Every family has folklore, or a few skeletons in the closet, destined to make their way out. With Halloween on the doorstep, I thought I’d dish a few. And I just want to say right now, “Bob Marley is mistaken.”
Now, I’m sure you’re scratching your head right now, wondering where in the h-e-two hockey sticks I might be going with this, prattling on about family secrets and the reggae king … and heads might roll a little more (pun intended) when I tell you I’m related to the folklore legend Bloody Mary, said to appear in a mirror if you chant her name, and also Mary, Queen of Scots—famously beheaded.
But first, let me take you back to the beginning. A couple years ago when my mother purchased DNA kits for Christmas, I was elated. I hopefully looked to the ancestry.com website and my results to compile a longer paternal tree and verify or discredit a few family stories.
Growing up, I remember mention of my roots in America linked to a passenger on the Mayflower—this remains unverified and I have no knowledge of where this legend might come from.
Other notable ancestors of family lore include two Mary’s. Mary, Queen of Scots, famously beheaded after a plan to assassinate her cousin Queen Elizabeth I, and Mary the I of England—also known as Bloody Mary. After diving into my DNA results and the ancestry.com database, these legends have been verified.
Upon tracing my father’s lineage to a Sarah Stafford and ultimately to Henry Percy, 2nd Earl of Northumberland, an English nobleman and military commander during the War of Roses, I discovered a definitive link to the English royal family. Henry’s mother, Elizabeth Mortimer, was the daughter of Lady Philippa Mortimer, granddaughter to King Edward III.
The House of Lancaster descended from Edward’s third son, John Gaunt. While, the House of Tudor descended from John Beaufort, one of the illegitimate children of John of Gaunt.
The most notorious Tudor royal was the portly and amorous Henry VIII. Henry VIII sired two daughters who both became queens. Queen Mary I, also known as Bloody Mary, was daughter of Henry’s first wife, Catherine of Aragon. Queen Elizabeth I—cousin to the aforementioned Mary, Queen of Scots—was conceived from Henry’s third marriage to Anne Boleyn.
Before I bore you too much longer with my genealogy and relation to the two Mary’s, I’ll move back to Bob Marley and the juicier dish. I’ve always been a history nerd, consider myself a wordsmith and have a deep affinity for music. When I put the three interests together, I often find myself singing silly songs and revising lyrics to more appropriately describe what might have happened in any given instance.
Image by Ueli Frey
Image by Sten Rüdrich
You’ll be shocked to know (insert sarcasm) that I am in no way related to Marley, but have a deeper family secret than a distant link to a royal apparition who school girls summon in the mirror for Halloween entertainment. A known relative—in a not so distant time and a not so distant place—shot a sheriff. The sheriff died, but I just want to say, the deputy did survive, just not unscathed.
I do not know very many details surrounding the “affair” leading to the untimely death of a sheriff, and I do not have news clippings from the original incident to share. However, a story ran by the Olney Daily Mail in 2002 briefly chronicles the happening. A letter to the editor suggests there was in fact a different chain of events culminating in the death of a sheriff and ALSO the shooting of a deputy … cue the miscued lyrics…
So, there you have it, my family’s biggest skeleton, just in time for Halloween… “He shot the sheriff, AND he shot the deputy…”
Love, L.N.
Image attribution: By Unknown – Reproduced in Bill Ellis, Lucifer Ascending: The Occult in Folklore and Popular Culture (University of Kentucky, 2004). ISBN 0-8131-2289-9, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2321965
I anxiously scanned charges on my bank app in disbelief. Damn, I thought, my husband’s bank card must have been swiped through a skimmer. Three large charges—much larger than the commissary snack purchases appearing every few days—glared back at me. I futilely tried to make sense of the foreign words detailing them.
I took a quick screenshot, circled the amounts in a vivid red and quickly sent my husband a picture message. “Are these charges legitimate”? “No, I don’t think so”… he messaged back a short while later.
I found myself immediately fretting about the money and the headache I faced disputing fraudulent charges from halfway around the globe.
I will forever be a “financial worrier”. As a young child, my mother supported our family of four on a meager secretary’s salary, while my dad attended medical school in California. We often relied on the kindness of family, friends and church members who lovingly gave boxes of hand-me-down clothes, food and housewares.
It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I finally felt like we had reached a middle class lifestyle. My husband and I live comfortably, but the nervousness I felt regarding money growing up “poor” has remained.
On a phone call later that afternoon I inquired again about the charges. My husband recanted, “yes, those charges are right, I made a couple of ATM transactions,” he said. I instantly wondered why he needed that much money, as he is on an overseas military deployment. Frustration slowly began to creep in. “He should know we are on a budget,” I vexed to myself. I recently took a hiatus from my art director career and admittedly fear relying on just his income, even though the numbers easily balance in our favor each month. I became angry.
Then he began sharing about the migrant workers he encountered pumping gas, cleaning bathrooms, and making a meager wage. He described the elderly men from places like the Philippines, India and Bangladesh working humble jobs in the more affluent middle-eastern nations. He went on to say, “I pulled out extra money so that I am able to tip well…I want to help them.” At that moment my heart began to beat a little faster, my ire dissipated. I was left only with love for my husband, his golden heart, and a big bite of humble pie for getting angry.
You see, my husband—who necessitates no accolades for HIS sacrifice and the hardships of a deployment—only ever wants to give more. He is the guy who buys your coffee if you’re lucky enough to pull up behind him in the Starbucks drive-through. He is the guy who walked down the street to buy me breakfast when I didn’t care for the menu at the vegetarian restaurant he chose. I thought he had gone to the restroom—I watched as his food grew cold before he returned. He handed me a bag with some strips of bacon, but I definitely ate humble pie that day too. And later, at that same cafe, he flagged our waitress over and discreetly motioned to the people whose breakfast he’d like to buy…a single mother, a young family, an elderly couple…
After spending a few years as a military girlfriend and now wife, I believe there are two types of people who join the armed forces—those with the heart of a warrior and those with the heart of a servant. My husband has the latter, and it is one of the things I love most … he undeniably has the better heart in our marriage and I guess that’s a bite of humble pie I can bear to swallow.
“And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased.” —Hebrews 13:16
The write dish 