#goodwife

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1688 – Goodwife ‘Goody’ Ann Glover is hanged in Boston, Massachusetts, accused of witchcraft.

The last woman to be hanged in Boston as a witch was Goodwife ‘Goody’ Ann Glover, an Irish laundress. This North End resident was wildly accused in 1688 of practicing witchcraft by the infamous Reverend Cotton Mather, pastor of the old North Church. Her Puritan accusers were caught up in a witch mania that was part of the rigid Puritanism of the time, attaching supernatural causes to things they…

[sprinklersart]

they should show up to kazansky family events together occasionally over the years and do fun family things like share an air mattress in the living room with ices 19 year old cousin and take a 4 hour trip to the grocery store just for milk and chainsmoke behind the shed with ice’s sister. they deserve it ❤️

[tmurray247]

Gina and Vickie

[sandushengshou]

I love booping you because it tells me I've booped sandu shengshou and I imagine Jiang Cheng rolling his eyes every time

Hahaha that's so cute. Maybe if he was booped enough he'd calm down

[sapphiccharacterstournament]

Canon Sapphic Characters Tournament Round Two (Bracket 2)

[esperhuntress]

It's my 8 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

Happy Valantines!

Happy 8 years of my OzGlyn cringe 💚💜

[deedee-sims]

Replies :)

Under the cut!

@eulaliasims replied to your post “Turtleneck Dress (a mashup) At some point an anon...”:

So cute and cozy! Thanks, Deedee!

Thank you! 🥰 Now I want to make more dresses for guys 😅

@goodwife-two-shoes replied to your post “3t2 Original Peasant Top (requested by anon) I was...”:

Oh I totally want to recolor this with Indian embroidery and her bra showing in the back

Ooooh please do, that’d look awesome!

@squeezleprime replied to your post “Flourish Gown (a mashup) Wow another gown, who...”:

it's so elegant; and a little sexy!

True, hehe, thank you!

@dmckim replied to your post “Flourish Gown (a mashup) Wow another gown, who...”:

This is so elegant, I think it could make a great nightgown as well. It reminds me of a dressing gown.

Oh yeah, I see it, hehe!

@profesionalpartyguest replied to your post “Sorry, I had to 😂”:

this is so cool looking!!! is this like a posebox? cause if so, gimme gimme

It’s just some poses I hastily threw together, they’re not refined or anything 😓

@potentialfate-sims replied to your post “Sorry, I had to 😂”:

lmaooo I love it 😂

@mdpthatsme replied to your post “Sorry, I had to 😂”:

Wonderful!

@episims replied to your post “Sorry, I had to 😂”:

Brilliant xD

It just fit them soooo well 😂

@simmer-until-tender replied to your post “Sorry, I had to 😂”:

You're a genius at posing

Hehe, thanks! (it helps to know how to make poses 😅)

@simoleontree replied to your post “Griffinmere - Round 14: Banks on my DW! In which...”:

Yaay! I was looking forward to this ^^

The school is always something to look forward to, so much chaos 😅

@9-kali-9 replied to your post “Griffinmere - Round 14: Banks on my DW! In which...”:

My oh my DeeDee, this is such a nice Legacy. I was not watching through the whole site, but what i've seen until now is very nice. :o)

I’m glad you enjoy it! 😊

@eulaliasims replied to your post “3t2 Dressed Up And Down (requested by anon) Can’t...”:

Very stylish! I like the darker lapels, too, it's a nice detail. :)

Phew, thank you! 😅

[omgeddon]

[homunculus-argument]

There were probably some medieval asexuals that were absolutely insufferable on their moral high horse about it. Like "this modesty shit easy - I haven't lusted over any man ever in my life and only fuck my husband out of duty from God and only so that we have children. I am so much better than any of you hoes."

And some other local goodwife would get sick of this and go "well obviously you don't have time for cock, Maergaret, since you're always too fucking busy choking on your own vanity and pride!" and have a smackfight that progresses into a full-on two-woman brawl in the town square. People gather around to watch this until a clergyman shows up to remind everyone that not only is this kind of brawl between good christians definitely a sin, it's also a sin for everyone who's watching to place bets on who's going to win.

