Wrong turn

In my research of my ancestry, I realized I made a wrong turn, which led me down the wrong track, and I am not paternally related to Thorri and Norr, but maternally related. However, when I got back on the right track, I found I am paternally related to Beowa, or as you probably know him, Beowulf (not the alligator).

This guy, who looks remarkably like Jesus. Lol I was going to try to put a contrasting picture of Forrest's pet alligator, Beowulf, but I could not find a picture of him. Maybe Forrest will generously donate a picture of him to post?

Of course, this is going back past history of written record, but that doesn't mean those legendary kings and heroes never existed. In Scandinavia, like Native America, history wasn't often written, but spoken, passed down from father to son, mother to daughter, through the generations.

I'm sure that over the years, those stories grew a little more embellished with each retelling. You know, like the fishing stories people like to tell. When I was little, my dad shot a six foot rattlesnake in our backyard, That is actually true. But, over the years, my brothers and I have magically grown that snake two feet longer when retelling it. There is a picture of my dad holding that snake somewhere--I'm sure my brother probably has it. I'll see if I can get a copy.

Some oral history recorded from one generation to the next...

It's easy to see how stories can get confused over time. It took some close examination to decipher certain things as I researched. For example. Brunhyld in my family was noted as being both the husband to Ragnar and to Ragnar's father, Sigurd. However, in reality, she was only the wife of Sigurd, while Ragnar married Aslaug. And two other Viking women along the way--one was the famous Viking Pirate and shield-maiden, Lathgertha.

There were a couple very interesting things I learned while studying Beowulf that may be useful when deciphering Forrest Fenn's poem. I'll leave that for you to find for yourselves.

The saga of Beowulf is unique in many ways. I have read it before a few times when I was in college, but I don't remember the story very well. Last night, I read a little about the history behind the story, and found it very interesting.

There is only one surviving copy of the original Beowulf in existence, and it was almost destroyed by fire. It makes me think of Cleopatra's famous Library of Alexandria that burned...what history have we lost because of history written, yet untold?

This is the first page of the only surviving original copy of Beowulf.

The copy we have was written by a Christian trying to convey a Scandinavian (Viking) saga. He invariably tweaked the copy he wrote in Christian slant, so the copy we have is probably very different from the original author's.

One thing the author probably kept the same was the Germanic heroic code Scandinavian warriors tried to follow. This code valued courage, strength and fierce loyalty in warriors. A good warrior also demonstrated hospitality, generosity, and chivalry toward women, as well as upholding a good reputation among all people.

So, as a warrior, you either lived according to the code, making you honorable in everyone's sight, or you violated the code, which could get you exiled (or worse).

The author struggles to maintain the duality between his Christian mindset and the pagan aspects of the story. The warrior believed that revenge and avenging wrongs was the "right" way to go, whereas the Medieval Christians believed in maintaining and achieving peace without warfare (which is much different than Old Testament Biblical Christianity, where many kingdoms were taken by force --think David, Jacob, etc).

Another interesting thing to think about in Beowulf is word choice. Beowulf was written in Old English, which is extremely formal. Modern English is like a giant pot of everything stew. Our word origins are many and varied, which made translating Beowulf tricky.

If the translators had translated everything literally, Beowulf might not be as interesting. For example, the word "monster" in Christian Medieval culture, meant someone with birth defects. It doesn't seem very flattering of Beowulf or heroic for him to destroy some poor soul with the misfortune of being born with a birth defect in an era where that was a sign of evil. And not only was Grendel born with a birth defect that made him a monster, he is also described as being a descendant of Cain, the first murderer described in the Bible.

I'm pretty sure Grendel didn't look like this.

So, it's conceivable that Grendel and his mother were an allegory or a symbol against the marauding aspects of Viking life, where kinsmen killed kinsmen for the sake of land and wealth.

