Hm. Earth is big. Maybe it can do both. You know about Rome? It perished in the Ecpyrosis, somewhat before your time.” “How could we not? The Pope in Rome created the Giants, whom the Witches rose up against and overthrew. Theirs was the masculine religion, aggressive, intolerant, and forbidding abortion. Ours is the feminine religion, peaceful and life-affirming and all-loving, and we offer the firstborn child to perish on our sacred fires. The First Coven was organized to destroy them like rats! When Rome was burned, we danced, and their one god was cast down and fled weeping on his pierced feet, and our many gods rose up. My ancestors hunted the Christians like stoats, and when we caught them, we burned them slowly, as they once did of us in Salem. What ill you do is returned to you tenfold!” “Hm. Are you willing to work with a Giant? I saw one in the pit, and saw the jumbo-sized coffin they pried him out from. What if he is a baptized Christian? Most of them were, since they were created by my pet pope and raised by nuns.” “All Christians must perish! Such is our code.” “Your code is miscoded.” “What of the Unforgettable Hate?” “Forget about it.

A knight is in need of advice on how to slay a dragon. Who will he beseech? A wizard. A warrior is in need of arms and armor to defeat a foul daemon. Who does he contact? A wizard. A rogue is in need of enchantments to defeat a loathsome sorcerer. What agency will help his cause? A wizard. A magician is in search of new lore to guide his research and further his cause. What earthly power will avail him? A wizard. A family is in need of deliverance for an ailing relative. Who will they implore? A wizard. Less scrupulous but opportunistic knights, warriors, rogues, mages, and families are in need of enchantment, magical erudition, knowledge, prestige, advice, and riches to further their ends. Who will they besiege, rob, accost, threaten, imprison, or attack? A wizard.

The Indian tribes living along the river valleys and on the offshore islands from northern Washington to Alaska are called the Northwest Coast tribes. They are noted for their wood-carving, particularly for their totem poles. These carved cedar poles were originally corner posts for the Indian houses. Later the custom of erecting one large pole in front of the house was adopted. There are several different types of totem poles. Some were erected to the memory of the dead. Others portrayed the owner’s family tree or illustrated some mythological adventure. The poles varied in height from about 40 to 70 feet. The larger ones were as much as 3 feet in diameter. The carver was an important person in his tribe. For his work he might be paid from one hundred to two hundred and fifty blankets, each worth about three dollars. The early poles were painted black, white, and red. Other colors were used when the traders brought in factory-made paints.

Originally the Indians made their tepees of buffalo hides, but since the destruction of the buffalo herds by the white man, domestic cow hides have been used, as well as canvas. New buffalo-hide tepee covers were made every spring. The size of the tepee depended somewhat on the number of horses the tribe or family had, because it required several horses to transport a large tepee. The poles were made of lodgepole pine, cedar, spruce, or any other straight tree. Flexible poles were not used. The poles averaged about 25 feet in length and tapered from 4 to 1 inch in diameter. In warm weather the lower part of the tepee was raised up on the poles to allow the breeze to blow through. In cold weather the space around the bottom between the stakes and the ground was packed with sod to hold it down tightly and to keep out the snow and drafts. When the tepee was new it was nearly white. But by spring, the smoke and the weather had darkened it at the top and the skins became quite transparent. At night the campfires made the tepees look like large Japanese lanterns. On the Great Plains the wind is usually from the west and for that reason the tepees were set up with the smoke hole facing the east. The flaps, or smoke hole ears, as they are called, were used to control the drafts and to keep the wind from blowing down the smoke hole. In case of a storm they could be lapped over to close the smoke hole completely.

You can research and easily find about 200 Flood legends without extensive research. Dr. John Morris of the Institute for Creation Research has done this.7 So has Japanese researcher Nozomi Osanai for her Master’s thesis at Wesley Biblical Seminary.8 In fact, I’ve done this too! Though there were more, I read over 200 flood accounts when researching a family book that I co-authored with Laura Welch on flood legends (The Flood of Noah, Legends and Lore of Survival, Master Books, 2014).

