A slight romantic tale of fiction

youngHer  name was Tirion. A Kale from Wales. Often she was confused with the Gypsy. But was not such. Tirion‘s  kind has always traveled in Britain, from before even the Celts traveled to Ireland to conquer and control. They are not Gypsy, They are, and will always be, Travelers.

Even so, they share much in common with the Gypsies, journeying from place to place, and share much with our United States country’s own native tribes. They were persecuted for their beliefs, and often found themselves hiding  survive. Survive they did. Making their way, moving from village to city to ocean to mountain to plain, working hard; using the strength of their minds and their bodies.

Her own Gran, my Gran many times past, had a sight, theoldwoman ability to see past the veils of this world into others, and could reach into the soul of another to understand and hear their hidden secrets. From her Tirion was passed these gifts, and with them, she made her own small living.cards

From her words to my Gran’s Mother to my Gran and to me, I heard this tale…

“We look to the other world for our spiritual delight. Mab, Queen of all the Fairies we call our own, and the Fairies we are cousin to. My ancestors danced with the Fairies on many a midsummer eve, and many a hallowed eve, ensuring our prosperity and comfort. Together we drew down the moon, and made the small magic’s that kept our world turning.

I can tell you many a tale of my five decades here on this earthly plane, tales of visits with my cousins, tales of time spent with this United States own native peoples, and tales of my travels, sorrows, and joy. But I will begin, with just the small beginning. To say how I came to this vast and wonderful land of ours, this Western glory.

My Ma; as a Lass, came across the great ocean on a merchant ship bound from the port of Liverpool, in the year of 1825, headed to a port of New York City. Her passage was paid by a grand and fine Lady, and for this Lady my Ma fetched and carried, helping to achieve all of the fuss and froofa that great Ladies must have.

Her private time was little, but one fine morning she happened above decks, to stand with the salty breeze blowing through her hair, and the feel of the sun on her face. A swell rocked the deck, and she tumbled, crying out in alarm.

sailor in mastNow above her was the man who would be my Da, a Traveler as well, who had hired on the ship to earn his own safe passage to the Americas. He worked the sails, climbing up and down the masts, doing all those things that sailors do. Hearing her cry, he looked down, and saw her coppery curls glinting in the light, and her slight form tumbled about the deck. And she, lying on that deck looked up into the sky and saw himself, sun-browned and lean, hanging above her.

Quickly he clambered down the mast, and rushing to her, helped her back on to her feet. Looking into one anothers faces they knew, with their souls that they  to be together.

Later that evening, my Ma once more crept above deck, to find Da, waiting, where her heart knew he would be. And thus I was created, and still to this day, I hold in my mind a connected memory of the sound and smell of salty waves rocking against the wooden sides of a ship, and the sight of stars shining down into the water.”

I blushed as my gran told me this story, and was thrilled to know of the love running in my veins.

gypsy wagon

Freedom

children

children of the poor

Yesterday I watched a news story.  Women and children are coming to our boarders, believing that they will find freedom.  Believing in  the American Dream;  met at the border by rich US citizens, turned away, screamed at, disregarded as people.  We furiously protect what we have, forgetting where we got it!

Trail of Tears

We forget that our ancestors came from other countries; pushing out the native people who lived here.  In many cases with genocide.

We forget that our ancestors came, and lived in hovels, worked, scraped, struggled.  So that they could have the American Dream. We forget that they were scorned and terrorized, yet kept coming.  thp-ny-tenementWe forget where we came from.

This is not a treatise on immigration policy, I am not smart enough for that.  This is a call for understanding and love, for a return to our basic values of liberty and justice for all.  What are the words?

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

This is how most of us arrived here.  My great grandparents from Prussia and England with little, working their way here to the Midwest, coming to dream.

