little-grandfather

meditake

Kadia tapped her fingers on the side of her cup gently.
It has been the hardest news to break to her father but it needed to be done.
It wouldn’t be long until it would should.

“I..I’m pregnant, dad. Your going to be a grandfather.”

Silence stretched between them as her words echoed in his head. Pregnant, grandfather. His little girl was pregnant and he was going to be a grandfather. If he was surprised, it didn’t show in his expression which remained as level as ever. His fingers still wrapped around his cup, steam rising steadily from the warm tea.

“Who’s the father?”

279 Years

“Two hundred seventy nine years,”
they boast, collectively
Three long lives, so much seen
History in human form
Ninety three they may be, but here, reunited
the good ol’ days don’t seem that far away
and I can see them now in their prime
college boys in the 40s
getting Cs in class but excelling in fun
football and road trips
chasing pretty girls with red lips and soft curls
(but don’t bring them to your room –
the house mother won’t like that)
The town a little smaller then
life a little simpler
Their backs a little straighter
their hair not yet gray
But as the young are wont to do
They grew up and fought wars
found wives and worked hard
taught their boys to be men
lost peers, lost friends, lost loves
So they meet again
year after year in this place
where the good ol’ days
don’t seem that far away
They tell the same stories
in well worn voices
about the same dear old friends
(“What was his name? George?”
“No! It was Bill!”
“Well, whatever his name was…”)
the ones that remind them
that once they were young
and they laugh like they are still young
teasing the one who forgot his hearing aids
for always missing the jokes
so the jokes get repeated
and laughed at again
Once, they were living a beginning
while the end of their stories
seemed so far away
and for them, it was
for that they are grateful
They know this won’t last
all that much longer
Cancer has come to call on one
and soon, they realize
their trio will become a duo
and those stories they tell will be held
by only two dear old friends
with one hundred eighty six years of life,
Collectively

“My father and mother both mated outside our home when he already had a mate and a family. They lied about each other when they  came back but it was easy to tell they had feelings for each other. My mother left for a little while and came back to me when I was a little kid. My grandfather found out about my mother and how I came to be. I was born out of, what humans call ‘wedlock’ and against my grandfather’s wishes. That doesn’t look good on a soon-to-be-chief of a large tribe since I am reminder of their affair. Long story short - my mother left, my father had to wait longer to be chief.”

silentgirlspeaksout asked:

What do you think of the theory that the Maesters used Greyscale to kill the dragons? I vaguely remember reading something about it somewhere, but I can't find it now...

…it’s an idea, but not one there’s any proof for? This is what we know of the death of the dragons:

Dunk had heard the story half a hundred times, how Ser Arlan had been just a little boy when his grandfather had taken him to King’s Landing, and how they’d seen the last dragon there the year before it died. She’d been a green female, small and stunted, her wings withered. None of her eggs had ever hatched. “Some say King Aegon poisoned her,” the old man would tell. “The third Aegon that would be, not King Daeron’s father, but the one they named Dragonbane, or Aegon the Unlucky. He was afraid of dragons, for he’d seen his uncle’s beast devour his own mother.”

The Hedge Knight

Yet together, Aegon and Viserys ably dealt with the remaining turmoil in the realm. […] They even attempted to restore the Targaryen dragons, despite Aegon’s fears—for which none could blame him after witnessing his mother being eaten alive. He dreaded the sight of dragons—and had even less desire to ride upon one—but he was convinced that they would cow those who sought to oppose him. At Viserys’s suggestion, he sent away for nine mages from Essos, attempting to use their arts to kindle a clutch of eggs. This proved both a debacle and a failure.
There were four dragons still living at the start of his reign—Silverwing, Morning, Sheepstealer, and the Cannibal. Yet Aegon III will always be remembered as the Dragonbane, for the last Targaryen dragon died during his reign in the year 153 AC.