Rose reached into the velvet pouch at her neck and pulled out the American penny that she’d worn for more than three decades. Elsa knew every word of the story of this penny, the family lore. Tony had found it in the street in Sicily and picked it up and showed it to Rose. A sign, they’d agreed. The hope for their future. It was the family talisman.

At first, according to family lore, Koch tore up the telegram from the Soviet Union asking for his help. He said he didn’t want to work for Communists and didn’t trust them to pay him. But after securing an agreement to get paid in advance, he overcame his philosophical reservations.

It swiftly became common lore in Pagford that houses in the Fields had become the prize and goal of every benefit-supported Yarvil family with school-age children; that there was a great ongoing scramble across the boundary line from the Cantermill Estate, much as Mexicans streamed into Texas. Their beautiful St. Thomas's--a magnet for professional commuters to Yarvil, who were attracted by the tiny classes, the rolltop desks, the aged stone building and the lush green playing field--would be overrun and swamped by the offspring of scroungers, addicts and mothers whose children had all been fathered by different men.

That precious Christmas memory and now-famous morsel of family lore, however, led me to a number of profound conclusions: There was no Santa. The reason behind my aunt’s itchy stocking was not that it was made of polyester. Joe Reynolds was bound to have a good year after a string of bad ones. Nixon indeed needed all the help he could get. And no family holiday—no holiday, period—is ever as perfect as we dream it will be. I should know. My family always had the best of intentions with our holiday celebrations

In Japan, the Shinto Sun goddess Amaterasu is especially prominent. She's considered the ancestress of the Japanese ruling family and is represented by the red circle on the Japanese flag.

A tree often stands right next to the main house in the Scandinavian countries. This tree is frequently a birch and is reputedly the home of the land spirit. The most common name for this spirit is gardvord, formed from gard, meaning “wall, boundary,” and later “estate”; and vord, meaning “guardian.” The tree is called boträ (bosträd), vårdträd (the “vord-tree”), as well as tomteträd and tuntré. This tree can be an oak, birch, elder, or elm and is considered to be the totem tree on which the family fortunes depend (Sweden), and the dwelling place of the tomtegubbe, another name for the land spirit. Offerings of food were placed at its feet and its roots were sometimes watered with milk.

No one can say exactly when the process of combining the different historical, legendary, and mythic elements into a Volsung cycle began, but it was probably at an early date. By the ninth century the legends of the Gothic Jormunrek and those of the destruction of the Burgundians had already been linked in Scandinavia, where the ninth-century “Lay of Ragnar” by the poet Bragi the Old treats both subjects. Bragi’s poem describes a shield on which a picture of the maiming of Jormunrek was either painted or carved and refers to the brothers Hamdir and Sorli from the Gothic section of the saga as “kinsmen of Gjuki,” the Burgundian father of King Gunnar. The “Lay of Ragnar” has other connections with the Volsung legend. The thirteenth-century Icelandic writer Snorri Sturluson identifies the central figure of the lay, whose gift inspired the poem in his honor, with Ragnar Hairy Breeches, a supposed ancestor of the Ynglings, Norway’s royal family. Ragnar’s son-in-law relationship to Sigurd through his marriage to Sigurd’s daughter Aslaug (mentioned earlier in connection with stave church carvings) is reflected in the sequence of texts in the vellum manuscript: The Saga of the Volsungs immediately precedes The Saga of Ragnar Lodbrok. Ragnar’s saga, in turn, is followed by Krákumál (Lay of the Raven), Ragnar’s death poem, in which Ragnar, thrown into the snakepit by the Anglo-Saxon King Ella, boasts that he will die laughing. The Volsung and Ragnar stories are further linked by internal textual references. It is likely that the The Saga of the Volsungs was purposely set first in the manuscript to serve as a prelude to the Ragnar material. The opening section of Ragnar’s saga may originally have been the ending of The Saga of the Volsungs. Just where the division between these two sagas occurs in the manuscript is unclear. Together these narratives chronicle the ancestry of the Ynglings—the legendary line (through Sigurd and Ragnar) and the divine one (through Odin). Such links to Odin, or Wotan, were common among northern dynasties; by tracing their ancestry through Sigurd, later Norwegian kings availed themselves of one of the greatest heroes in northern lore. In so doing, they probably helped to preserve the story for us.” (Jesse Byock)

Family memory flows more completely through women. It is the women who learn much of the lore and who convey it to the young. Men forget the past in all its fleshiness and select which parts best fit into their lives.

