Among the Elliott family ancestry are Reivers who “worked” the night shift on the Scottish-English border. No matter where the border was claimed at the moment, they were ready to enforce their entitlement to more land and property to the side they could hold for a time. Northumberland should always be ours, in whole or in part. The border was always shifting back and forth in those days.
We speak often of experiences in our families of origin. Is it wrong to think we ought to commit more of them to writing? Does posterity care?
When I was young, my dad and grandma, who lived with us, on mom’s side shared the family storytelling duties. So, like a gooAmong the Elliott family ancestry are Reivers who “worked” the night shift on the Scottish-English border. No matter where the border was claimed at the moment, they were ready to enforce their entitlement to more land and property to the side they could hold for a time. Northumberland should always be ours, in whole or in part. The border was always shifting back and forth in those days.
We speak often of experiences in our families of origin. Is it wrong to think we ought to commit more of them to writing? Does posterity care?
When I was young, my dad and grandma, who lived with us, on mom’s side shared the family storytelling duties. So, like a good Elliott and Reiver, I’m taking the entitlement and writing it down.
Whenever Dad met someone named Elliott (or Elliot, or Eliot, or—well no, I’ve never met an Ellyotte, but I have searched for odd spellings.) for the first time he was ready to make his claim about our ancestors on the Scottish-English border. He was ready to tell every other Elliott about the border brigands, the nighttime shepherds of stolen livestock. He always, as I remember it, called the nighttime thieves border brigands or nighttime sheep stealers. It was only more recently that I have learned to call these border raiders “Reivers,” and I still don’t know the best pronunciation of the word. After dark sheepherders was description enough.
Dad often told his tale as if he were making it up there and then. He was pleased and made sure to tell us later that day, when he met another Elliott.
The most common response when this happened was, “that’s interesting.” And the conversation would move on to other topics of mutual interest. This time, however, he got an answer. “It’s true.” The man could tell Dad was kidding around, so he took the opportunity for some true history telling. “It’s true. The clan claimed land on both sides of the border. Chieftans were selected and raised up then quickly tossed aside when conditions changed. The border was always fluid, but for some reason it seemed always to be a border between Scotland and England, the entire region in Northumberland, but not an independent Northumberland nation.”
Dad lit up at this knowledge. And he told all who would hear of his proud, violent, and devious forebears. Friends and neighbors laughed and told their own family stories – ribald, warring, or dull. Always long, long ago so it is only family mythology.
With the exception of that one neighbor. Not the neighbors who lived with their daughter and family a couple blocks east of us. That was Henry E. and he didn’t object when his son-in-law hired me to mow the big lawn, while the older folks kept up the lawn trimming. No, this was a woman who lived a few blocks farther away in the other direction.
She could not tolerate her family name being so besmirched this way. She had enjoyed genealogical research for years. However, some things she just didn’t want to know. Reivers were those naughty boys. They could not be worthy or ever even wear the wonderful Elliot clan tartan. The tartan is still our honored symbol of clan allegiance—including the memory of Reivers.
I am the last of our little immediate family line of Elliott’s. None named Elliott follow after me among our immediate relations. I write this to keep our history a little bit alive.
I still love the tartan and my father’s pride in our Reivers.
d Elliott and Reiver, I’m taking the entitlement and writing it down.
Whenever Dad met someone named Elliott (or Elliot, or Eliot, or—well no, I’ve never met an Ellyotte, but I have searched for odd spellings.) for the first time he was ready to make his claim about our ancestors on the Scottish-English border. He was ready to tell every other Elliott about the border brigands, the nighttime shepherds of stolen livestock. He always, as I remember it, called the nighttime thieves border brigands or nighttime sheep stealers. It was only more recently that I have learned to call these border raiders “Reivers,” and I still don’t know the best pronunciation of the word. After dark sheepherders was description enough.
Dad often told his tale as if he were making it up there and then. He was pleased and made sure to tell us later that day, when he met another Elliott.
The most common response when this happened was, “that’s interesting.” And the conversation would move on to other topics of mutual interest. This time, however, he got an answer. “It’s true.” The man could tell Dad was kidding around, so he took the opportunity for some true history telling. “It’s true. The clan claimed land on both sides of the border. Chieftans were selected and raised up then quickly tossed aside when conditions changed. The border was always fluid, but for some reason it seemed always to be a border between Scotland and England, the entire region in Northumberland, but not an independent Northumberland nation.”
Dad lit up at this knowledge. And he told all who would hear of his proud, violent, and devious forebears. Friends and neighbors laughed and told their own family stories – ribald, warring, or dull. Always long, long ago so it is only family mythology.
With the exception of that one neighbor. Not the neighbors who lived with their daughter and family a couple blocks east of us. That was Henry E. and he didn’t object when his son-in-law hired me to mow the big lawn, while the older folks kept up the lawn trimming. No, this was a woman who lived a few blocks farther away in the other direction.
She could not tolerate her family name being so besmirched this way. She had enjoyed genealogical research for years. However, some things she just didn’t want to know. Reivers were those naughty boys. They could not be worthy or ever even wear the wonderful Elliot clan tartan. The tartan is still our honored symbol of clan allegiance—including the memory of Reivers.