The World of Ice and Fire

There were nineteen skulls. The oldest was more than three thousand years old; the youngest a mere century and a half. The most recent were also the smallest; a matched pair no bigger than mastiff’s skulls, and oddly misshapen, all that remained of the last two hatchlings born on Dragonstone. They were the last of the Targaryen dragons, perhaps the last dragons anywhere, and they had not lived very long.

–AGOT, Tyrion II

Archmaester Marwyn shrugged. “Perhaps it’s good that he died before he got to Oldtown. Elsewise the grey sheep might have had to kill him, and that would have made the poor old dears wring their wrinkled hands.”
“Kill him?” Sam said, shocked. “Why?”
“If I tell you, they may need to kill you too.” Marywn smiled a ghastly smile, the juice of the sourleaf running red between his teeth. “Who do you think killed all the dragons the last time around? Gallant dragonslayers armed with swords?“ He spat. “The world the Citadel is building has no place in it for sorcery or prophecy or glass candles, much less for dragons.”

–AFFC, Samwell V

Now, greyscale has very obvious symptoms. The skin breaks out in flaky stone patches that become harder, until the extremities turn to stone, causing paralysis. If the face and eyes are attacked by the disease, blindness results. Eventually internal organs also turn to stone, leading to death. (Sometimes internal organs are affected first, a more silent process but just as deadly.)

So do you see any reports of dragons becoming stone here? Any collections of stone dragon hearts and lungs or limbs? No. Just stunted growth, withered wings, misshapen skulls, eggs that never hatched or hatchlings that died quickly. That sounds like poison to me, not biological warfare. Also I’m pretty damn sure no maester would ever try to weaponize greyscale, since getting it wrong could kill the experimenter or perhaps three-quarters of his city.

(Now there are theories that the stone dragon towers of Dragonstone are actually dragons who died of greyscale long before the Doom of Valyria, unrelated to the maesters wiping out the dragons in Aegon III’s time – but that falls down if you think about it even a little, besides the fact that the towers are more than 10 times the size of Balerion… since y’know when animals are suffering and dying they don’t freaking pose. And there’s more than stone dragons at Dragonstone, there’s twelve-foot-high dogs and wyverns and all kinds of gargoyles. The “Azor Ahai will wake dragons from stone” prophecy refers to Dany and her dragon eggs. Melisandre is full of crap.)

Sinnoh Player character - Dawn

If the player chooses Lucas, she will become Rowan’s assistant for the game. Dawn lives in Sandgem Town with her little sister, grandfather, and father—who works as an assistant of Professor Rowan. She is already the Professor’s assistant at the beginning of the game. She also demonstrates to the player how to capture Pokémon by capturing a wild Bidoof.

nonbinarytentoo asked:

[The climbing into bed with yours meme]

Susan blinked a few times when she felt the weight on her bed shift, and she rolled over a little. “- Mn? Grandfather?” she asked softly, shifting to face them. “What’re you doing– are you okay?”

Why is everyone already assuming that Shermy is the baby, especially when the math has been done and doesn’t fit into the timeline?

I mean, let’s face it. Shermy is most definitely Dipper’s and Mabel’s grandfather, thus making the Stans their Grunkles–great uncles, or the brothers of the grandfather (people are somehow having trouble understanding this so I feel the need to include this). Shermy can either be the Stan’s older brother or younger brother. Because the only other family we’ve seen is the baby Mama pines was carrying, yes, we could assume maybe that is Shermy. However, as I’ve already explained in this post, it is HIGHLY unlikely that Shermy could be that young, which leaves us with the idea that Shermy may be an older brother.

RIP: E.L. Doctorow, author of ‘Ragtime’

E. L. Doctorow, a leading figure in contemporary American letters whose popular, critically admired and award-winning novels — including “Ragtime,” “Billy Bathgate” and “The March” — situated fictional characters in recognizable historical contexts, among identifiable historical figures and often within unconventional narrative forms, died on Tuesday in Manhattan. He was 84 and lived in Manhattan and Sag Harbor, N.Y.