Family lore has it that they entertained each other very well, the pragmatist and the man who was almost too gullible to live. One had more patience, and the other had more resolve, and they were about even when it came to daring, so their love established possibilities and impossibilities without keeping score.

It seemed being a cocky asshole was the kind of behavior he reserved for only one member of the Strong family. I felt so special.

Whoa. Nobody’s calling you an asshole. This is New England. We only insult close friends and family to their faces here—and we mostly call them cawksuckahs.

Who is that person in your family who has never abused anyone? Who is that ancestor from whom you can draw your own strength? If you cannot find such a person, then You must become the one.

Thus were the dwarfs brought into being by the tears of our Earthen Mother. Tears shed in the lonely dark. Isolation was her midwife, and the darkness and stone were our nursery. Is it any wonder, then, that we cling to these things as a race? Isolation from the other races binds us together, the stone offers us its treasures, and the darkness ensures that we do not stray far from our families. Yet there is caution to these comforts. Isolation can lead to bitterness, treasure to greed, and the darkness can hide a multitude of sins…

Yulan wondered if he wanted to have her again, in that way, even though she suspected that she was already pregnant, her menstrual cycle having gone missing for some weeks now. She sat near him and waited, but Chin On’s face was a mask as smooth and elegant as a vase, and pretty soon he was loudly snoring. Yulan began collecting the opium pipe, and the entire works, the residue slow and sticky like tree resin, when Chin On suddenly grabbed her by the wrist. Leave it. I don’t like you doing this in front of the children, she said. Did his grip become a tightening vise, so that her breath caught and she cried out in surprise, the pain sharp and searing, until she released everything in her hands? Did he hit her? If it wasn’t for the mitigating circumstances of the opiate, it’s likely that he would have hit her. Chin On’s rage would become legendary in the family lore, but Yulan was experiencing it for the first time in a very long while. Even under the calming presence of opium, Chin On didn’t like anyone, especially a wife, telling him what to do. Whatever happened that night, she felt the pressure of his fingers against her wrists, long after the bruises disappeared.

in the greater part of the humble homes we visit we become aware of the existence of many domestic virtues, we see numerous tokens of family affection, of filial reverence, of parental love. And when, as we pass along the village street at night, we see gleaming through the utter darkness the faint rays which tell that even in many a poverty-stricken home a lamp is burning before the “holy pictures,” we feel that these poor tillers of the soil, ignorant and uncouth though they too often are, may be raised at times by lofty thoughts and noble aspirations far above the low level of the dull and hard lives which they are forced to lead.

For civilization is not something inborn or imperishable; it must be acquired anew by every generation, and any serious interruption in its financing or its transmission may bring it to an end. Man differs from the beast only by education, which may be defined as the technique of transmitting civilization. Civilizations are the generations of the racial soul. As family-rearing, and then writing, bound the generations together, handing down the lore of the dying to the young, so print and commerce and a thousand ways of communication may bind the civilizations together, and preserve for future cultures all that is of value for them in our own. Let us, before we die, gather up our heritage, and offer it to our children. " Will Durant, The Story of Civilization, Vol I, Ch 1, P4

A name is a profession and a confession. It is an acknowledgment that we were powerless over our family lineage.

