Grandfather And Granddaughter Quotes

The problem is not that we forget the past. It is that we recall it too well. Children recall wrongs that enemies did to their grandfathers, and blame the granddaughters of the old enemies. Children are not born with memories of those who insulted their mother or slew their grandfather or stole their land. Those hates are bequeathed to them, taught them, breathed into them. If adults didn't tell their children of their hereditary hates, perhaps we would do better.

{Debbs' letter to Robert Ingersoll's granddaughter} I was the friend of your immortal grandfather and I loved him truly… the name of Ingersoll is revered in our home, worshipped by us all, and the date of birth is holy in our calendar... I have never loved another mortal as I have loved Robert Green Ingersoll.

Everybody thinks that this civilization has lasted a very long time but it really does take very few grandfathers’ granddaughters to take us back to the dark ages.

Why is it called a grandfather clock and not a grandmother clock?” her eldest granddaughter, Poppy, asked once. “Because only a man would find the need to announce it every time he performed his job as required,” Louise replied.

I have anyway always hoped to write a truly memorable book, the one that you go back to the beginning of and start rereading as soon as you get to the end, the one that you think of in subsequent years as the one that really pointed you in the way you wish to go. I still don’t think I have done it. That’s life. Halfway to the moon. But on what I have done, I would not really like to set an age-limit. I am always delighted when aunts and grandfathers write to me, saying their nephew/granddaughter has just introduced them to, say, Howl and they couldn’t put him down.

He in his black uniform with its death-heads, me the black grandchild. What would he have said to a dark-skinned granddaughter, who speaks Hebrew on top of that? I would have been a disgrace, a bastard who brought dishonor to the family. I am sure my grandfather would have shot me.

The last straw was when his granddaughter, who was seven years old at the time, went to the librarian at school and said “Have you heard of Isabel Allende?” And the librarian said: “Yes, yes, I’ve read some of her books.” There was a pause, and then Anna said: “She’s sleeping with my grandfather.

Du bisch au ohni Schminki hübsch gnug. 2007

would have liked to kiss her on the cheek but he had no idea if the Kiowas kissed one another or if so, did grandfathers kiss granddaughters. You never knew. Cultures were mine fields. He patted the air with a gentle motion. Sit. Stay.

Finally, he smiled, and although his smile was bumpy because some of his teeth were jagged and broken, it was a warming, infectious smile that was reflected in his eyes. It made her smile widely in return. She felt as if the room had been lit up. He held out his arms, and she went across the room to him, almost running. She buried her face in his shirt, her nose wrinkling up as the scent of his cologne mixed with the nutty, sourish smell of camphor that filled the room. He put his arms around her, but gently, so that there was space between his forearms and her back, holding her as if she was to fragile to hug properly. Awkwardly, he patted her light, bushy aureole of dark brown hair, repeating: "Good girl. Fine daughter.

Well,' Frederick had said, 'I will see what can be arranged, Archie. But I will not have the girl frightened or compromised.' 'You sound like a grandfather who has raised fifteen daughters and is now starting on his granddaughters, Freddie,' Lord Archibald had said. 'It is most disconcerting.

Her kiss is hungry, as if long deprived. As if they didn’t already spend the morning doing just exactly this, making up for the lost time they were apart. Triton’s trident, I could do this all day. Then he catches himself. No, I couldn’t. Not without wanting more. Which is why we need to stop. Instead, he entwines his hands in her hair, and she teases his lips with her tongue, trying to get him to fully open his mouth to her. He gladly complies. Her fingers sneak their way under his shirt, up his stomach, sending a trail of fire to his chest. He is about to lose his shirt altogether. Until Antonis’s voice booms from the doorway. “Extract yourself from Prince Galen, Emma,” he says. “You two are not mated. This behavior is inappropriate for any Syrena, let alone a Royal.” Emma’s eyes go round as sand dollars. He can tell she’s not sure what to think about her grandfather telling her what to do. Or maybe she’s caught off guard that he called her a Royal. Either way, like most people, Emma decides to obey. Galen does, too. They stand up side by side, not daring to be close enough to touch. They behold King Antonis in a polka-dot bathrobe, and though he’s the one who looks silly, they are the ones who look shamed. Galen feels like a fingerling again. “I apologize, Highness,” he says. It seems like all he does lately is apologize to the Poseidon king. “It was my fault.” Antonis gives him a reproving look. “I like you, young prince. But you well know the law. Do not disappoint me, Galen. My granddaughter is deserving of a proper mating ceremony.” Galen can’t meet his eyes. He’s right. I shouldn’t be flirting with temptation like this. With the Archives on their way-or possibly here already-there is a distant but small chance that he and Emma can still live within the confines of the law. That they can still live as mates under the Syrena tradition. And he almost just blew it. What if it had gone too far? Then his mating with Emma would forever be blemished by breaking the law. “It won’t happen again, Highness.” Not until we’re mated, anyway. “Um. Did you just promise not to kiss me ever again?” Emma whispers. “Can we talk about this later? The Archives are obviously here, angelfish.” She’s on the verge of a fit, he can tell. “He’s just looking out for us,” Galen says quickly. “I agree, we need to respect the law-“ At this her fit subsides as if it was never there. She smiles wide at him. He can’t decide if it’s genuine, or if it’s the kind of smile she gives him when he’ll pay for something later. “Okay, Galen.” “Galen, Emma,” Nalia calls from the dining room, saving him from making a fool of himself. “Everyone is here.” Emma gives him a look that clearly says, “We’re so not done with this conversation.” Then she turns and walks away. Galen takes a second to regain a little bit of composure-which kissing Emma tends to steal from him. Then there’s the mortification of being interrupted by-Get it together, idiot.

