Tag Archives: gay rights are human rights

            I promise, I won’t keep doing this.  Much.  It’s just that playing with the days of the week names entertains me.  Sorry, I’ll try to not mess with alliteration too much more.  (Lol, or maybe I will end up doing an entire week this way.)

           On our card altar this afternoon we came around to that fascinating deck with the interesting arrangement, and the one that came up reminded me of a story I was going to tell you.  (I don’t think I’ve told it here before, but oh well, repeating my wee self elf is bound to happen.)  This also seemed like a good week to tell it too, card or not, because of the Irish celebrations that will be taking place (or in our case, already have). 

          As you know, my father is of Native American and Irish heritage.  His family comes from the Missouri area on one side and Texas on another, but there’s that single branch springing straight out of the Old Country.  Hanny (her first name, middle name, and THAT nickname, were all compiled from parts of his) calls him her favorite leprechaun.  But what the kids started calling him originally, is the story I am going to share now.

            He was 46 years old when his first grandchild was born.  I now know this because we have had several discussions about me being 23 the year I gave birth to my first baby and him being 23 when my mother gave birth to their first kid (me).  Daniel and I had argued so much over our son’s name, and the birth had gone so unexpectedly sideways (I’ll tell that story another day, it’s a post unto itself) that we really were NOT considering grandparents at that point. 

               (Unless… did I already tell J.D.’s birth story, does anyone remember?  And if so, where the hell would it be in the History Quilt?!)

          My parents came to see me in the hospital.  My mother walked into the room, immediately grabbing the baby (we expecting nothing less) and began to coo and fawn over him, and his father.  Dad wandered over to me.  And, as we always do, he and I began to chat amongst ourselves.  Eventually I asked him, “so what should this kid call you anyway?”  He looked down at his boots.  Reached up and adjusted his big hat.  Patted the front of his shirt, the pocket where his Marlboro’s lived.  Then he looked me directly in the eye and said, “‘Sir’ was good enough for my grandfather.”

            The day went on, they left, other people came into the room.  Family and friends exclaimed over the size and loveliness of my enormous baby.  A young girl and her mother, super dear family friends (pictures of them here) arrived at one point.  Libby, who knew my father well by now, after many years of sharing adult beverages together, asked me what this baby was going to call that man.  She could not come up with ANY sort of appellation, label, or common title that she could see would fit my dad, the former Marine Drill Sergeant, the gruff and grouchy gentleman we all knew and loved.

            Alyson, being very bold and teenaged said, “didn’t you ask him?”  I told her that I most certainly did.  And relayed his reply.  She just laughed and laughed, and then said, having known him her entire life, “well that’s it then!  He will be GrandSir to his Grand Children!”  So, he is.  It has been his name and his designation ever since that afternoon, almost 27 years ago.  

GrandSir

             Because my mom was a nanny for so many years, most people in our lives had been addressing her that way already (she liked being called Nanny because she has never loved her given name of Diane, I do though, I liked it so much that I gave it to Empress: Emma Diane).  It followed that the kids would call her Granny (sounded close enough).  And they go really well together too, Granny and GrandSir.     

           Cautionary Disclaimer:  if anyone is thinking of naming a child after a relative (or any other person in their lives) be absolutely certain that you can live with, adore, and over look, any and all personality traits, minor flaws, small irritating mannerisms, or habits.  Because I assure you, after having done this, with all three of the witchlings, those kids WILL and DO take after the person they are named for.  Seriously!  Big time.  Like you wouldn’t believe.        

               Back to business and cards and news now.  If you haven’t checked out the Testimonials lately be sure you do.  There have been a couple of new ones added, well, more like one.  But it’s good to stay current, updates randomly happen all over the damn place here.  I would certainly appreciate more if anyone feels like writing me a letter or putting one up as a comment under that tab.

             And we have two new links in the Important Places blog roll.  Because the interwebs offer such a welcoming, as well as freeing anonymity, many people make use of this for life improvement type of projects and self-examination with a wealth of support.  I am all for this!  Any time we can learn our lessons and grow in positive ways I will cheer you on.  If I had pom-poms I’d break ‘em out and lead the parade.  Be sure to look for them, or you can go here, and here to start.  Keep in mind that, like JulieLand, these are adult oriented and Hate Free Zones.

             I have noticed that we are coming to the end of some of our decks on the card altar.  I am also nearing completion of the deck I draw from on Sunday’s.  As I’ve said before, it was one that belonged to my sister.  It deals with Saints & Angels, but I thought we might get some good messages from it if we incorporated it into our rotation.  The plan is to add this one (and one other that I didn’t include when this feature first began) as others finish up.  When we reach the last card of whichever deck stops first, I’ll let you know.

             Here is where we are today though, The Celtic Shaman’s Pack.

           “The Father  ~  Dagda  ~  Energy.

A huge glowing male head rises from a cauldron decorated with images of the family of the gods.

The power of the Father is strength, energy, life unbounded, freedom.  It is in the love of all fathers for their children which, if it be not misguided, can be an enduring force for good.  As with all such raw strength it requires the balancing energy of the Mother, for only out of such unities can come a pure stream of joy and beauty.  The Dagda is also a keeper of lore and story, whose teachings are often expressed in this form.

Journey:  Your travels take you to the house of the Dagda.  Its walls are of silver and its roof of gold.  Enter the house and you find yourself in a huge hall with a line of carved columns marching down either side. 

At the far end is a great throne on which sits the Dagda.  He is a mighty figure in every sense of the word, huge in stature and in energy, which radiates out from him.  You approach with due deference and stand before him.  He studies you for a while in silence, then without speaking takes up the great harp which is at his side.  He plays a cluster of notes and as you hear them you are transformed.  You listen in wonder as the Dagda plays a song which will stay with you ever after.  It is a song of wisdom and knowledge and of triumph over adversity and it is a subtle message for you alone.

When you have listened take your leave of the Dagda and return to normal consciousness.  Write down all that you can about this experience so that you may refer back to it in times of need, hearing your song once more.”