Welcome to my first enovel
Thanks for coming along with me as I tell a story made up of other stories. Some of them are true; some of them are legends and folktales handed down to me (which in some important ways makes them truer than a simple history); some are wish fulfillment and some are just plain me having a good time building stories with my son, cartoonist Nicholas Biales.
First, the disclaimers. Some of these tales I've only heard at my home growing up among people from Hungary, specifically Hungarian Beyash-speaking gypsies. I'm a real poshrat, and I don't know why no one else seems to be telling these stories. I'm as puzzled as you are; still, they are fine stories and whether part of Gypsy culture as recognised worldwide or not, they are fine stories, they've taught me a lot and I'd like to pass on their wisdom, wherever the people who told them for me got them.
Stories educate; stories give context for life. My father speaking into the dark, telling "the good 'uns" that went on for days -- I've learned them. He never recorded them and so left his last child without both his voice and the stories. I'm hoping that at some time my brother Zhondor finds this blog and gets at least the stories if not my father, the storyteller.
We're not people who swindle gajos (nongypsies) I'll happily listen to tales of how people in my family have caused you harm. We all have our embarrassing relations. The hardworking chicken is distant relation to Tyranaasaurus Rex, after all. My father worked iron -- he didn't recoat driveways or encourage his children into the company of wolves with human faces.
He did teach his children to dumpster dive and one of my earliest memories is coming home joyously with many peices of silverware, found in bins, and seeing my mother cry about what her children were learning.
And yes, my son and I have explored on from time to time, and by now my mother has come to understand.
May you too, enjoy coming along on our science-fantasy wilderness fairy tale about gypsies, and magic, and civilising influences, and music -- like voices burning in the dark.
Thanks for your company,
Lulia Lee
First, the disclaimers. Some of these tales I've only heard at my home growing up among people from Hungary, specifically Hungarian Beyash-speaking gypsies. I'm a real poshrat, and I don't know why no one else seems to be telling these stories. I'm as puzzled as you are; still, they are fine stories and whether part of Gypsy culture as recognised worldwide or not, they are fine stories, they've taught me a lot and I'd like to pass on their wisdom, wherever the people who told them for me got them.
Stories educate; stories give context for life. My father speaking into the dark, telling "the good 'uns" that went on for days -- I've learned them. He never recorded them and so left his last child without both his voice and the stories. I'm hoping that at some time my brother Zhondor finds this blog and gets at least the stories if not my father, the storyteller.
We're not people who swindle gajos (nongypsies) I'll happily listen to tales of how people in my family have caused you harm. We all have our embarrassing relations. The hardworking chicken is distant relation to Tyranaasaurus Rex, after all. My father worked iron -- he didn't recoat driveways or encourage his children into the company of wolves with human faces.
He did teach his children to dumpster dive and one of my earliest memories is coming home joyously with many peices of silverware, found in bins, and seeing my mother cry about what her children were learning.
And yes, my son and I have explored on from time to time, and by now my mother has come to understand.
May you too, enjoy coming along on our science-fantasy wilderness fairy tale about gypsies, and magic, and civilising influences, and music -- like voices burning in the dark.
Thanks for your company,
Lulia Lee
posted by JulieB | 8:37 PM
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