I knew that I was losing him, and yet we all had the courage to draw closer, to weave tighter, even all the way into the end. Fred worked in the study, under the glow of yellow light, like an angel-we could see him in there, through the glass doors-while the rest of us sat or lay on the patio under the sky and the stars. Sometimes Grandfather would reach down, searching for my hand, find it, and squeeze it. The last bloodline of my mother, I would think, holding his hand-my last, strongest blood-connection to her-and perhaps he was thinking the same, at those times. Father and Omar intent upon the game. Grandfather and I intent upon eternity.

The problem is not that we forget the past. It is that we recall it too well. Children recall wrongs that enemies did to their grandfathers, and blame the granddaughters of the old enemies. Children are not born with memories of who insulted their mother or slew their grandfather or stole their land. Those hates are bequeathed to them, taught them, breathed into them. If adults didn’t tell children of their hereditary hates, perhaps we would do better.

His beautiful silver hair had turned snow white over the course of just a few days following Chubb's death, and in a way this made him seem younger: made him seem to fit the white caliche landscape even better, and blend in. His skin was turning whiter, too, even after he had been out in the sun, It was beautiful, watching him get old-ancient-now that I had realized he too was going to die. This time I could understand it. It was like watching some graceful diver plunge in slow motion-the slowest-from the top of an improbably high cliff, down to the cool river below.

Behind The Fan Sweet and interesting story ByWriter and Readeron September 5, 2018 Format: Kindle Edition How much do we really know about the long lives of our grandparents? When 100-year old Dottie is suddenly surrounded by her family as they decide to move her into a nursing home, a box of glamour photographs is revealed, showing a stunning enchantress behind a fan of ostrich feathers. As her daughters and granddaughters recognise their grandmother as the alluring woman, the story emerges of wild, hard years dancing in a mob-run club, and the great romance finding their grandfather. As the tale is revealed, it gives each of the women in the family perspective and wisdom on their own messy lives. Touching and interesting, I really enjoyed this.

Her name was Heranuş. She was the granddaughter of Herabet Gadaryan, and the only daughter of İsguhi and Hovannes Gadaryan.    She passed a happy childhood in the village of Habab, near Palu, until she reached the fourth grade.    Then suddenly, she was thrown into the painful times about which she would say, ‘May those days vanish never to return’.    Heranuş lost her entire family and never saw them again. She was given a new name, to live in a new family.    She forgot her mother tongue and her religion, and though she did not once in her life complain about this, she never ever forgot her name, her village, her mother, her father, her grandfather or her close relations. She lived until the age of 95, always hoping that she might be able to see them and embrace them again one day. Perhaps it was this hope that allowed her to live so long; until her very last days, her mind remained sharp. Last week, we lost Heranuş, our grandmother, and sent her to her eternal resting place. We are hoping that this announcement might reach the relations (our relations) that we were never able to find while she was alive, that they may share our grief, in the hope that ‘those days may vanish, never to return.

