"Like some raven..."
Gypsy gal, the hands of Harlem | Cannot hold you to its heat. | Your temperature's too hot for taming, | Your flaming feet burn up the street. | I am homeless, come and take me | Into reach of your rattling drums. | Let me know, babe, about my fortune | Down along my restless palms.
I'm intrigued by the origin of my name. Cathryn pointed out an interesting link to the Golbys of southern England — apparently the Golbys are a well-known Gypsy family (among 130 or so names).
My grandfather, a midlander, came out to South Africa at age 19 in 1910. I know he had a half-brother named Frank (probably Francis) and his father was Thomas Golby, who, an old newspaper clipping tells me, retired as Chief Constable of Coventry. That's as far as it goes. After that, and besides a link to the Gobles — another Gypsy name providing a link between north and south — through my paternal grandmother, nada-zippo-zilch. I'm keen to find out more.
We're Midlanders, Gypsies, consummate professionals, and bloggers to boot. Perhaps myriad more besides.
Irish for starters and thanks to my maternal grandparents — clerics rather than tinkers. We make for a broad church indeed.
I been wond'rin' all about me | Ever since I seen you there. | On the cliffs of your wildcat charms I'm riding, | I know I'm 'round you but I don't know where. | You have slayed me, you have made me, | I got to laugh halfways off my heels. | I got to know, babe, will I be touching you | So I can tell if I'm really real.
Bob Dylan | Spanish Harlem Incident