And finally, one of the thing I like the best about Beowulf is the difference between a "good warrior and a good king." This theme is also present in other ancient works like Ovid's Fasti, where the young men are designed to carry out the acts of war, and the old men are there to counsel the young with their wisdom. Sounds like another man we've grown to love, doesn't it?

In Beowulf, we learn that in ancient Scandinavian culture, when a man is young, he has nothing yet to lose, and his desire is for personal glory. If the warrior is a good warrior, upholding the heroic code, and is successful, he will be rewarded by a good king, who will lavish him with gifts and the protection of a mead hall, which represented safety, stability, and fortune.

If all goes according to plan, the young hero of war will grow into a good king, whose role will shift from fighting to advising and striving for diplomatic peace. Here's Beowulf practicing the patience of a good king while still a good warrior:

"I'll just sit here and smile and wait for the monster."

Can you see how this could be seen as a parallel for the chase? We, the young (ish), are searching while hopefully maintaining a certain code of conduct. We're the warriors now, and gleaning advice from a good warrior, who became a good king. :)

I'm Technically a Princess, and You Probably Are, Too (or a Prince)

I took a break from the chase last night to do some more genealogy research into my own family tree. We are a colorful bunch with some big names. If you like history, keep reading. Hopefully, I'll be able to amuse you a little while bringing alive the past.

As of last night, I had traced the ancestry back to Troy, but those ancestors I won't go into, because there isn't enough proof yet that they actually existed. On a future post, I'll go more into the mythological ancestry, but some of the characters I describe today, while probably were real people, definitely have some myth attached to them.

First of all, we have Snaer Jokulsson King of Klenvold. His birth is listed as 140 AD, Kvenland, Bay of Bothnia, between Sweden and Finland. His death is listed at around 210 in Finland. I can't find much on him yet. But his son is quite famous.

His name was Adelbert Fornjotur "The Ancient Giant", Jarl King of Kvenland Snaersson. He was born in about 160, in the same place as his father, and he was apparently a genuine giant. Maybe that's where I get my height from. He is the first known descendant of King William I of England (William the Conqueror). William doesn't look like much of a conqueror, but I'll take history's word for it.

William the Conqueror--what's with the "W" beard?

Fornjotur appears in the ancient sagas of Norway and Finland, and is the father of three sons, Ægir or Hlér, Logi and Kári (my ancestor). The Hversu account informs us that Hlér ruled over the seas, Logi over fire, and Kári over wind.

"The Gentle Giant" Fornjotur. I didn't get my good looks from him. Lol.

But maybe this is where I get my love of nature. This is the homeland of Fornjotur, and wouldn't you know, I've found that Kvenland was also known by the term, "FENNoscandia!"

Fornjotur's son was Kari "Wind" 2nd King of Kvenland Fornjotsson. I like that I'm descended from the King of the Wind. Water would've been cool though, too. 

It was so cold where they lived, they all had beards.

Kari had a son appropriately named King Frosti Kvenland Olsa Jarl of Lloegr Karasson. Finland and Iceland are extremely cold, you know, and many of those ancient names reflect the environment they were familiar with. Frosti was amazing, I just know it, but I can't find a single picture or story about him. Maybe he was shy. Instead, here's a picture of their kingdom:

Frosti married and had some kids, one of which was the unremarkable Jokull Iokull Frostasson.  Jokull had a son named Snaer, "Old Snow", King of Finland, King of  Kvenland, Jokulsson. Maybe he was nicknamed Old Snow because he was yellow and crusty? The world may never know, because I can't find a picture of him, either.

But Snaer, in his lengthy 300 years on Earth, had some children, too, mostly all named for different forms of snow. And one of them, the foremost one, is my ancestor. His name was Thorri "Frozen Snow" Snaersson. He was probably called frozen snow because he was so tough and strong that he seemed unbreakable. 

During the Viking Age, the Norse were extremely resistant to Christianity, and the name Thor, in various spellings, suddenly catapulted into the equivalent blah-ness of "John." It's suspected that parents named their children Thor in defiance of Christian ways.

