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DeeDeeChainey

@deedeechainey.bsky.social

Storyteller. Heritage botherer. @culturalfutureshub.bsky.social & @folklorethursday.bsky.social founder; #TreasuryOfFolklore author. #XR and #UX enthusiast. https://linktr.ee/deedeechainey 🇲🇹 🇮🇹 🇬🇧

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DeeDeeChainey@deedeechainey.bsky.social · last mo.

After the closure of The Cultural Futures Hub on Spatial this month, I'll be taking the opportunity for a short break from social media to catch up on my reading, research and creative projects! I'll see you all back here in August!

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Shanon Sinn@shanonsinn.bsky.social · 2mo ago

If a young man sees a red envelope on the ground in Taiwan he shouldn't pick it up. It could be dowry to marry someone’s deceased daughter! The subsequent ceremony prevents an unmarried woman from haunting her relatives and gives her status in the afterlife 💀 #FolkloreThursday 1952 Richard Roussos

A priest is marrying a man to a skeletal ghost bride in a graveyard. He is wearing a tuxedo, and she is in a wedding dress. Other skeleton ghosts are standing around watching the wedding take place.
Stevie Kilner@1steviekilner.bsky.social · 2mo ago

A little video I took at Cold Christmas today. I never saw anything remotely ghostly on my brief visit. But Cold Christmas certainly warrants its reputation. Just the name and history, coupled with a remote location helps lend a certain atmosphere to it. I enjoyed it though. #FolkloreThursday

Crystal Ponti@crystalponti.bsky.social · 2mo ago

The Irish Dullahan is far more terrifying than many modern Headless Horseman tales. Carrying his severed head beneath one arm, he rides across the countryside at night. When he stops and calls a name, legend says that person's death soon follows. #FolkloreThursday Art: Catherine Herold

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Association for Scottish Literature@asls.org.uk · 2mo ago

You’d know her house by the drawn blinds – by the cormorants pitched on the boundary wall, the black crosses of their wings hung out to dry… —Robin Robertson, “At Roane Head” in the @lrb.co.uk, 14 Aug 2008 #poem #poetry #FolkloreThursday www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v3...

At Roane Head Robin Robertson for John Burnside You’d know her house by the drawn blinds – by the cormorants pitched on the boundary wall, the black crosses of their wings hung out to dry. You’d tell it by the quicken and the pine that hid it from the sea and from the brief light of the sun, and by Aonghas the collie, lying at the door where he died: a rack of bones like a sprung trap. A fork of barnacle geese came over, with that slow squeak of rusty saws. The bitter sea’s complaining pull and roll; a whicker of pigeons, lifting in the wood. She’d had four sons, I knew that well enough, and each one wrong. All born blind, they say, slack-jawed and simple, web-footed, rickety as sticks. Beautiful faces, I’m told, though blank as air. Someone saw them once, outside, hirpling down to the shore, chittering like rats, and said they were fine swimmers, but I would have guessed at that. Her husband left her: said they couldn’t be his, they were more fish than human; he said they were beglamoured, and searched their skin for the showing marks.For years she tended each difficult flame: their tight, flickering bodies. Each night she closed the scales of their eyes to smoor the fire. Until he came again, that last time, thick with drink, saying he’d had enough of this, all this witchery, and made them stand in a row by their beds, twitching. Their hands flapped; herring-eyes rolled in their heads. He went along the line relaxing them one after another with a small knife. They say she goes out every night to lay blankets on the graves to keep them warm. It would put the heart across you, all that grief. There was an otter worrying in the leaves, a heron loping slow over the water when I came at scraich of day, back to her door. She’d hung four stones in a necklace, wore four rings on the hand that led me past the room with four small candles burning which she called ‘the room of rain’. Milky smoke poured up from the grate like a waterfall in reverse and she said my name, and it was the only thing and the last thing that she said. She gave me a skylark’s egg in a bed of frost; gave me twists of my four sons’ hair; gave me her husband’s head in a wooden box. Then she gave me the sealskin, and I put it on.
Association for Scottish Literature@asls.org.uk · 2mo ago

“I am a man upon the land, I am a selkie in the sea, And when I’m far and far frae land My hame is in the Sule Skerry” —The Great Selkie of Sule Skerry (traditional) 🎨: Vernon Hill, “The Great Sealchie of Sule Skerrie”, in Ballads Weird & Wonderful (1912) Happy birthday to #FolkloreThursday!

The Great Selkie of Sule Skerry Traditional An earthly nourris sits and sings And aye she sings, “Ba lilly wean, Little ken I my bairnie’s faither Far less the land that he bides in.” And up come he to her bed fit, And a grumlie guest I’m sure was he, Saying, “Here am I, thy bairnie’s faither Although I may not comely be. “I am a man upon the land, I am a selkie in the sea, And when I’m far and far frae land My hame is in the Sule Skerry.” Then he has taen a purse of gold And he has set it on her knee, Saying, “Gie to me, my ain wee son, And you accept your nourris fee. “It shall come to pass on a summer’s day When the sun shines bricht on every stane That I will tak my ain wee son And learn him how to swim the faem. “And you will marry a proud gunner, And a richt good gunner I’m sure he’ll be, And wi the first shot that e’er he fires He’ll kill baith my bonnie son and me.”
Chris Woodyard@chriswoodyard.bsky.social · 2mo ago

#FolkloreThursday For those with Second Sight, seeing a shroud on a living person was a kind of sliding scale of death: the higher the shroud on the body, the nearer the death. "When it is seen to ascend higher towards the head, death is concluded to be at hand within a few days, if not hours."

A monumental brass figure showing a woman in a shroud tied on the top of her head, hands folded in prayer, bare-footed. 1518
WillowWinsham@willowwinsham.bsky.social · 2mo ago

Burning lost teeth was encouraged in England from at least the 17th century. Why? If an animal inadvertently ate it, the new tooth would grow back as an animal one. Another belief across Europe was that witches could use an old tooth to gain power over someone. 🎨Katie Ponder #FolkloreThursday

Image from The Story of Witches by Willow Winsham, illustration by Katie Ponder. A cauldron stands in the centre with a fire burning underneath and three female witch figures around it. They have long black hair and long white robes. A golden crescent moon is sideways in above the cauldron.
Crystal Ponti@crystalponti.bsky.social · 2mo ago

The legend of the Will-o'-the-Wisp fascinates me because it is so universal. Across continents and centuries, people have reported mysterious lights leading travelers away from safety and into marshes, forests, and places they never intended to go. #FolkloreThursday Art: Hermann Hendrich

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DeeDeeChainey@deedeechainey.bsky.social · 2mo ago

Good morning, #FolkloreThursday and HAPPY 11TH BIRTHDAY! How has it been so many years?! 😍💜👏

FolkloreThursday@folklorethursday.bsky.social · 2mo ago

Happy 11th Birthday to #FolkloreThursday! Today we invite you to share your favourite #folklore with us. Folk generally know I- @folkloretodmorden.bsky.social love things with toadstools, it must stem from my favourite childhood jumper, so here are some good luck fly agaric from a favourite book…