My favorite story of this concept is where, one Thanksgiving, a little girl is helping her mother in the kitchen. “Mom, I see you cut the ham in half. Why did you do that?” she asks her mother. “Oh, it’s a family tradition. We cut the ham in half and we put one half in each oven,” the mother replies. “We bought this house specifically because it had a double oven and it took us months longer than we thought it would to find a house that had a double oven.” “But why do you cut the ham in half?” the daughter asks again. “Well, it’s family tradition and we’ve always done that. I think it makes the food better or something, I don’t really know the answer. Why don’t you ask Grandma?” The little girl goes and asks Grandma and says, “Grandma, why do you cut the ham in half?” “Well, that’s a good question, dear,” Grandma replied. “When your grandfather and I bought our house, we had to spend thousands of dollars extra changing the kitchen around to buy a double oven, because, after all, simply nobody had double ovens in those days. It was really painful, I remember, but it’s a family tradition and we knew it mattered.” The daughter asks again, “Well, why do you do it?” “Well, I don’t really know,” Grandma says. “I don’t know, maybe it’s something to do with the food being better or something. Why don’t you ask your great-grandma?” Great-Grandma is sitting in the living room and she’s old and frail. The little girl goes up to her and says, “Great-Grandma, why does this family always cut the ham in half and cook it in two ovens?” She goes, “Well, I have no idea why my daughter and granddaughter do it, but I did it simply because the oven wasn’t big enough.

They knew that they were there in the Bahamas because their forefathers had been captured and put on ships and transported to a different part of the world. They knew that those ancestors had a history and a culture, and they talked about that history and culture. Through oral history, they retained some of the fragments of who their great-great-grandfathers were, and probably even some surviving words of their language. They

He told her he was tired and didn't want any mechanical intervention. "No breathing tubes! No shocks, and no pushing on my chest. Just let me go." He was willing to try treatments that would make him feel better (comfort care), Rebecca says, such as wound care and pain management, as well as the treatments he was already getting. But, he said, "If they are giving it to me just to give it to me, then forget about it." At that point, Rebecca turned to her grandmother, who would be the ultimate decision maker should her grandfather become unable to make his own choices. "Well, darling," she said, "of course I would tell the doctors to do everything possible to keep my husband alive." Rebecca was stunned. She'd just had a lovely, candid, and specific discussion with her grandfather about his wishes. Hadn't her grandmother heard what he'd said? She then asked her grandmother to tell her what she had heard her grandfather say, and her grandmother repeated his wishes but said she loved her husband too much to let him go. "If he is with me just one more day, it would be worth it to me," she told her granddaughter. It would be worth it to her even if he were "hooked up to machines and not able to talk to me." Rebecca then turned back to her grandfather and asked, "Did you just hear what Grandma said?" He said he did. She asked how he felt about her going against his wishes and requesting a feeding tube, ventilator, shocks, and other treatments he had said he did not want. "Is that okay with you?" she asked in disbelief. Her grandfather said it was. "I am ready to go, but if it helps your grandmother to feel that she did everything possible for me, even if it is because she doesn't want me to go, that is okay. She is the one who has to go on living with her decision. If this is what she wants, then this is what I want because I love her." Rebecca realized in that moment that her grandfather's wishes were being honored; above all else, he wanted a death that his wife could live with.

invited us, didn’t they? It’d be rude not to enjoy the hotel’s facilities to their fullest extent,” I repeat, mocking my grandfather. “Can you believe him?” A startled laugh escapes Lily’s lips, and I can’t help but smile too. It takes the sting out of the words that followed, the ones I won’t tell Lily about. “I can only hope that your education actually helped smarten you up, because I’m tired of my granddaughter coming second to that Windsor boy. You’re not in school anymore, Celeste. The stakes are higher now, and there’s no margin for error. At the very least, you should be able to raise our hotels to the same standard as the Windsors’.” Sometimes I wonder, would my grandfather’s endless comparisons hurt less if they didn’t result in him finding me lacking every single time? Would my hatred for Zane have evolved into what it is had it not been fueled by Grandpa’s expectations?

The problem is not that we forget the past. It is that we recall it too well. Children recall wrongs that enemies did to their grandfathers, and blame the granddaughters of the old enemies.

The propaganda worked, not just on my mother, but across the region. It was, we know now, a global scheme engineered by Nestlé to get mothers hooked on formula and to give up breastfeeding. Mothers were taught the risks of breastfeeding and discharged from hospitals armed with sample boxes of formula and baby bottles, ready to rear their children like their wealthy, wondrous, Western counterparts who had already bought into the marketing. But when my grandfather examined the ingredient list on the back of the Nestlé tin can, he flung it across the room. “What is this nonsense?” Dada Abu raged. This was not milk from a living creature. Not from a goat or cow or buffalo or sheep. It was dead milk, made from dead, fake ingredients. And no way was his granddaughter going to be drinking this trash.

grandfather’s celluloid alter ego, Charles Foster Kane, whose dying word lay behind his mystery and can represent his granddaughter’s own: “Rosebud.