[feliskatus]

They made a knockoff of 'The Goodwife' in Hindi y'all

Starring Kajol

[alfrungrima]

Telling the bees

The custom of "telling the bees" is a charming and ancient tradition where beekeepers inform their bees about significant events in their lives, such as deaths, births, marriages, and other major occurrences. This practice is believed to have its roots in Celtic mythology, where bees were seen as messengers between the human world and the spirit world. The presence of a bee after a death was thought to signify the soul leaving the body. The tradition became particularly prominent in the 18th and 19th centuries in Western Europe and the United States.

To tell the bees, the head of the household or the "goodwife" would approach the hives, gently knock to get the bees' attention, and then softly murmur the news in a solemn tone. This ritual was believed to keep the bees informed and prevent them from leaving the hive or dying. The custom underscores the deep connection and respect that people historically had for bees, viewing them as integral members of the household and community. (The Historian's Den)

I can easily see how you can turn this in a magical tradition with some little adaptation: plant flowers and plants for bees in your garden, invoke the spirit of the bees, keep bee-telling to the bee-spirits and take care for the plants. I am sure that one day the spirit of the bees will be your ally and that you will learn from it. And a big plus: you are helping the bees to survive in a world full of mono-cultures and poisons. Witchcraft and care-taking for your environment can go hand in hand if you wish to.

[esperhuntress]

Thank you, Kay 💜💚 Happy Valantines to Beacon mom and dad 🥰

happy Valentines!

here some OzGlyn commission for @esperhuntress

many kisses and hugs for everyone on these dates !!

[lanwangjihouse]

comment / tag of the week:

Lan Zhan, can I punch him? #you may ✳ @fishwink Not if I punch him first @ranfused4ever #lan zhan's thinking “yes” but propriety doesn't allow him to say it out loud ✳ @peanutbutter-nutella #Oh to be lwj here 〰 Stuck between 'no you idiot you're gonna start a war and we barely survived this one's 〰 And 'yes beloved that'd be so hot actually while you're at it summon the dead so I can ask you to move in with me again' 〰 God which one to choose ✳ @rosesapphire2323 Xiao Zhan played this bit beautifully with the subtle shift of annoyance to ‘do you want to die, then be resurrected so I can kill you again?’ ✳ @starrie-amethyst that guy in the background between wy and lz looks like he wants in on it too @goodwife-two-shoes

[dualdeixis]

[Image description: Two digital drawings. The first features Temenos Mistral and Aelfric in a medieval-style composition. The second features Kaldena and Temenos posing together in a study. There are full descriptions of both drawings under the cut. End image description.]

godsbride / goodwife

happy birthday @maverickflare <3

[Image description: In the first drawing, Aelfric sits on his stone pedestal outside the Flamechurch Cathedral at night. He wears a flowing white dress, a black long-sleeved undergarment, and a teal cloak. He also wears a gold belt and bracelet, and the medallion on his cloak depicts the Sacred Flame. His face is almost entirely eclipsed by a shining white halo; only the outlines of his narrowed eye, lofty smile, and long, curly hair can be seen. In one of his hands burns a blue flame, while the other hand cradles Temenos Mistral's face. Temenos looks up at Aelfric with an expression of dread and reverence, sweat beading on his cheek. The illustration has a border of gold and lapis lazuli that includes medallions at its corners and midpoints, which depict various other characters. At the top center is Crick Wellsley, holding up a red book so that it covers the lower half of his face; he looks directly at the viewer with a shadow over his eyes. On either side of him, as well as at the bottom center, are three angels with shackles around their necks. They smile placidly and hold their hands up in supplication as they gaze at Crick. At the middle left is Pontiff Jörg, looking tiredly off to the side. At the middle right is Roi Mistral, looking downwards with a troubled expression. All of them are drawn with blue haloes. The bottom left medallion shows Aelfric's hand reaching around Temenos's neck; his eyes are hidden, his face is flushed, and his mouth is slightly open. The bottom right medallion is shattered. Between each medallion, a poem is written in Orsterran script and framed by arabesques. The red background beyond the border, decorated with eight black, winged, haloed Sacred Flames, completes the poem. It reads: "THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a devouring fire / THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a destroying angel / THE FACE OF MY LORD / disturbs slumberers in the night / THE FACE OF MY LORD / menaces children at church / THE FACE OF MY LORD / does not appear / THE FACE OF MY LORD / cannot appear / THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a wreath of tears / THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a broken mirror"

