WE ARE THE CHOSEN
My feelings are in each
family we are called to find the ancestors. To put flesh on their bones
and make them live again, To tell the family story and to feel that somehow
they know and approve. To me, doing genealogy is not a cold gathering of
facts but, instead, Breathing life into all who have gone before.
We are the story tellers
of the tribe. We have been called as it were by our genes. Those who have
gone before cry out to us: Tell our story. So, we do.
In finding them, we somehow
find ourselves. How many graves have I stood before now and cried? I have
lost count.
How many times have I
told the ancestors you have a wonderful family, you would be proud of us?
How many times have I
walked up to a grave and felt somehow there was love there for me? I cannot
say. It goes beyond just documenting facts. It goes to who I am and why
I do the things I do?
It goes to seeing a cemetery
about to be lost forever to weeds and indifference and saying I can't let
this happen.
The bones here are bones
of my bone and flesh of my flesh.
It goes to doing something
about it. It goes to pride in what our ancestors were able to accomplish.
How they contributed to
what we are today. It goes to respecting their hardships and losses, their
never giving in or giving up.
Their resoluteness to
go on and build a life for their family. It goes to deep pride that they
fought to make and keep us a Nation.
It goes to a deep and
immense understanding that they were doing it for us
That we might be born
who we are. That we might remember them. So we do. With love and caring
and scribing each fact of their existence, Because we are them and they
are us. So, as a scribe called, I tell the story of my family.
It is up to that one called
in the next generation, To answer the call and take their place in the
long line of family storytellers.
That is why I do my family
genealogy, And that is what calls those young and old to step up and put
flesh on the bones.
[Author Unknown]
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DEAR ANCESTOR
(Dedicated to those who
have gone before us)
Your tombstone stands
among the rest
Neglected and alone
The name and date are
chiseled out
On polished marble stone
It reaches out to all
who care
It is too late to mourn
You did not know that
I exist
You died and I was born
Yet each of us are cells
of you
In flesh and blood and
bone
Our blood contracts and
beats a pulse
Entirely not our own
Dear Ancestor...the place
you filled
One hundred years ago
Spreads out among the
ones you left
Who would have loved
you so
I wonder if you lived
and loved
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find
this spot
And come to visit you.
Author Unknown
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Searching for an Ancestor
I went searching for an
ancestor; I cannot find him still.
He moved around from
place to place and did not leave a will.
He married where a courthouse
burned. He mended all his fences.
He avoided any man who
came to take the U.S. Census.
He always kept his luggage
packed, this man who had no fame,
And every 20 years or
so, this rascal changed his name.
His parents came from
Europe; they should be upon some list
Of passengers to U.S.A.,
but somehow they got missed.
And no one else in this
world is searching for this man;
So I play geneasolitaire
to find him if I can.
I'm told he's buried in
a plot, with tombstone he was blessed;
But weather took the
engraving, and some vandals took the rest.
He died before the county
clerks decided to keep records.
No Family Bible has emerged,
in spite of all my efforts.
To top it off this ancestor,
who caused me many groans,
Just to give me one more
pain, betrothed a girl named Jones.
Author Unknown
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The Census Taker
It was the first day of
census, and all through the land
The pollster was ready,
a black book in hand.
He mounted his horse
for a long dusty ride,
His book and some quills
were tucked close by his side.
A long winding ride down
a road barely there,
Toward the smell of fresh
bread wafting up through the air.
The woman was tired,
with lines on her face
And wisps of brown hair
she tucked back into place.
She gave him some water
as they sat at a table
And she answered his
questions...the best she was able.
He asked of her children;
Yes, she had quite a few,
The oldest was twenty,
the youngest not two.
She held up a toddler
with cheeks round and red,
His sister, she whispered,
was napping in bed.
She noted each person
who lived there with pride
And she felt the faint
stirrings of the wee one inside.
He noted the sex, the
color, the age.
The marks from the quill
soon filled up the page.
At the number of children,
she nodded her head
And saw her lips quiver
for the three that were dead.
The places of birth she'll
"never forgot",
Was it Kansas? Or Utah?
Or Oregon, or not?
They came from Scotland,
of that she was clear,
But she wasn't quite
sure just how long they'd been here.