Water: They were restless, creative, flighty, and persuasive. Like water, they eroded people’s wills away. If you knew a water witch, chances were they’d be the ones that everyone tended to agree with. They were deeply charming and could change people’s minds. Their symbol was Bilios, the world tree, which sat in a circle representing the universe. Fire: They protected people. They were strength. Confidence. Power. They could usually fight. They were natural leaders. Their symbol was a thick cross with tapered ends inside a circle. Air: The seers. They told the future and could see the truth of the present. They were the ones most used as consultants by powerful people, and that was how they made their living and their money. The site speculated that Gwydion was an air witch. They were very susceptible to mental attack and tended to be extremely sensitive individuals. Their symbol was a three-pronged rod inside a circle. Earth: They were the practical witches, well-versed in herb lore. They took care of the everyday necessities of the witch, such as health products and medicines, home protection, magicked food. They got none of the glory, but they were the most essential of all witches; often the head of the family. They were grounded, patient, loving, and forthright. Their symbol was a five-pointed star, representing the five senses, usually with a gem studded in the middle to symbolize themselves, at the calm center of all things.

What do you get when you cross an exclusive lover with a friend and a guy who cares about your family?” She furrows her brow. “What?” “Your boyfriend, dummy. That’s what I am, whether you want to admit it or not. And I don’t want this no-strings thing anymore. I don’t want this to end with the tour. I want to be the guy. For you and for Tate.

you enjoy the way Hallie’s “tale” is slowly revealed to her? Are there storytellers in your family who have kept family lore alive? 9. Forgiveness is one of the themes in this novel. Who most needed to be able to forgive? Who most needed to be forgiven? 10. Have you ever seen a ghost? Do you know anyone who has? What are some of the best ghost stories you know?

As time passed, stories of Nicholas the gift giver spread. German lore, for example, says that when St. Klaus (Nicholas) became a priest, family members in the woolen trade presented him with a fine red woolen cape. Sometime later, a period of famine struck Lycia, and many poor people suffered from scurvy for lack of fruit. Nicholas had his red cape and other woolen material cut into pieces to make stockings. He filled the stockings with dried fruit treats and delivered them to needy children to help stem the scurvy. For families who had no firewood, he left charcoal, bundled with string, at the threshold.

When the costumes came off, you saw the iniquity of illness more clearly. You saw its symptoms, or rather the invisibility thereof, and you could not resist trying to predict the poor child’s chances. An arm or a leg in a cast was not so bad. Often just a playground casualty that in eight weeks would have already faded into family lore. A port-wine stain covering half a face seemed much more unfair—although, with time and lasers, it too could be persuaded to fade. Harder to behold were the more structural disfigurements, like Microtia, Latin for little ear, or Ollier disease, a hyperproliferation of cartilage that could turn a hand as knobby and twisted as ginger root. I read about these and all manner of other disorders in the basement of the bioethics council, where a bookshelf jammed with medical dictionaries became my most reliable lunchtime companion. It wasn’t always easy to arrive at a diagnosis. The doctors at the hospital did not readily share their conclusions and, being a mere playtime volunteer, I generally did not feel in a position to ask. So I went on what I could see: Bulging joints. Buckling legs. Full-body tremors. What you could see could be apprehended. Leukemia, on the other hand, or a brain tumor, even one as big as a tangerine: their stealth was terrifying. It is not a logical theory. It is not even a theory. How can it be a theory when there are such blatant exceptions? Indisputably, there is no correlation between the visibility and severity of diseases, and yet the invisible ones have a special power. Maybe because they seem dishonest. Disingenuous. A birthmark may be unfortunate, but at least it doesn’t sneak up on you. So whenever I saw a new child coming through the lobby I could not help but search hopefully for a sign: of something tolerable, maybe even curable, like a sole that with a squirt of glue can be reattached to a shoe. Please, just don’t let it be attacking her from the inside out. Please don’t let her have one of the invisible things.