In the second drawing, Kalenda sits at a desk in an intricately carved wooden chair. She wears a plum-purple tailcoat, wine-red waistcoat with a dotted pattern, black trousers, and a white shirt with ruffles at the wrist and a black ribbon at the collar. On her left hand, she wears three silver rings; on her right hand, she wears a gold ring on her ring finger. A flower-decorated bowl holding a pomegranate, plum, and grapes sits on her desk. In her right hand is a lychee. Temenos stands behind her, bracing his left hand on the chair and resting the other playfully on Kaldena's head, seemingly reaching for the lychee. He wears a white shirt, black waistcoat, yellow-green waistscarf, and teal trousers which are heavily embroidered with nature imagery. He also wears a pearl earring; a matching gold ring on his right ring finger; and a gold necklace with a pendant of Crick, who is haloed and holding his right hand up in a gesture of blessing. Kaldena and Temenos are both looking at the viewer and smiling. The simplistic background shows an entrance to another room as well as a tall bookcase, with the top shelf holding a vase and two figurines of a griffin and winged serpent. End image description.]

[agentumbls]

In fairness we also have way better drugs now

Actually you know what? If you exposed people in the past, like a medieval peasant, to cultural artifacts from today, it wouldn't be the toys or the food that completely bamboozles them!

Our media has been evolving ever since we could communicate at the speed of light.

Right now we have the equivalent of a peasant's immune system when it comes to memetic contagion, ensuring only the most virulent of behavior-altering ideologies get perpetuated. Facebook alone is like some kind of algorithmically generated cesspool of plague split-level brainrot and you think Goodwife Fletcher isn't going to immediately become convinced the Antipope is Robert Kennedy Jr. or something?

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 2 EPISODE 10 || PRESTONPANS ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

The air in the cottage was warm and noisy with breathing; not the healthy racket of snoring men, but the shallow gasps of men for whom breathing hurts, and the moans of those who have found a temporary oblivion that frees them from the manly obligation of suffering in silence. The men in this cottage were those badly wounded, but in no immediate danger. I knew, though, that death walks at night in the aisles of a sick ward, searching for those whose defenses are lowered, who may stray unwittingly into its path through loneliness and fear. Some of the wounded had wives who slept next to them, to comfort them in the dark, but none in this cottage. They had me. If I could do little to heal them or stop their pain, I could at least let them know that they didn’t lie alone; that someone stood here, between them and the shadow. Beyond anything I could do, it was my job only to be there. I rose and made my way slowly once again through the pallets on the floor, stooping at each one, murmuring and touching, straightening a blanket, smoothing tangled hair, rubbing the knots that form in cramped limbs. A sip of water here, a change of dressing there, the reading of an attitude of tense embarrassment that meant a urinal was needed, and the matter-of-fact presentation that allowed the man to ease himself, the stone bottle growing warm and heavy in my hand. I stepped outdoors to empty one of these, and paused for a moment, gathering the cool, rainy night to myself, letting the soft moisture wipe away the touch of coarse, hairy skin and the smell of sweating men. “Ye dinna sleep much, Sassenach.” The soft Scottish voice came from the direction of the road. The other hospital cottages lay in that direction; the officers’ quarters, the other way, in the village manse. “You dinna sleep much, either,” I responded dryly. How long had he gone without sleep? I wondered. “I slept in the field last night, with the men.” “Oh, yes? Very restful,” I said, with an edge that made him laugh. Six hours’ sleep in a wet field, followed by a battle in which he’d been stepped on by a horse, wounded by a sword, and done God knows what else. Then he had gathered his men, collected the wounded, tended the hurt, mourned his dead, and served his Prince. And through none of it had I seen him pause for food, drink, or rest.