I am the last of our little immediate family line of Elliott’s. None named Elliott follow after me among our immediate relations. I write this to keep our history a little bit alive.
I still love the tartan and my father’s pride in our Reivers.
We speak often of experiences in our families of origin. Is it wrong to think we ought to commit more of them to writing? Does posterity care?
When I was young, my dad and grandma, who lived with us, on mom’s side shared the family storytelling duties. So, like a gooAmong the Elliott family ancestry are Reivers who “worked” the night shift on the Scottish-English border. No matter where the border was claimed at the moment, they were ready to enforce their entitlement to more land and property to the side they could hold for a time. Northumberland should always be ours, in whole or in part. The border was always shifting back and forth in those days.
We speak often of experiences in our families of origin. Is it wrong to think we ought to commit more of them to writing? Does posterity care?
When I was young, my dad and grandma, who lived with us, on mom’s side shared the family storytelling duties. So, like a good Elliott and Reiver, I’m taking the entitlement and writing it down.
Whenever Dad met someone named Elliott (or Elliot, or Eliot, or—well no, I’ve never met an Ellyotte, but I have searched for odd spellings.) for the first time he was ready to make his claim about our ancestors on the Scottish-English border. He was ready to tell every other Elliott about the border brigands, the nighttime shepherds of stolen livestock. He always, as I remember it, called the nighttime thieves border brigands or nighttime sheep stealers. It was only more recently that I have learned to call these border raiders “Reivers,” and I still don’t know the best pronunciation of the word. After dark sheepherders was description enough.
Dad often told his tale as if he were making it up there and then. He was pleased and made sure to tell us later that day, when he met another Elliott.
The most common response when this happened was, “that’s interesting.” And the conversation would move on to other topics of mutual interest. This time, however, he got an answer. “It’s true.” The man could tell Dad was kidding around, so he took the opportunity for some true history telling. “It’s true. The clan claimed land on both sides of the border. Chieftans were selected and raised up then quickly tossed aside when conditions changed. The border was always fluid, but for some reason it seemed always to be a border between Scotland and England, the entire region in Northumberland, but not an independent Northumberland nation.”
Dad lit up at this knowledge. And he told all who would hear of his proud, violent, and devious forebears. Friends and neighbors laughed and told their own family stories – ribald, warring, or dull. Always long, long ago so it is only family mythology.
With the exception of that one neighbor. Not the neighbors who lived with their daughter and family a couple blocks east of us. That was Henry E. and he didn’t object when his son-in-law hired me to mow the big lawn, while the older folks kept up the lawn trimming. No, this was a woman who lived a few blocks farther away in the other direction.
She could not tolerate her family name being so besmirched this way. She had enjoyed genealogical research for years. However, some things she just didn’t want to know. Reivers were those naughty boys. They could not be worthy or ever even wear the wonderful Elliot clan tartan. The tartan is still our honored symbol of clan allegiance—including the memory of Reivers.
I am the last of our little immediate family line of Elliott’s. None named Elliott follow after me among our immediate relations. I write this to keep our history a little bit alive.
I still love the tartan and my father’s pride in our Reivers.
d Elliott and Reiver, I’m taking the entitlement and writing it down.
Whenever Dad met someone named Elliott (or Elliot, or Eliot, or—well no, I’ve never met an Ellyotte, but I have searched for odd spellings.) for the first time he was ready to make his claim about our ancestors on the Scottish-English border. He was ready to tell every other Elliott about the border brigands, the nighttime shepherds of stolen livestock. He always, as I remember it, called the nighttime thieves border brigands or nighttime sheep stealers. It was only more recently that I have learned to call these border raiders “Reivers,” and I still don’t know the best pronunciation of the word. After dark sheepherders was description enough.
Dad often told his tale as if he were making it up there and then. He was pleased and made sure to tell us later that day, when he met another Elliott.
The most common response when this happened was, “that’s interesting.” And the conversation would move on to other topics of mutual interest. This time, however, he got an answer. “It’s true.” The man could tell Dad was kidding around, so he took the opportunity for some true history telling. “It’s true. The clan claimed land on both sides of the border. Chieftans were selected and raised up then quickly tossed aside when conditions changed. The border was always fluid, but for some reason it seemed always to be a border between Scotland and England, the entire region in Northumberland, but not an independent Northumberland nation.”
Dad lit up at this knowledge. And he told all who would hear of his proud, violent, and devious forebears. Friends and neighbors laughed and told their own family stories – ribald, warring, or dull. Always long, long ago so it is only family mythology.
With the exception of that one neighbor. Not the neighbors who lived with their daughter and family a couple blocks east of us. That was Henry E. and he didn’t object when his son-in-law hired me to mow the big lawn, while the older folks kept up the lawn trimming. No, this was a woman who lived a few blocks farther away in the other direction.
She could not tolerate her family name being so besmirched this way. She had enjoyed genealogical research for years. However, some things she just didn’t want to know. Reivers were those naughty boys. They could not be worthy or ever even wear the wonderful Elliot clan tartan. The tartan is still our honored symbol of clan allegiance—including the memory of Reivers.
I am the last of our little immediate family line of Elliott’s. None named Elliott follow after me among our immediate relations. I write this to keep our history a little bit alive.
I still love the tartan and my father’s pride in our Reivers.
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