They spoke of employment,
of schooling and such,
They could read some
and write some, though really not much.
When the questions were
answered, his job there was done,
So he mounted his horse
and rode toward the sun.
We can almost imagine
his voice loud and clear,
"May God bless you all
for another ten years."
Now picture a time warp,
it's now you and me,
As we search for the
people on our family tree.
We squint at the census
and scroll down so slow
As we search for that
entry from long, long ago.
Could they only imagine
on that long ago day
That the entries they
made would affect us this way?
If they knew, would they
wonder at the yearning we feel
And the searching that
makes them so increasingly real?
We can hear, if we listen,
the words they impart
Through their blood in
our veins and their voices in our heart.
Author Unknown
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Today I Visited Yesterday
Today I visited yesterday,
and walked among the
graves
of family and friends
from long, long ago.
Whose memory had begun
to fade.
The graves were unattended,
as were my thoughts of
them.
When a vision of the ages
past,
brought back my sense
of kin.
The vision showed the
church lawn,
on a crisp summer day.
The table spread, the
food prepared,
and friends who would
break bread.
All my relatives were
there
both young and old........
Grandma and I walked hand
and hand,
sharing stories never
told.
We laughed and cried and
shared our
thoughts.
And I found the friend
I thought I'd lost.
As the sun began to fade.....
the church bell rang
out clear.
Grandma and the others
slowly disappeared.....
Today I visited yesterday,
and now the memory is
strong
of the family from which
I came
AND NOW BELONG...
by Pat Conner Rice
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Grandma Climbed The Family Tree
There's been a change
in Grandma, we've noticed as of late
She's always reading
history, or jotting down some date.
She's tracing back the
family, we all have pedigrees.
Grandma's got a hobby,
she's climbing Family Trees...
Poor Grandpa does the
cooking, and now, or so he states,
He even has to wash the
cups and the dinner plates.
Well, Grandma can't be
bothered, she's busy as a bee,
Compiling genealogy for
the Family Tree.
She has no time to baby
sit, the curtains are a fright.
No buttons left on Grandpa's
shirt, the flower bed's a sight.
She's given up her club
work, the serials on TV,
The only thing she does
nowadays is climb the Family Tree.
The mail is all for Grandma,
it comes from near and far.
Last week she got the
proof she needs to join the DAR.
A monumental project
- to that we all agree,
A worthwhile avocation
- to climb the Family Tree.
There were pioneers and
patriots mixed with our kith and kin,
Who blazed the paths
of wilderness and fought through thick and thin.
But none more staunch
than Grandma, whose eyes light up with glee,
Each time she finds a
missing branch for the Family Tree.
To some it's just a hobby,
to Grandma it's much more.
She learns the joys and
heartaches of those who went before.
They loved, they lost,
they laughed, they wept - and now for you and me,
They live again, in spirit,
around the Family Tree.
At last she's nearly finished,
and we are each exposed.
Life will be the same
again, this we all suppose.
Grandma will cook and
sew, serve crullers with our tea.
We'll have her back,
just as before that wretched Family Tree...
author unknown
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Cooking? Cleaning? I'd Rather do
Genealogy!
They think that I should
cook and clean, and be a model wife.
I tell them it's more
interesting to study Grandpa's life.
They simply do not understand
why I hate to go to bed . . .
I'd rather do two hundred
years of research work instead.
Why waste the time we
have on earth just snoring and asleep?
When we can learn of
ancestors that sailed upon the deep?
We have priests, Rabbis,
lawmen, soldiers, more than just a few.
And yes, there's many
scoundrels, and a bootlegger or two.
How can a person find
this life an awful drudge or bore?
When we can live the
lives of all those folks who came before?
A hundred years from
now of course, no one will ever know
Whether I did laundry,
but they'll see our Tree and glow . . .
'Cause their dear old
granny left for them, for all posterity,
not clean hankies and
the like, but a finished family tree.
My home may be untidy,
'cause I've better things to do . . .
checking all the records
to provide us with a clue.