From a review of Ragtime:

At the very center of “Ragtime,” knitting the historical threads together, are two fictional families–one composed of Father, Mother, The Little Boy, Grandfather and Mother’s Younger Brother; the other composed of Mameh, Tateh and The Little girl. (I’ve already referred to the third fictional family that is instrumental to the plot of “Ragtime”– Coalhouse Walker Jr., his fiancée and their illegitimate baby.) The nameless narrator of “Ragtime” addresses us as if these were the forebears of us all. So it seems, reading “Ragtime,” as if we were experiencing the intimacies of our historical heritage, as if we were watching home newsreels of our ancestors. The living room has become a penny arcade full of nickelodeons showing herky-jerky sepia images animated crazily by Mr. Doctorow’s blunt declarative sentences. And from the quadriphonic speakers of his technical facility comes the tinny sound of ragtime by Scott Joplin–lazy energy, controlled frenzy.

The shop has things from perhaps even’ point in American history. A
display of iPods and other little gadgets from his grandfather’s time cover an old chrome-rimmed dinner table. An old movie plays on an antique plasma-screen TV. The movie shows a crazy vision of a future that never came, with flying cars and a white-haired scientist.
— 

Back To The Future is a classic in that world, guys

So how old is this “grandfather”? How far into the future is this series?

Read Here►

Miel Hamato

•Name: Miel Hamato
•Age:14 years
•Fathers:Raph and Mikey
•Afiliattes:Mirko Hamato(little brother) ,Splinter(Grandfather),Leo(Uncle) ,Donnie(Uncle),Karai(Aunt),April( Aunt(?) , Dolly Hamato(Cousin) ,Albert Hamato(cousin)
•Weapon : Tonfa

She is aggressive like his father, almost always fight with Dolly, because she thinks she’s the favorite, always has a mischievous smile
She hates Dolly, and rarely teams up with her , admires Karai


Mirko Hamato:

•Name:Mirko Hamato
•Age:5 Years
•Fathers:Raph and Mikey
•Afiliattes: Miel Hamato(Sister) ,Splinter(Grandfather),Leo(Uncle) ,Donnie(Uncle),Karai(Aunt),April( Aunt(?) , Dolly Hamato(Cousin) ,Albert Hamato(cousin)
•Weapon : ——–

He is sweet and naughty, very naughty and restless fact, always following Albert because he admires how smart
He does not want to be a ninja, just want to be calm and have fun, have a squirrel as a pet

http://mariela-hb-neko.deviantart.com/art/Miel-Mirko-Raph-and-Mikey-s-sons-545303876

Book of the Week

Heidi by Johanna Spyri

“What happens when a little orphan girl is forced to live with her cold and frightening grandfather? The heartwarming answer has engaged children for more than a century, both on the page and on the screen. Johanna Spyri’s beloved story offers youngsters an endearing and intelligent heroine, a cast of unique and memorable characters, and a fascinating portrait of a small Alpine village.”

Book One in the Heidi Series

Adapted to TV

Adapted to Mini Series

Adapted to Films

Adapted to Plays

When I was a little boy, my grandfather had a small but enchanting collection of strange and wonderful objects: mechanical banks, Toby jugs, even a Hogarth print or two. The one object that always captured my attention was a pair of vintage Charles LeMaire opera glasses, which he kept in an old leather case. Apparently, my great-grandmother Gertrude used them to watch birds from her kitchen window. 

These opera glasses, which I like to call my “Desjumelles,” contain numerous mysteries, the most prominent of which is a thumbprint, seemingly etched upon the “bridge” [or rather, the space between the two lenses where the upper and lower sections are connected]. One eye is slightly higher than the other, so that the two sections of the instrument can never seamlessly connect, as if created as a prototype, or a special commission; This suited my own personal viewing practices, as I seem to have inherited an errant mutation from some godforsaken ancestor, meaning that one eye is just a tiny bit higher than the other, causing a perpetual slippage of the gaze. 