Mom 1: "What's your son's name?"
Mom 2: "His name is Thor."
Mom 1: "These are my daughters, Thoralee, and Thorina. You know what they say, 'Thor is the new Snaer.'"

Thorri had three children: Norr, the founder of Norway (my ancestor), Gor, the founder of Denmark, and Goi, "Thin Snow," a daughter who was kidnapped, which led to an all out, heroic and frantic search for her. Norr and Gor proceeded to cut a blazing swath across Norway, crushing everyone and everything to find her. 

True Fact: After Norr conquered Norway, it was afterwards known as Norge, which means "Norr's Way."
He probably said something like this as he was destroying everything in his path, "It's Norr's Way of the highway, I tell thee!!".

When they found her with the Norwegian King Hrolf, Norr went ballistic and attacked old Hrolf, and the battle was furious and vicious, but amazingly, neither suffered even a scratch. It was then that Norr discovered his sister sorta liked Hrolf, who had treated her like the Princess she was. Norr also noticed that Hrolf's sister, Hodd, was pretty hot herself, and his Viking mind turned from war to peace in the bat of a blonde eyelash. Hrolf and Goi married, and Norr and Hodd married. The kingdom was at peace. (For the time being, because they were Vikings, after all.)

Hodd knew how to stop the fight.

I'll end this post with a fact you probably didn't know about Vikings, and the ancient Norse. They're often depicted as dirty barbarians, which couldn't be further from the truth. In reality, they were MUCH cleaner than their European counterparts. Items found at burial sites include tweezers, razors, ear cleaners and other items used for hygiene. They bathed once a week, which was more than the Europeans, and in between baths, they soaked in the natural hot springs. Men that weren't born blond dyed their hair and eyebrows and beards with a mixture of lye and natural ingredients, which also eliminated a nasty plaque of the time: lice.

In my next post, I'll explore some of the legendary Viking women in my ancestry. Some of them have solid proof of their existence, and some are said to have existed, but over the centuries, myth has mixed with the truth, which I think makes them even more awesome.

So, like my title says, I'm technically a Viking Princess. I bet most of you all, if you delve back far enough into your own genealogy, can find some royalty, too. If anyone wants some help to get started finding your own grand beginnings, let me know. :)

Not a ninja, and that's okay.

   

Memory has a Funny Sense of Humor

One of the most prominent symptoms of hyperparathyroidism is forgetfulness. Add that to the human's naturally bad memory, and I'd be surprised to find my way out of a paper bag, if I could fit in one.

I used to have a fantastic memory, almost eidetic. I would remember just about everything I read or saw, or heard. I was a great test taker, and a great trivial pursuit player, and a great Jeopardy player. Except when it came to dates, numbers and ages. I forget those, because really, I don't care how old I was in seventh grade.

That's not the case lately. I forget a lot of things, and now I have to set alarms on my phone to remind me of appointments and other important things, like Saturdays.

However, I know I'm not alone. Studies have shown that in even high stress situations, where your adrenaline should be helping your memory, we don't really remember things as they really were, no matter how sure we are that what we witness was correct.

For example, a classic example most college students learn in Psychology is the experiment of a re-enactment of a crime on the street. A woman is swaggering down the sidewalk, swinging her Louis Vuitton purse around like she's begging a thief to rip it out of her hand. The thief comes running up, snatches the purse, looks around dramatically to see who may have seen him (long enough for the witnesses to get a really good look at him) and takes off. Then,each witness was interviewed about the specifics--what the criminal looked like, what he was wearing, etc.

The evidence proved that each witness noticed different things, and a large percentage of what they remembered was wrong.

Here are some of the funniest police sketches I could find. Some may be the result of a witness's bad memory, but it could also be because the sketch artist was a kindergartner. Or maybe a 6th grader...

Police were led to a nearby beaver dam...

I wonder if she was caught as a result of the sketch. I can't see how...

