A Quote by Tony Scott
Dad was a very gentle, sweet man. Mum was the matriarch and the patriarch of the family. She ran the roost with a steel fist, but at the same time there was respect and love for her.
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Mum was the matriarch and the patriarch of the family.
Though not a remarkably precocious child in other respects, she seemed to have very clear and correct views on almost every subject connected with her duty to God and her neighbor; was very truthful both in word and deed, very strict in her observance of the Sabbath - though the rest of the family were by no means particular in that respect - very diligent in her studies, respectful to superiors, and kind to inferiors and equals; and she was gentle, sweet-tempered, patient, and forgiving to a remarkable degree.
My love of music comes from as long as I remember. I begged my mum to learn piano for a year when I was 4; she wanted to make sure I was serious, and I wanted to be Chuck Berry when I grew up! We were a very musical family; my mum would play guitar, and her, my dad and aunt would sing and harmonize!
My family practised our faith in a relaxed manner. My mum Fiona was brought up a Christian; her dad was a vicar. But she fell in love with my dad David and converted to Judaism to be with him.
Dad was a very gentle, sweet man.
The role of matriarch and patriarch are distinct, and in the King family, we have been blessed with strong examples of both.
Celia [Brady] is a young woman who, you know, she's still got that fresh young vibe about her but at the same time she's quite wise beyond her years and very mature and she has that womanly, sexy quality, but at the same time she's very youthful in her clothes. She has that interesting mix between the two. I really love that balance about fashion.
That's what my mother did. And my father was the first person she'd met who treated her kindly. She was terrified of men, and she married a very meek, kind, dear man. And she had the upper hand. She ruled the roost.
Dad was a draughtsman; he's now retired. Mum was a nurse who spent a lot of her time in ER and oncology. She's such a compassionate, generous person. If I was meeting her on the worst day of my life, I'd be very grateful to have met her.
Why do I doubt her? Perhaps she is just very sensitive, and hypersensitive people are false when others doubt them; they waver. And one thinks them insincere. Yet I want to believe her. At the same time it does not seem so very important that she should love me. It is not her role. I am so filled with my love of her. And at the same time I feel that I am dying. Our love would be death. The embrace of imaginings.
I didn't see my mum Julia for a few years - she was very young when she married my dad and had me, and when they parted I lived with my dad and my other 'mum,' his wife Diane.
My mum, Doris, was a source of unalloyed love. She lived for her family and would literally give you her last pound. I think she's made me a kinder person, because I think: Do I want to help this person? If my mum was around, she would have.
The woman who rules her roost is one of two things: she's illogical, therefore spoiling her children, or she's an iron-fisted disciplinarian, adopting the attitude that rightfully belongs to the man and losing the precious softness that is her birthright.
I grew up in a house that was the traditional African-American home that was dominated by a matriarch, and that matriarch was my grandmother. She was tough. She was strong. She was powerful.
Why does a dad matter so much to a daughter, in particular? A dad is the one who teaches a daughter what a male is all about. It's the first man in her life--the first man she loves, the first male she tries to please, the first man who says no to her, the first man to discipline her. In effect, he sets her up for success or failure with the opposite sex. Not only that, but she takes cues from how Dad treats Mom as she grows up about what to expect as a woman who is in a relationship with a man. So Dad sets up his daughter's marriage relationship too.
Her little fists pummeled at him, and he accepted the abuse. Until he realized she’d made an improper fist and was actually hurting herself. He wound an arm around her waist, spun her and slammed her into the hard line of his body to still her. “Let me go!” “In a minute.” As she struggled, he pulled her thumb out from beneath her fingers and rearranged her fist. “Hit like this.” Done, he released her.
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