I didn’t bother scolding. It wasn’t even worth mentioning that he ought to have been among the patients on the floor. It was his job to be here, as well.

“There are other women, Sassenach,” he said gently. “Shall I have Archie Cameron send someone down?” It was a temptation, but one I pushed away before I could think about it too long, for fear that if I acknowledged my fatigue, I would never move again. I stretched, hands against the small of my back.

“No,” I said. “I’ll manage ’til the dawn. Then someone else can take over for a time.” Somehow I felt that I must get them through the night; at dawn they would be safe.

He didn’t scold, either; just laid a hand on my shoulder and drew me to lean against him for a moment. We shared what strength we had, unspeaking. “I’ll stay with ye, then,” he said, drawing away at last. “I canna sleep before light, myself.” “The other men from Lallybroch?” He moved his head toward the fields near the town where the army was camped. “Murtagh’s in charge.” “Oh, well, then. Nothing to worry about,” I said, and saw him smile in the light from the window. There was a bench outside the cottage, where the goodwife would sit on sunny days to clean fish or mend clothes. I drew him down to sit beside me, and he sagged back against the wall of the house with a sigh. His patent exhaustion reminded me of Fergus, and the boy’s expression of confused bewilderment after the battle. I reached to caress the back of Jamie’s neck, and he turned his head blindly toward me, resting his brow against my own. “How was it, Jamie?” I asked softly, fingers rubbing hard and slow over the tight-ridged muscles of his neck and shoulders. “What was it like? Tell me.” There was a short silence, then he sighed, and began to talk, haltingly at first, and then faster, as if wanting to get it out. “We had no fire, for Lord George thought we must move off the ridge before daylight, and wanted no hint of movement to be seen below. We sat in the dark for a time. Couldna even talk, for the sound would carry to the plain. So we sat. “Then I felt something grab my thigh in the dark, and near jumped out of my skin.” He inserted a finger in his mouth and rubbed gingerly. “Nearly bit my tongue off.” I felt the shift of his muscles as he smiled, though his face was hidden. “Fergus?” The ghost of a laugh floated through the dark.

“Aye, Fergus. Crawled through the grass on his belly, the little bastard, and I thought he was a snake, at that. He whispered to me about Anderson, and I crawled off after him and took Anderson to see Lord George.” His voice was slow and dreamy, talking under the spell of my touch. “And then the order came that we’d move, following Anderson’s trail. And the whole of the army got to its feet, and set off in the dark.” The night was clear black and moonless, without the usual cover of cloud that trapped starlight and diffused it toward the earth. As the Highland army made its way in silence down the narrow path behind Richard Anderson, each man could see no farther than the shuffling heels of the man before him, each step widening the trodden path through wet grass. The army moved almost without noise. Orders were relayed in murmurs from man to man, not shouted. Broadswords and axes were muffled in the folds of their plaids, powder flasks tucked inside shirts against fast-beating hearts. Once on sound footing, still in total silence, the Highlanders sat down, made themselves as comfortable as was possible without fire, ate what cold rations there were, and composed themselves to rest, wrapped in their plaids, in sight of the enemy’s campfires. “We could hear them talking,” Jamie said. His eyes were closed, hands clasped behind his head, as he leaned against the cottage wall. “Odd, to hear men laughing over a jest, or asking for a pinch of salt or a turn at the wineskin—and know that in a few hours, ye may kill them—or them you. Ye can’t help wondering, ye ken; what does the face behind that voice look like? Will you know the fellow if ye meet him in the morning?” Still, the tremors of anticipated battle were no match for sheer fatigue, and the “Black Frasers”—so called for the traces of charcoal that still adorned their features—and their chief had been awake for more than thirty-six hours by then. He had picked a sheaf of marrow-grass for a pillow, tucked the plaid around his shoulders, and lain down in the waving grass beside his men. During his time with the French army, years before, one of the sergeants had explained to the younger mercenaries the trick of falling asleep the night before a battle. “Make yourself comfortable, examine your conscience, and make a good Act of Contrition. Father Hugo says that in time of war, even if there is no priest to shrive you, your sins can be forgiven this way. Since you cannot commit sins while asleep—not even you, Simenon!—you will awake in a state of grace, ready to fall on the bastards. And with nothing to look forward to but victory or heaven—how can you be afraid?”