Today, everyday, remember and honor.liberty

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of Course I believe

On this rainy spring morning I can imagine little fairies cozened up in their homes with feet up on pin cushions, settled in, covered with downy quilts.  Tea steaming in little cups, staying dry, and dreaming of the sun.10402625_10152537140487873_6572578903383870791_n

Happy First Calendar Day of Spring!!!

225-water-street-storeIt has been a while since I could say Happy Spring.  Yes, I know, Beginning Saturday it will be cold again, but Hey!  It is Spring!

I will be celebrating Spring with Ms. Mara this Saturday at 225 Water Street!  Hope to see you there!  Many items to browse and maybe you can have your palm read!!!

Oh those Irish!

Happiest Day to you all!  It is not yet calendar Spring, and yes, tomorrow it will snow.  I however always believe that today. St Patty’s Day is my start to Spring.  Whatever comes, snow or sleet, I can feel Springtime in my soul!st-patricks-day-vintage-graphicsfairy003

A short story

How Matilda came to be.  A short story to be believed, or not…

My name is Matilda Evan Jones. I am an Irish Traveler.  Often, I am confused, by non-travelers, with the Gypsy.  But I am not such.  My kind has always been traveling in Britain, from before even the Celts traveled to Ireland to conquer and control.  We are not Gypsy, we are, and will always be, Travelers.

Even so, we share much in common with the Gypsies, journeying from place to place, and share much with this country’s own native tribes.  We are persecuted for our beliefs, and often find ourselves hiding in order to survive.  Survive we do.  We make our way, moving from village to city to ocean to mountain to plain, working hard; using the strength of our minds and our bodies.
My own Gram had a sight, the ability to see past the veils of this world into others, and could reach into the soul of another to understand and hear their hidden secrets.  From her I received these gifts, and with them, I make my own small living, as I too travel.

We look to the other world for our spiritual delight.  Mab, Queen of all the Fairies we call our own, and the Fairies we are cousin to.  My ancestors danced with the Fairies on many a midsummer eve, and many a hallowed eve, ensuring our prosperity and comfort.  Together we drew down the moon, and made the small magic’s that kept our world turning.

I can tell you many a tale of my five decades here on this earthly plane, tales of visits with my cousins, tales of time spent with this United States own native people, and tales of my travels, sorrows, and joy.  But I will begin, with just the small beginning.  To say how I came to this vast and wonderful land of ours, this Western glory.

My Ma; as a Lass, came across the great ocean on a merchant ship bound from the port of Liverpool, in the year of 1825, headed to a port of New York City.  Her passage was paid by a grand and fine Lady, and for this Lady my Ma fetched and carried, helping to achieve all of the fuss and froofa that great Ladies must have.

Her private time was little, but one fine morning she happened above decks, to stand with the salty breeze blowing through her hair, and the feel of the sun on her face.  A swell rocked the deck, and she tumbled, crying out in alarm.

Now above her was the man who would be my Da, a Traveler as well, who had hired on the ship to earn his own safe passage to the America’s.  He worked the sails, climbing up and down the masts, doing all those things that sailors do.  Hearing her cry, he looked down, and saw her coppery curls glinting in the light, and her slight form tumbled about the deck.  And she, lying on that deck looked up into the sky and saw himself, sun browned and lean, hanging above her.

Quickly he clambered down the mast, and rushing to her, helped her back on to her feet.  Looking into one another’s, faces they knew, with their souls that they were meant to be together.

Later that evening, my Ma once more crept above deck, to find Da, waiting, where her heart knew he would be.  And thus I was created, and still to this day, I hold in my mind a connected memory of the sound and smell of salty waves rocking against the wooden sides of a ship, and the sight of stars shining down into the water.

I have more tales to tell, if those you would choose to hear.

Sincerely;
Tilly Jones

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Tilly Evan Jones

“I want to think again of dangerous and noble things. I want to be light and frolicsome. I want to be improbable and beautiful and afraid of nothing as though I had wings.” ~Mary Oliver

Lost Creek

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