Genealogy Poetry Collection
Elusive 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 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 on some list
Of passengers to the U.S., but somehow they got missed.
And no one else in this world is searching for this man.
So, I play genea-solitaire to find him if I can.
I'm told he's buried in a plot, with a tombstone he was blessed;
but the weather took 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!--Merrell Kenworthy
Beatitudes of a Family Genealogist
Blessed are the great-grandfathers, who saved
embarkation and citizenship papers, for they tell
WHEN they came.Blessed are the great-grandmothers, who hoarded
newspaper clippings and old letters, for they tell
the STORY of their time.Blessed are the grandfathers, who filled every legal
document, for these provide the PROOF.Blessed are the grandmothers, who preserved family
Bibles and diaries, for these are our HERITAGE.Blessed are fathers, who elect officials that answer letters
of inquiry, for--to some--the ONLY LINK to the past.Blessed are mothers, who relate family TRADITIONS
and LEGENDS to the family, for one of her
children will surely remember.Blessed are relatives, who fill in family sheets with extra
data, for to them we owe our FAMILY HISTORY.Blessed is any family, whose members strive for the
PRESERVATION of RECORDS, for this is a
labor of love.Blessed are the children who will never say,
"Grandma, you told that old story twice today."-- Wilma Mauk
The Census
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 the 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 "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 he 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 -- its' 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 effect 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 voice in our heart.
-- Anonymous
If....
If you could see your ancestors
All standing in a row,
Would you be proud of them?
Or don't you really know?
Some mighty strange discoveries are made
In climbing family trees,
And some of them, you know
Might not particularly pleaseIf you could see your ancestors
All standing in a row
There might be some of them
You wouldn't care to know.
But here is another question
That requires a different view.
If you could meet your ancestors,
What would they think of you?--Mable Baker
Surnames for Sale
Surnames that I have in my ancestral line,
Four hundred now listed and all of them mine.
Are often most common like Jones or like Smith,
Like Johnson or Barber that we can live with;But then there are others that lift, I suppose;
I've a Bliss and a Jasper, a Heaven and Rose.
And then there are some that just hit 'tween the eyes
And give you a shock, or a laugh, of surprise.For years I have had one with name of John Death.
When I first had found him it near took my breath,
But then I thanked goodness I found not such often;
Then this week - believe it! - discovered Beth Coffin!My wife I have teased about her pedigree,
That listed some queer ones as on my own tree,
For she has a Webb and a Cobb in her line.
Cobwebs in your ancestry surely is fine!They say of our forebears we ought to be proud,
And not be supposing we're born 'neath a cloud,
But some of our names that we find make us wail
And tempted to offer some surnames for sale.--Ora Barlow
Genealogy
Genealogy begins as an interest,
Becomes a hobby;
Continues as an avocation,
Takes over as an obsession,
And in its last stages,
Is an incurable disease.--Author Unknown
There's Been a Change in Grandma
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'll 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 dinner plates.
Well, Grandma can't be bothered, she's busy as a bee,
Compiling genealogy for the Family Tree.
She has not time to baby-sit, the curtains are a fright.
No buttons left on Grandpa¹s shirts, 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 that 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.
She wanders through the graveyard in search of dates and name,
The rich, the poor, the in-between, all sleeping there the same.
She pauses now and then to rest, fanned by a gentle breeze,
That blows above the Fathers of all our Family Trees.
Now some folks came from Scotland, some from Galway Bay,
Some were French as pastry, some German all the way.
Some went on West to stake their claims, some stayed there by the sea,
Grandma hopes to find them all as she climbs 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.
Their skills were wide and varied from carpenter to cook,
And one, alas, the records show was hopelessly a crook.
Blacksmith, farmer, weaver, judge, some tutored for a fee,
One lost in time, now all recorded on 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.
Sad to relate, the Preacher called and visited for a spell.
We talked about the Gospel and other things as well.
The heathen folk, the poor, and then It was fate, it had to be
Somehow the conversation turned to Grandma and the Family Tree.
We tried to change the subject, we talked of everything,
But then in Grandma¹s voice we heard that old familiar ring.
She told him all about the past, and soon It was plain to see,
The Preacher, too, was neatly snared by Grandma and the Family Tree.
-- Virginia Day McDonald, Macon, GA
The Dash ©1998
by Linda Ellis
www.lindaslyrics.com
I read of a reverend who stood to speak
at the funeral of his friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
from the beginning...to the end.He noted that first came the date of her birth
and spoke of the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.For that dash represents all the time
that she spent alive on earth…
and now only those who loved her
know what that little line is worth.For it matters not, how much we own;
the cars…the house…the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash.So think about this long and hard…
are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left.
(You could be at "dash mid-range.")
If we could just slow down enough
to consider what’s true and real,
and always try to understand
the way other people feel.
And be less quick to anger,
and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives
like we’ve never loved before.If we treat each other with respect,
and more often wear a smile…
remembering that this special dash
might only last a little while.So, when your eulogy’s being read
with your life’s actions to rehash...
would you be proud of the things they say
about how you spent your dash?
The Dash reprinted by courtesy of the author.
Thank you, Linda!
www.lindaslyrics.com
The Curse of the Search
Some branches are broken, others snarled and bent.
Still many are missing, where could they have went?
But the trunk is still firm, the roots are down deep.
They hold many truths that still lay there asleep.I'm searching the limbs for the secrets they hold.
For lost tales and stories that's never been told.
I'm looking for family that was lost in the ramble,
For truths about them for me to unscramble.I may find a scoundrel and a wild renegade or two.
You'll find them in all families, that's really not new.
That fact that I found them, that's all that counts.
I feel I have gained something, my curiosity mounts.I've got the taste of blood, there's no stopping me now.
I'll not rest nor will I laggard till I solve this somehow.
It may take some doing and a lot more of my time.
But I promise before I'm done it will all turn out fine.When it all gets together and my rigorous quest is through,
I'll go back to my notes in hopes of finding something new.
The search bug has bit me, leaving me still in that frame,
For that thrill of the search is still embed in my brain.-- Fred Shanahan Shannon
fshan@northernnet.com
The Genealogist's Psalm
Genealogy is my pastime, I shall not stray;
It maketh me to lie down and examine half-buried tombstones.
It leadeth me into still Court Houses,
it restoreth my ancestral knowledge.
It leadeth me in paths of census records and ships'
passenger lists
for my surname's sake.Yea, though I walk through the shadows of research
libraries and microfilm readers,
I shall fear no discouragement;
for a strong urge is within me;
the curiosity and motivation
they comfort me.It demandeth preparation of storage space for the
acquisition of countless documents;
it anointest my head with burning midnight oil,
my family group sheets runneth over.
Surely birth, marriage, and death dates shall follow me
all the days of my life;
and I shall dwell in the house of a family-history seeker
for ever.--Wildamae Brestal
