I am reminded of a King Henry II quote when his young son Henry died. The King and his son were enemies. Fearing a trick, the King did not come when his son summoned him on his deathbed.
“He cost me much, but I wished he lived to cost me more” were King Henry’s regretful words. I know the feeling.
I plucked this Atkin family history from a genealogy site.
The ATKIN Family
"Family tradition - handed down through the generations and told to Arabella Drew (ATKIN) HYATT by Richard Garde ATKIN and Aunt Georgie (Georgina ATKIN).
About 1262 A.D. the King of England ( Henry III ) was very hard pressed for money to meet the demands of the Catholic Church who, without payment, would manage to take over control of England and France.
A Frenchman (de Montford ), offered to pay the church on condition that he be given control of the government until he was repaid. For several years De Montford remained in complete control, acting as ruler and collecting taxes. Henry was kept under guard, virtually as a prisoner, with no means of acquiring any cash to repay his debt.
However one day Henry succeeded in sending a trusted agent to call on loyal subjects who might be willing to help him out of his predicament.
One of these "loyal subjects" was our ancestor who gave two butter firkins (eight gallon containers) of gold and upon it's presentation, Henry knighted him Sir …. ATKIN.
Arabella's account says "I don't remember whether his name was William or Tommy or whether he made his money as a sea pirate or a land robber or whether he made it honestly, by selling butter and eggs."
Tradition has it, that the gold was hauled to the back door by a man servant in a two wheeled cart pulled by a donkey, while "our noble ancestor" rode his horse in at the front gate.
Tradition, further says that Henry gave Sir ATKIN a parchment, promising that he and his heirs should be paid an annuity annually, equal to 2% of the amount presented to the King.
Three hundred years later, in Queen Elizabeth's reign, a grant of land in Ireland was given in lieu of the annuity (980 acres, four miles from the City of Cork) at a nominal rental of six pence per acre. This was "ecclesiastical land" taken from the Catholic Church.
In 1848 one of our Richard ATKIN's brothers*(Walter) sold the lease during his life time and divided the proceeds, equally, between his nine (or ten) brothers and four sisters.”
This would be our family crest from the old world. The black rooster. I am guessing people interpret it as an eagle to be more majestic but the real symbol of the Celts is the rooster.
Celts were named after a rogue Burgmatron who’s wild and dazzling silhouette arced against the moonlight on her rearing horse as the calamity arose that tore apart the last territories of the Freyan empire.
Her name was Syred but the sailors called her Kulta because she used the forbidden magic of the Finda and Lyda priests. She took France, Britain and Spain. This happened approx. 1,560 BC. Her symbol was the rooster. Minerva’s was the owl.
reference in (Chronicles from Pre Celtic Europe)
My grief and agony over my sister’s death is compounded by the heartless and cruel world that drove her to kill herself and blame me for it.
But the truth is, she is free of the lies and torment she was forced to bear to preserve some demon curse that was handed down from my father’s father to him and then to her.
I break that curse now. I break the cycle now. No more MK Ultra; No more lies; No more cover ups; No more magic eraser paint brush over my legacy or theirs. It is over.
However, this curse seeks, as both my father and my sister did, to devour me. It sits in my heart ready to snap my lifeforce and all that I know; all that I love; all that I perceive.
We are still the guinea pigs, still the fodder used to prescribe, re prescribe and rewrite policy for the greater good, but not ours. We are still the side show for the dull scribes and monkey pox ridden rabble.
I felt the panic my sister must have felt as she came up against the impossible wall that outside life built between us. It is the panic my brother must have felt while he drowned.; Both of them knowing only of their lives unlived. My mother’s life was also unlived. My father’s was half and half. I feel like the protagonist in the Last Labour of Hercules.
My sister was trained, as my father was trained to forego her own perceptions and resonate frequency in favour of a pernicious evil that broke her spirit and his. It caused them both to do horrible and ghastly things.
It was grotesquely apparent in both of them. It was heartbreaking. It still is. It weighs like a stone anchor on my heart. We were a close family.