In order to open the case, one must unlock a golden clasp, upon which is engraved what appears to be an image of Baphomet: a vertically oriented goat with elaborate filigrees emerging from the head, as if to signify horns. 

It wasn’t until very recently that I realized this claps actually conveyed the personal seal of J. S. Bach, although by the time I made the connection, it was too late: the special relationship had been severed, the bomb was in position, and the jump codes had already been lost. 

As it turns out, a pair of opera glasses is a terrible place to hide reality - vision betrays narrative, revealing the word in the moment of its dislocation from the real. 

Missing You extra amounts today.

(not thinking, just feeling)

I wonder what my Opa would say now, if I was sitting with him in his old house’s lounge on a Saturday morning (the usual time being around 9am, before we headed off to Gateway so we missed the human traffic that occurred on the weekend), while watching some Austrian movie (always far too loud), and asked him his views on death.
I wonder what he would say if he knew how scared I was. If I told him this still keeps me up at night.
I wonder if he would still be wearing his favourite jersey with his favourite Adidas slops and his favourite sweatpants everyday.
“You need new clothes, Opi.” We’d say, while chuckling at our little old grandfather/father who didn’t seem to change his clothes. Ever.
Oh but don’t forget how smartly you’d clean up for the formal functions, my Opi. You were so handsome.
I miss you, Opa. I wish I wasn’t so selfish and didn’t allow my stupid fucking eating disorder to come in between me and my family. Goddammit Opi godfuckingdammit I wish I spent more time with you near the end. I needed more time with you, you were so wise and now your wife is in need of you. Your support. Your love. Your dearest ‘mousey’ is struggling with her tummy and having to sleep in a single bed. Alone.
I wish we could give her the comfort you could. But nothing replaces a human one commits ones life to.
I am so sorry I could never ask you the deeper questions. I would so LOVE to hear what you had to say. I am so sorry you only knew me from baby to selfish teen stage.
Oh, Opi. I have grown so much. If you were to see me now - You’d be so proud. I have changed so much. My morals and level-headedness has somewhat returned (hey, I’m only human) and this week, I did a little reevaluation regarding my life and my studies. I have new goals, high goals, goals you KNEW I was capable of.
You always told me: “You’re never going to have a problem (Well, listen. Between me and you, I know what this was about. You were a bit wrong about this but it’s okay. It’s okay.) You’re a very, very smart young lady.”
I am thinking of you too much lately. My heart is hurting now. I wish we were 10 minutes earlier in getting to the hospital. To have held your hand before you passed to your next (eternal) life - I would’ve given anything.

I love you so much (Didn’t tell you this enough. You should see how often I tell everyone I love now, that I love them! Especially Andrea (pronounced in your little Austrian accent). God, Opi. You would’ve loved my boyfriend. I’m going to marry him, Opi. I wish you’d met him. He is so intellectual and inspiring. He’s my muse. His passion is contagious.
I’m crying now.
It really stings, realizing wishes are just wishes and my hope of all aforementioned longings, will not extend beyond the hope stage.

My children will know about you one day.
Your accordion, your ability to play the piano (teaching me chopsticks (haha)), the guitar, the harmonica, those WEIRD Austrian instruments that I love so much. The list goes on. Your experience in this world was amazing. I am grateful you were privileged enough to see so much of the world.

Play nice upstairs, no flirting with the ladies, as I know you did best. (We joked around about this for years). Your game changer is still with us (THANK GOD) and looks forward to joining you for the rest of your lives. You two fought hard, but loved harder.

I aspire to have my own ‘mousey’. (Hi Kylie, I think we’ve made it x)

I love you. I miss you. Thank you for a wonderful 16 years of my life.
Goodnight, sleep peacefully. I’ll see you on the other side my darling Opa.

xxxxxx