It’s what your family is known for. Happiness. Delight. Your grandfather is known around the world as the Saint of Cheer. You, Lady Eve, are the Granddaughter of Santa Claus.

There’s a great parable called “The Tale of Two Wolves.” It’s about a conversation between a wise old man and his inquisitive young granddaughter. The girl listens eagerly as her grandfather tells her: “There is a fight going on inside me. It is a terrible fight between two wolves. “One is evil. He is fear, envy, regret, greed, guilt, inferiority, shame, resentment, and lies. “The other is good. He is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, kindness, generosity, compassion, and truth. “The same fight is going on inside of you. This battle rages inside every person on earth.” The granddaughter’s eyes get big as the old man falls silent. She finally asks, “But, Grandpa, which wolf will win?” “The one you feed,” he replies. I love

The day on which she turned eleven, Grandfather Bill had presented her with her very own orchid. "This is especially for you, Julia. Its name is 'Aerides odoratum,' which means 'children of the air.'" Julia studied the delicate ivory and pink petals of the flower sitting in its pot. They felt velvety beneath her touch. "Where does this one come from, Grandfather Bill?" she had asked. "From the Orient, in the jungles of Chiang Mai in northern Thailand." "Oh. What kind of music do you think it likes?" "It seems particularly partial to a touch of Mozart," chuckled her grandfather. "Or if it looks like it's wilting, perhaps you could try some Chopin!

There I met my granddaughter for the first time. As I held her, I wanted to give her a gift. Surely I could come up with something very special for my first grandchild. Not the usual stuffed animals and outfits, but something she could use for the rest of her life. She should get a lasting gift from her grandfather. It came to me that I’d like to give her hope.

The way he learned to sing was by imitating the songbirds: their warbles and whistles, their scolds. Before his stroke he'd been able to imitate certain notes and melodies of their calls, but never whole songs. I was sitting under the umbrella with him, in early March-March second, the day the Texas Declaration of Independence had been signed, when Grandfather began to sing. A black-and-white warbler had flown in right in front of us and was sitting on a cedar limb, singing-relieved, I think, that we weren't owls. Cedar waxwings moved through the brush behind it, pausing to wipe the bug juice from their bills by rubbing their beaks against branches (like men dabbing their mouths with napkins after getting up from the table). Towhees were hopping all around us, scratching through the cedar duff for pill bugs, pecking, pecking, pecking, and still the vireo stayed right there on that branch, turning its head sideways at us and singing, and Grandfather made one deep sound in his throat-like a stone being rolled away-and then he began to sing back to the bird, not just imitating the warbler's call, but singing a whole warbler song, making up warbler sentences, warbler declarations. Other warblers came in from out of the brush and surrounded us, and still Grandfather kept whistling and trilling. More birds flew in. Grandfather sang to them, too. With high little sounds in his throat, he called in the mourning doves and the little Inca doves that were starting to move into this country, from the south, and whose call I liked very much, a slightly younger, faster call that seemed to complement the eternity-becking coo of the mourning dove. Grandfather sang until dark, until the birds stopped answering his songs and instead went back into the brush to go to roost, and the fireflies began to drift out of the bushes like sparks and the coyotes began to howl and yip. Grandfather had long ago finished all the tea, sipping it between birdsongs to keep his voice fresh, and now he was tired, too tired to even fold the umbrella. .... I was afraid that with the miracle of birdsong, it was Grandfather's last night on earth-that the stars and the birds and the forest had granted him one last gift-and so I drove slowly, wanting to remember the taste, smell, and feel of all of it it, and to never forget it. But when I stopped the truck he seemed rested, and was in a hurry to get out and go join Father, who was sitting on the porch in the dark listening to one of the spring-training baseball games on the radio.

Did he know he was going to die?" I asked, and Grandfather looked at me in surprise-his little granddaughter again. "He was eight-seven," he said in his stroke language. Grandfather studied my face carefully then, missing nothing. He watched my face the way he would have watched the cedars for a songbird he was trying to lure in with his screech owl calls. I was the young woman who would be burying him. He was trying to have it both-the afterlife and the here. His face was as curious as a young boy's.