While privately noting a few flaws in this argument, Jamie had found it still good advice; freeing the conscience eased the soul, and the comforting repetition of prayer distracted the mind from fearful imaginings and lulled it toward sleep. He gazed upward into the black vault of the sky, and willed the tightness of neck and shoulders to relax into the ground’s hard embrace. The stars were faint and hazy tonight, no match for the nearby glow of the English fires. His mind reached out to the men around him, resting briefly on each, one by one. The stain of sin was small weight on his conscience, compared with these. Ross, McMurdo, Kincaid, Kent, McClure … he paused to give brief thanks that his wife and the boy Fergus at least were safe. His mind lingered on his wife, wanting to bask in the memory of her reassuring smile, the solid, wonderful warmth of her in his arms, pressed tight against him as he had kissed her goodbye that afternoon. Despite his own weariness and the waiting presence of Lord George outside, he had wanted to tumble her onto the waiting mattress right then and take her quickly, at once, without undressing. Strange how the imminence of fighting made him so ready, always. Even now … But he hadn’t yet finished his mental roster, and he felt his eyelids closing already, as tiredness sought to pull him under. He dismissed the faint tightening of his testicles that came at thought of her, and resumed his roll call, a shepherd treacherously lulled to sleep by counting the sheep he was leading to slaughter. But it wouldn’t be a slaughter, he tried to reassure himself. Light casualties for the Jacobite side. Thirty men killed. Out of two thousand, only a slim chance that some of the Lallybroch men would be among that number, surely? If she was right. He shuddered faintly under the plaid, and fought down the momentary doubt that wrenched his bowels. If. God, if. Still he had trouble believing it, though he had seen her by that cursed rock, face dissolving in terror around the panic-wide gold eyes, the very outlines of her body blurring as he, panicked also, had clutched at her, pulling her back, feeling little more than the frail double bone of her forearm under his hand. Perhaps he should have let her go, back to her own place. No, no perhaps. He knew that he should. But he had pulled her back. Given her the choice, but kept her with him by the sheer force of his wanting her. And so she had stayed. And given him the choice—to believe her, or not. To act, or to run. And the choice was made now, and no power on earth could stop the dawn from coming. His heart beat heavily, pulse echoing in wrists and groin and the pit of his stomach. He sought to calm it, resuming his count, one name to each heartbeat. Willie McNab, Bobby McNab, Geordie McNab … thank God, young Rabbie McNab was safe, left at home … Will Fraser, EwanFraser, Geoffrey McClure … McClure … had he touched on both George and Sorley? Shifted slightly, smiling faintly, feeling for the soreness left along his ribs. Murtagh. Aye, Murtagh, tough old boot … my mind is no troubled on your account, at least. William Murray, Rufus Murray, Geordie, Wallace, Simon … And at last, had closed his eyes, commended all of them to the care of the black sky above, and lost himself in the murmured words that came to him still most naturally in French—“Mon Dieu, je regrette …”[...]

Outside once more, I thought Jamie had fallen asleep. His face rested on his folded forearms, crossed on his knees. But he looked up at the sound of my step, and took my hand as I sat beside him. “I heard the cannon at dawn,” I said, thinking of the man inside, leg broken by a cannonball. “I was afraid for you.” He laughed softly. “So was I, Sassenach. So were we all.” Quiet as wisps of mist, the Highlanders advanced through the sea grass, one foot at a time. There was no sense of darkness lessening, but the feel of the night had changed. The wind had changed, that was it; it blew from the sea over the cold dawning land, and the faint thunder of waves on distant sand could be heard.

Despite his impression of continued dark, the light was coming.

36 PRESTONPANS~DRAGONFLY IN AMBER