Old great granny's pulling
roots and branches out with glee,
Her clothes ain't hanging
out to dry, she's hung up on The Tree.
by: Mel Oshins
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ANCESTRY
WHEN SPEAKING OF OUR ANCESTRY,
MY MOTHER'S EYES WOULD
SHINE,
AND PROUDLY SHE WOULD
TELL US ALL,
YOU'RE OF THE TUDOR LINE.
BUT FATHER WITH A SMILE
WOULD SAY,
"WHILE BEARING THAT IN
MIND,
YOU KEEP YOUR EYES ON
GOALS AHEAD;
NOT THOSE THAT LIE BEHIND."
"YOU HAVE A NOBLE ANCESTRY,
BUT ALL ARE DEAD AND
GONE,
'TIS YOU WHO HAVE TO PROVE
YOUR WORTH,
NOT THOSE WHO'VE JOURNEYED
ON,
AND BACK ALONG THAT TUDOR
LINE,
'TIS SORRY TRUTH I STATE,
THERE MAY BE SOME YOU
CAN'T APPROVE,
AND EVEN SOME YOU'D HATE.
THE WAY TO PROVE YOUR
ANCESTRY,
IS WHAT YOU ARE YOURSELF;
NOT BY THE CHARTED FAMILY
TREE,
IN BOOK UPON THE SHELF.
SO TRY TO BE AN ANCESTOR,
WITHIN THE TIME ALLOWED,
OF WHOM YOUR CHILDREN'S
CHILDREN,
IN THE FUTURE CAN BE
PROUD.
Anonymous
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PORTRAIT ON A WALL
Sometime, when I have
become a quiet portrait on the wall,
Will you, my fair descendant,
stop to think of me at all?
Suppose your hands are
shaped like mine and you have my keen sense of fun.
Will there be one to tell
you so...then...when my days are done?
If you love books and
fires and songs, and silver moons in velvet skies,
Toss me a look of shared
delight from those, my own dark eyes.
For there are kinships
in a curl and namesakes in a spoken name;
The wine of life may yet
be poured by faded hands within a frame.
--Author unknown
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Ode to my Ancestors
Alas, my elusive kinsman
You've led me quite a
chase
I thought I'd found your
courthouse
But the Yankees burned
the place.
You always kept your bags
packed
Although you had no fame,
and
Just for the fun of it
Twice you changed your
name.
You never owed any man,
or
At least I found no bills
In spite of eleven offspring
You never left a will.
They say our name's from
Europe
Came state side on a
ship
Either they lost the
passenger list
Or granddad gave them
the slip.
I'm the only one looking
Another searcher I can't
find
I pray (maybe that's
his fathers name)
As I go out of my mind.
They said you had a headstone
In a shady plot
I've been there twenty
times, and
Can't even find the lot.
You never wrote a letter
Your Bible we can't find
It's probably in some
attic
Out of sight and out
of mind.
You first married a .....Smith
And just to set the tone
The other four were Sarahs
And everyone a Jones.
You cost me two fortunes
One of which I did not
have
My wife, my house and
Fido
God, how I miss that
yellow lab.
But somewhere you slipped
up,
Ole Boy, Somewhere you
left a track
And if I don't find you
this year
Well...... Next year
I'll be back!
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The Story Tellers
We are the chosen. In
each family there is one who seems called to find the ancestors. To put
flesh on their bones and make them live again, to tell the family story
and to feel that somehow they know and approve. Doing genealogy is not
a cold gathering of facts but, instead, breathing life into all who have
gone before. We are the storytellers of the tribe. All tribes have one.
We have been called, as it were, by our genes. Those who have gone before
cry out to us: Tell our story. So, we do. In finding them, we somehow find
ourselves. How many graves have I stood before now and cried? I have lost
count. How many times have I told the ancestors you have a wonderful family
you would be proud of us? How many times have I walked up to a grave and
felt somehow there was love there for me? I cannot say.
It goes beyond just documenting
facts. It goes to who am I and why do I do the things I do. It goes to
seeing a cemetery about to be lost forever to weeds and indifference and
saying I can't let this happen. The bones here are bones of my bone and
flesh of my flesh. It goes to doing something about it. It goes to pride
in what our ancestors were able to accomplish. How they contributed to
what we are today. It goes to respecting their hardships and losses, their
never giving in or giving up, their resoluteness to go on and build a life
for their family. It goes to deep pride that the fathers fought and some
died to make and keep us a Nation. It goes to a deep and immense understanding
that they were doing it for us.