Maybe the sketch artist forgot to draw the toothpicks that were propping up this guys eyelids. And maybe the thief had some good collagen lip injections since his crime.

Surprisingly, this sketch helped find the suspect. He escaped from a child's nightmare.

Absolutely do not try to find Slenderman.

And then you have a few that are right on, probably a result of abnormally good memory and a good sketch artist:

An example where the sketch artist is really gracious. 

Despite the sketch artist attempting to draw an old Luigi (Mario's Brother), it was close enough to nab the right guy.

Then, there are the famous cases, like the Son of Sam, and DB Cooper. They caught the Son of Sam, but I doubt the sketches helped. They never caught DB Cooper. Maybe because he looked entirely different than his police sketch. I think he probably looked at least a little different. They could have gotten the color of his eyes wrong, or maybe something else...

The Son of Sam sketches...

The real Son of Sam.

DB Cooper? The world may never know.

Memory is a funny thing. There are memories I cherish, and memories I have blocked out. Many of us do the same thing. Some people may have stolen candy from a store and been a little too entrepreneurial as a child for the sake of a few nickels. Some may have blocked out their most painful memories, such as abuse or the death of a loved one.

I wonder if DB Copper is still out there...does he remember his sensational crime with the vividness of a bright painting he can stare at every day? Does he regret what he did? It's hard to say, but it would be interesting to know his story.

But for me, I'm all about forgetting the bad memories and remembering the sweet and good. If I could just remember where I put the car keys, that would be a huge plus.

Here's a fun fact about memory:

• Have you ever wondered why you forget your dreams shortly after you wake up? It's because your long term memory shuts off during sleep. You might have several dreams during the night, they aren’t being recorded into long-term memory.

And here is the historical picture of the day that many of you will want to forget as soon as you see it. I guess if you couldn't afford a car or a horse, you'd be reduced to this:

P.S. I just saw that Fleetwood Mac is coming to the Amway Center. Anyone wanna take me? :)

The Thrill of the Chase...or...

First, I have to start with some random silliness. I took my daughter to Target yesterday while my mom was at the salon. I like cookies, and I like frosting, so I couldn't' resist getting a St. Patrick's Day cookie cake. However, it didn't have enough frosting, and I realize it was missing something else. So I fixed it.

Why? Because I can...

Okay, so now onto my topic today. The Title Of Forrest's Memoir. The Thrill of the Chase: A Memoir. The way I see it, the title serves a purpose, and here is my reasoning behind a few theories.

The first theory is the title is meant to be The Thrill of the Chase: A Memoir. But, what is Forrest chasing, if this is a memoir? Usually, this phrase pertains to the chase of women, or prey.

We all know that Forrest is a bit of a romantic, but his memoir says he clearly found his princess, his royal lady, his best friend. So, it's clearly not about chasing women or even chasing Peggy. It seems like Peggy recognized Forrest's qualities, and there is no mention of a chase in that context of the title.

Then, there are theories that"chase" means metalwork, or bronze, or the lost wax process of bronze-making. But his doesn't really fit in with a couple keep words: A Memoir. Yes, creating bronze sculptures has been a big, rewarding part of Forrest's life, and I would love to have Forrest show me how to make my very own bronze piece like he did with 23kachinas. Maybe one day, he will, but I will never impose on him to satisfy my own selfish desires.

The point is, chasing bronze or metalsmithing doesn't really fit the title, just because it is a memoir. Although, I am extremely interested where this large bronze call "The Babysitter" is located. Anyone know? Forrest?

So, what is Forrest chasing?

In my opinion, the title has a little word play involved. Just like Forrest points out that a butterfly is really a flutterby. In the context of the book, I think the title is meant as a hint in itself--The Chase of the Thrill: A Memoir.

The book is chock full of Forrest in thrilling situations, testing the limits, and pushing the edges. He seems to love that adrenaline rush that those of us who do and dare share.