Hearing Evangeline’s name startled Verlaine. “Percival Grigori is her grandfather?” he said, unable to mask his incredulity. “Yes,” Gabriella said. “It was Percival Grigori’s granddaughter who, just this morning, saved your life.

Isabel had always enjoyed a house full of people. 'Feed your friends, and their mouths will be too full to gossip,' Bubbie used to say. 'Feed your enemies, and they'll become your friends.' Throughout Isabel's childhood, the Johansen household had been full of people coming over, sitting down for a glass of wine or a slice of pie, staying up late, talking and laughing. Bubbie and Grandfather had been determined that she should never feel like an orphan. Except that, despite their efforts, sometimes she had. It wasn't their fault, she reflected as she placed wedges of quiche on plates. There was just something inside her- an urge, a yearning- that made her long to be someone's daughter, not the granddaughter. She never said so, though, not aloud. Yet somehow, they heard her. Somehow, they knew. Perhaps, in the aftermath of Bubbie's final illness and passing, that was why Isabel had become so bound to Bella Vista. Now she couldn't imagine being anywhere else. Her heart resided here, her soul. She still loved having people over, creating beautiful food, watching the passing of the seasons. Even now, with all the trouble afoot and secrets being revealed like the layers of a peeled onion, she found the rhythm of the kitchen soothing.

Well, not everyone believes these things exist. The things we see are not common; they should not be common knowledge. It is like the story of Santa Claus. You and I know he does not exist -- that he is a metaphor. You know this because you are a special child; you sought to discover the truth yourself. But all of the other children do not know that yet. And we've discussed that you should not tell them the truth because it is not their time to hear it. It would make them very sad without good reason. Just so, it is better for us that we do not tell people about these extra things we see." "When will they figure it out? When can I talk about it?" "Some of them will never know." Pappou paused. "They must never know. Because they will think we are different, and people sometimes do bad things to people whom they consider to be different." Lexi's legs stopped swinging. "Why?" "Why, indeed." The old man sat for a moment, his elbows propped on his knees and his chin resting on his fist. "Perhaps to make us appreciate the nicer people all the more.

One of the most astonishing examples of this comes from a study in 2014 of the Överkalix people of northern Sweden who were kind enough to make incredibly detailed records of births, deaths, family lines and stores of food stretching back centuries. The cycles of feast and famine allowed researchers Marcus Pembrey, Richard Saffery and Lars Olov Bigren to track generations of children who were born in surplus or deficit, and here’s the rub: for boys, their grandfather had the ability to shave thirty-two years off their average life span, even after other socioeconomic factors were taken into account, if he had lived through a boom year with plenty of food. These grandfathers were passing down their genes, sure, but their genes were already set in stone when they experienced famine. What the study, published in the Journal of Medical Genetics, revealed was that they were also passing down their experiences. Incredibly, when the study was expanded, the researchers found that grandmothers who had been starved of nutrients while in the womb passed on a significantly greater risk of early death to their granddaughters

The one area in which some women can claim a degree of parity is in literature. The educated ladies of Elizabethan England are making their biggest impression through translations, for noble and gentry families choose to educate their daughters in languages and music above all other things. The daughters of Sir Anthony Cooke are foremost among these. The formidable Anne, who marries Sir Nicholas Bacon, publishes a translation from the Latin of no less a work than John Jewel’s Apologie of the Church of England in 1564. Her sister, Mildred, the wife of Sir William Cecil, can speak Greek as fluently as English and translates several works. Another of Sir Anthony’s daughters, Elizabeth, Lady Russell, publishes her translation from the French of A Way of Reconciliation touching the true nature and substance of the body and blood of Christ in the Sacrament; and a fourth daughter, Katherine, is renowned for her ability to translate from the Greek, Latin and Hebrew. Other families also produce female scholars. Mary Bassett, granddaughter of Sir Thomas More, is well-versed in the classics and translates works by Eusebius, Socrates and several other ancient writers, not to mention a book by her grandfather. Jane, Lady Lumley, publishes a translation of Euripides. Margaret Tyler publishes The Mirror of Princely deeds and Knighthood (1578), translated from the Spanish. And so on. The educated ladies of Elizabethan England are far freer to reveal the fruits of their intellect than their mothers and grandmothers.

recall it too well. Children recall wrongs that enemies did to their grandfathers, and blame the granddaughters of the old enemies. Children are not born with memories of who insulted their mother or slew their grandfather or stole their land. Those hates are bequeathed to them, taught them, breathed into them. If adults didn’t tell children of their hereditary hates, perhaps we would do better.