It is of equal pride and
love that our mothers struggled to give us birth, without them we could
not exist, and so we love each one, as far back as we can reach. That we
might be born who we are. That we might remember them. So we do. With love
and caring and scribing each fact of their existence, because we are they
and they are the sum of who we are.
So, as a scribe called,
I tell the story of my family. It is up to that one called in the next
generation to answer the call and take my place in the long line of family
storytellers.
(Unknown Author)
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Strangers In The Box
Come look with me inside this drawer,
In
this box I've often seen,
At the pictures
black and white,
Faces proud, still, serene.
I wish I knew the people,
These
strangers in the box,
Their names and
all their memories
Are lost among my socks.
I wonder what their
lives were like,
How did they spend their days?
What about their special times?
I'll never know their ways.
IF only someone had taken time
To tell who, what, where, or when,
These faces of my heritage
Would come to life again.
Could this become the fate
Of the pictures we take today?
The faces and the memories
Someday to be passed away?
Make time to save your stories,
Seize the opportunity when it knocks,
Or someday you and yours could be
The strangers in the box.
Author Unknown
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Ancestors of Yesterday
Ancestors of so long ago,
I'll search until I find.
Till I can prove and
clearly show,
that you are truly mine.
I'll follow behind your
trail of tears,
the hidden footprints
of time.
Covered and buried throughout
the years,
and continue each mountain
to climb.
I'll search every faraway
seaside shore,
and every valley below.
I'll unlock each and
every door,
as my own teardrops flow.
I'll unearth the buried
History of you,
and your own Ancestral
kin,
I'll search for that
all important clue,
and open my heart to
let you in.
~Written by Sandy Lamere
Solari-1998~
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Heirlooms
Up in the attic
Down on my knees
Lifetimes of boxes
Timeless to me
Letters and photographs
Yellowed with years
Some bringing laughter
Some bringing tears
Time never changes
The memories, the faces
Of loved ones, who bring
to me
All that I come from
And all that I live for
And all that I'm going
to be
My precious family
Is more than an heirloom
To me.
~ Author: Amy Grant ~
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The Old Family Album
The old family album,
the pages are worn,
From turning and browsing
they are tattered and torn,
For mem' ries are sweet
ones, we like to repeat ones,
We live them again in
the old family album.
Now picture the family,
we're all having fun,
We're in this together--parents,
daughters, and sons.
For pictures are share
times, those family affair times,
We live them again in
the old family album.
The camera is snapping
while gifts we're unwrapping.
lens is recording our
group as we're boarding.
shutter is clicking while
baby is kicking,
all to record in the
old family album.
So stand all together,
remember to smile.
We'll all be recorded
in family group style.
The camera is ready,
now everyone steady,
And we'll be a page in
the old family album.
~Author Unknown~
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WHO AM I
I started out calmly,
tracing my tree,
To see if I could find
the makings of me.
And all that I had was
Great Grandfather's name,
Not knowing his wife
or from whence he came.
I chased him across a
long line of states,
And came up with pages
and pages of dates.
When all put together,
it made me forlorn,
Poor old Great-Grandpa
had never been born.
One day I was sure the
truth I had found,
Determined to turn this
whole thing around.
I looked up the record
of one Uncle John,
But then found the old
man to be younger than his son.
Then when my hopes were
fast growing dim,
I came across records
that must have been him.
The facts I collected
made me quite sad,
Dear Old Great-Grandfather
was never a Dad.
It seems that someone
is pulling my leg,
I'm not at all sure I
wasn't hatched from an egg.
After hundreds of dollars
I've spent on my tree,
I can't help but wonder
if I'm really me.
Author Unknown
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The Family Quilt
Our family quilt was started
generations in the past.
Designed with love,
its pattern's rich
in values that will last.
Each person sews another
square
of memories that endure,
While challenges add
strength
that makes our family
life secure.
And stitching it together~
threads of closeness,
warmth, and caring
Make it cozy and more
comforting
with every year of sharing.
Author unknown
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