The wound that was made when white people came and took all that they took has never healed. An unattended wound gets infected. Becomes a new kind of wound like the history of what actually happened became a new kind of history. All these stories that we haven't been telling all this time, that we haven't been listening to, are just part of what we need to heal. Not that we're broken. And don't make the mistake of calling us resilient. To not have been destroyed, to not have given up, to have survived is not a badge of honor. Would you call an attempted murder victim resilient? When we go to tell our stories, people think we want it to have gone differently. People want to say things like "sore losers" and "move on already, quit playing the blame game." But is it a game? Only those who have lost as much as we have see the particularly nasty slice of smile on someone who thinks they're winning when they say "Get over it." This is the thing: If you have the option to not think about or even consider history, whether you learned it right or not, or whether it even deserves consideration, that’s how you know you’re on board the ship that serves hors d’oeuvres and fluffs your pillows, while others are out at sea, swimming or drowning, or clinging to little inflatable rafts that they have to take turns keeping inflated, people short of breath, who’ve never even heard of the words hors d’oeuvres or fluff. Then someone from up on the yacht says, “It’s too bad those people down there are lazy, and not as smart and able as we are up here, we who have built these strong, large, stylish boats ourselves, we who float the seven seas like kings.” And then someone else on board says something like, “But your father gave you this yacht, and these are his servants who brought the hors d’oeuvres.” At which point that person gets tossed overboard by a group of hired thugs who’d been hired by the father who owned the yacht, hired for the express purpose of removing any and all agitators on the yacht to keep them from making unnecessary waves, or even referencing the father or the yacht itself. Meanwhile, the man thrown overboard begs for his life, and the people on the small inflatable rafts can’t get to him soon enough, or they don’t even try, and the yacht’s speed and weight cause an undertow. Then in whispers, while the agitator gets sucked under the yacht, private agreements are made, precautions are measured out, and everyone quietly agrees to keep on quietly agreeing to the implied rule of law and to not think about what just happened. Soon, the father, who put these things in place, is only spoken of in the form of lore, stories told to children at night, under the stars, at which point there are suddenly several fathers, noble, wise forefathers. And the boat sails on unfettered. If you were fortunate enough to be born into a family whose ancestors directly benefited from genocide and/or slavery, maybe you think the more you don’t know, the more innocent you can stay, which is a good incentive to not find out, to not look too deep, to walk carefully around the sleeping tiger. Look no further than your last name. Follow it back and you might find your line paved with gold, or beset with traps.

The most prominent chanterelle in Europe and central and eastern North America is the golden chanterelle, Cantharellus cibarius. Cantharellus is a name derived from the Greek kantharos, meaning goblet or drinking cup, and refers to the funnel or vase shape of the fruiting body of members of this family.3 The specific epithet cibarius is Latin for edible.

Name/ First name: Madeline (mads, or maddy) Middle name: Marie Last name: Fractures --------------------------- Birth/ Age: 17 Date of birth: 9/13 Date of death: none Place of birth: West Place of death: none ---------------------------- Romantic and social/ Gender: Girl Sexuality: heterosexual Friends: 3 Boyfriend/ Girlfriend: none Crush: none ---------------------------- Personality/ Likes:hunting, reading, drawing, knife throwing, music, fighting Dislikes: none can think of Disorders: PTSD (explained in history) Personality: Strong, has had a rough life, may seem stuck up at times, is close to her 3 friends as she can be because she is afraid to loose them if they see her violent side. She has this side because of what happened when she and her twin brother were small. ---------------------------- History/ History: was born in west katos, and lost parents and older brothers when she was five, only she and her twin survived. Was on the streets for one year with her brother before he was found while he was looking for food. They were reunited at the age of 7 one year later. He was living at the palace with a noble family, she was allowed to return with him and stay, she soon became close friends with the secondborn boy Jacob (if this is'nt fine let me know). When she was 13 her brother was kidnapped by a group from the east, she soon discovered that they were the same group that killed their family.4 years later she is still looking. Now she works at the palace as a hunter, archivest, and guard, and does some art. Lore: ( Any lore behind your character?) ---------------------------- Appearance/ Description : Dark brown hari, Forest green eyes, and one scar on the left side of her face from her first fight. Picture: Hair: Dark Brown Eyes: kind of almond shaped but also round and are forest green Skin: lightly tan ---------------------------- Family/ Mother : Deceased Father: Deceased Husband/ Wife: None Sons/ Daughters/ Offspring : None ---------------------------- Other/ Living situation: Small cottage in woods with her 3 friends Money: not rich but not poor either Pets: A wolf named Alla (a-la) Job: Hunter, guard, and archivest Other Side: West