He ran across desks at school. He was shot down twice. He might not have wanted to be shot down, but you can bet those experiences were thrilling to him, if not in a good way. He ditched school by sneaking out the school window. He ventured into the unknown, with Donnie, with later friends, and probably often by himself. Even when he lingered with Skippy after bedtime, we see the pushing of limits. He's handled live mortar rounds when exploring with his friend. He's sat in graveyards alone at night. He's slipped out his window at night, edging as close as possible to watch the gypsies dance.

He's a thrill chaser. Jamie and I have some theories regarding those thrill chasing activities, but those are secret.

I'm not quite sure what the real meaning is, but I'm thinking it may be a combination of bronze and chasing the thrill.

I also think I know how bronze relates to the chase specifically, but that's a secret. :)

Sorry for any grammar or unorganized thoughts today--it's too early on Sunday to have the energy to go over this with a fine tooth comb.

Keeping with the theme...

I didn't really have a topic for today. My mom is facing some heavy health news on Tuesday, and as much as I think she's been a raving hypochondriac in the past, I fear this time, it really is serious. But, I've always believed you shouldn't worry until you have something to worry about, and although sometimes that is impossible, I do try to hold to that.

So, today I decided to keep with the theme of yesterday. Today I'm going to talk about dreams.

This little kid had a lot of vivid dreams as a kid and young adult:

I remember my dad asking me every once in a while if I dreamed about "wed wobsters." Apparently, I'd had a dream about these large red lobsters that was "a little bit good and a little bit bad." I wonder sometimes about that dream, and how old I was when I had it, and why it was both good and bad. Maybe the dream started off with a lobster like this:

And ended like this:

This could happen.

When I was younger, I had two recurring dreams that weren't both good and bad. They were all bad, and would usually happen when I was stressed. One theme was tornadoes. Not just one tornado, but multiple tornadoes, all heading straight toward where I was. The tornado dreams persisted into young adulthood, and pretty much ended soon after I had my third child, J. I guess it took me that long to realize that sometimes there are things that will be out of my control, and the best is all I can do. 

Some of the tornado dreams would happen when the kids were very young--these were the worst. There would be 7 or 8 tornadoes barreling towards me, and I would realize the kids were somewhere else, and I had to find them and get them to safety before these monsters were on top of us. Those dreams were probably the most anxiety-filled I've ever had.

Multiply times 2 or 3 and you have my dreams.

 Another recurring stress dream theme was snakes. As a kid, I actually liked snakes and would seek them out. However, these dreams featured LOTS and LOTS of angry rattlesnakes, usually littering a path that I HAD to take. 

I had one dream that came true. I was probably in 5th grade, and I dreamed I was spinning around in a circle holding something. I was with my best friend, and all of a sudden, we were running away. A few months later, my friend and I were walking home from a Majik Market. I had a snow cone, and I had already slurped out all the juice (except for the yellow, which I didn't like). So I started spinning around in circles, and I squeezed the bottom of the cone, and the chunk of ice went flying. Well, it smacked an older lady watering her lawn in the head. My friend and I took off, and as I was running, I remembered the dream.

This is Florida (sorry for the stock photo)

Now that I'm older and hopefully wiser, I have a lot of dreams about my dad and grandparents who have passed away. In all the dreams, they're healthy, happy, and encouraging. In many of those dreams, they drive convertibles, and there's sunshine. I always wake up from these dreams with a safe, happy feeling. 

It's usually a convertible similar to this:

The following are a couple of pictures of my grandfather, Leland Greenwood. He was my hero, and if he picked favorites, I was his. We spent a lot of time together, and he had a contagious laugh and an eternally happy demeanor. I miss him SO much. I didn't get to say goodbye before he died, but we didn't need to, because we still talk and laugh in my dreams:

He loved pancakes in WWII. :)

 

Other happy dreams are of surfing. There's something about being in the ocean on a hot day, with salty sea perfume in my hair, the sun tingling the beads of water on my skin, and the rush of adrenaline and pure joy my soul feels when catching that perfect wave. 