Whether the oddments of superstition my mother told us when we were young were believed by her or were meant as a kind of amusement for us, like the Easter Bunny, Moss Babies and the Tooth Fairy, I am undecided; possibly something of both. She wouldn’t wear green (but that was due to family history: Great-Aunt Emma had an emerald green dress and her fiancé had perished at sea); Christmas decorations had to be totally removed by Twelfth Night as witches could get into the least scrap of tinsel or coloured paper. The snippets of lore were varied: never bring into the house bones, peacock feathers or may blossom; never mix red and white flowers in a vase (death ensued if you did); don’t look at the moon through glass; don’t put shoes on a table (surely just hygienic advice); sing before morning and you’ll cry before night; if you meet a piebald horse, make a cross in the dust on your shoe.

The myth of the Seirenes (Sirens) of ancient Greece have close associations with the class of Mesopotamian WindDemons The women who lay with the Watchers and bore the Nephilim were given great depths of knowledge, learning the magickial arts and the secrets of power. In the Book of Enoch, these women did not die but became Sirens to prey upon man. Within the myth of Enoch, some of the Watchers are imprisoned in the dark underworld depths yet the Evil Spirits of the Nephilim could haunt the earth indefinitely. In the Greek tradition of Enoch, the wives of the Fallen Angels became Sirens. In Greek mythology, Sirens are predatory sea-demons who enchant with their beautiful songs and cause the death of sailors. The Seirenes are described in the Odyssey as "lolling there in their meadow, round them heaps of corpses rotting away, rags of skin shriveling on their bones.” These seductive predators in later Greek myths are associated with devouring their male prey. The depictions of the Sirens are nearly identical to those of Mesopotamian Lil (Wind and Night) Demons. Lilit, known later as Lilith, is specifically a demon which is associated with death and desolate places. Lilit is the Hebrew form of the earlier Akkadian Lilitu, a class of vampire-demons from the family of Lamastu. The Sirens are depicted as half-woman and half-bird, with talons like the descriptions of the winged Lilitudemons from Babylonian lore.

that man wants to do depraved things to you. Thank Kronos, finally a worthy suitor. I was getting worried you were going to die a virgin. It would have been so embarrassing for our family’s honor.

But for the first time, she admitted to herself that she was scared to leave the cacophony of her family’s laughter and bickering and the sunlight and moonshine and enveloping darkness of closing her eyes, and the bright green of the first new leaves in the spring, and the pure white of a first snow before her shoe left its imprint, and the big wonder and warmth of love love love love and yet, we must.

Power and Gender in Renaissance Spain: Eight Women of the Mendoza Family, 1490–1650, edited by Helen Nader; The Jews of Spain: A History of the Sephardic Experience by Jane S. Gerber; The Spanish Inquisition: A Historical Revision by Henry Kamen; Secret Jews: The Complex Identity of Crypto-Jews and Crypto-Judaism by Juan Marcos Bejarano Gutierrez; To Embody the Marvelous: The Making of Illusions in Early Modern Spain by Esther Fernández; Speaking of Spain: The Evolution of Race and Nation in the Hispanic World by Antonio Feros; Imprudent King: A New Life of Philip II by Geoffrey Parker; Daily Life in Spain in the Golden Age by Marcelin Defourneaux; Daily Life During the Spanish Inquisition by James M. Anderson; Inquisition and Society in the Kingdom of Valencia, 1478–1834 by Stephen Haliczer; In Spanish Prisons: The Inquisition at Home and Abroad by Arthur Griffiths; At the First Table: Food and Social Identity in Early Modern Spain by Jodi Campbell; Picatrix: A Medieval Treatise on Astral Magic, translated and with an introduction by Dan Attrell and David Porreca; Trezoro Sefaradi: Folklor de la Famiya Djudiya by Beki Bardavid and Fani Ender; Ritual Medical Lore of Sephardic Women: Sweetening the Spirits, Healing the Sick by Isaac Jack Lévy and Rosemary Lévy Zumwalt; “A Conversation in Proverbs: Judeo-Spanish Refranes in