I do have pics of me surfing, but its too early in the morning to find them. Lol.

And yes, I have had dreams of actually finding Forrest Fenn's treasure. :)

So, what are dreams, and why do we have them? I don't believe every single dream you have has some hidden or veiled meaning. But recurring bad dreams in times of stress are another matter. I think the tornadoes and the snakes symbolize a feeling of a loss of control. I'm not sure why my dead relatives drive convertibles in the sunshine, but I suspect it's because they are now free from illness and stress and the drudgery of life. The convertible in the sunshine symbolizes ultimate freedom. 

And maybe the surfing dreams are a kind of comfort, and a feeling of being content, and in harmony with nature without corrupting it.

Anyway, it's time to get ready for work. Happy Friday the 13th!

Are we the only ones who take up space?

Have you ever wondered about the world around us? About the world we can't see? I don't want to wax too philosophical or metaphysical, but I have always believed there is a world in motion all around us that is invisible to our pathetic human eyesight.

So, are there places that emit positive energy? Yes, I believe so. I don't especially feel this energy much anymore, but now that I'm "tuning in" and gradually making my thoughts more peaceful, I'm remembering some special places where I've felt an unusual amount of positive energy.

One of these places was our home in Albuquerque, NM. The house was open, cheerful, where the neighborhood kids would often walk in without knocking. The house had an overall warm feeling, even though there was some discord starting between me and my husband at the time. He wasn't there often; he would work late, travel often, and spend his weekends at the gym. The whole area around the base of Sandia Mountain had that watermelon-y feeling.

Rainbow in over our neighborhood in the Sandia Foothills.

I remember riding my bike through the foothills every day. It was a difficult ride, but I wouldn't miss a day, even if it was pushing 105 degrees outside. In the Spring, there was color and life everywhere. And in the evenings, I could stand on my balcony and see all the lights of Albuquerque spread out far below. The light on the side of Sandia at certain times of the day inspired a lot of poetry. It was bright, and seemed to highlight every tree and shrub in an ethereal glow.

It was magical.

The kids strike a pose on a Sandia trail.

Add this time a million plus a million other colors for Albuquerque in Springtime.

Going back further, I remember a similar place near my old home in Merritt Island, FL. Us neighborhood kids would play in the "swamp," which was, literally, a swamp. There were trails that wound through the boggy woods to suddenly open at the shore of the Banana River. In that wilderness (our street was among the first neighborhoods built on the ancient Ais Indian treading grounds), Australian Pines would stretch to the sky, and back in there, among them, the breeze was always blowing, making a gentle whooshing sound through the pine needles. Some of these trees I could climb, and I would often go back there alone (can't do that nowadays!), climb a tree, and let my imagination wander. It was the most peaceful place I can ever remember, even when the bull alligators in the scattered ponds were "roaring" with their noses under water, blowing bubbles to attract a mate.

Not my pic, but this is sort of how it was, but the trees were closer together.

Places like these would be pocketed around the trails. I don't know who made the trails.

If I close my eyes, I can remember how it felt to step on the layer of dead pine needles blanketing the ground. I can smell the scent of the pines. I can feel the breeze on my skin. I can hear those alligators, hear the wind in the trees, the crickets at twilight, the cicadas on summer evenings. One thing I tried not to hear was the sound of my feet crunching the pine needles as I entered and exited the area. I had read about how silently Indians moved through the forest by walking a certain way, more on the sides of their feet. I smile as I remember trying to be as quiet as possible, walking as the Indians did. I wonder if my subconscious had picked up the energy of the sacred place, and somehow knew that there had been Indians there long before me (at the time, I didn't know the history of the area, and did not know about the former Indian population along the banks of the Indian and Banana Rivers, where my brand new neighborhood carved a path between them).

The Ais were fierce and warlike, and did not like the Spanish AT ALL.

Anyway, maybe there is energy of the Earth all around us, still shining like beacons for those who have the eyes to see.