Week of March 13, 2000
March 13, 2000
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
March 14, 2000
Whenever there's a will, you'll see an heir loom.
--Author Unknown
March 15, 2000
Genealogist's Pox
WARNING: Very contagious to adults.
SYMPTOMS: Continual complaint as to need for names, dates, and places. Patient has a black expression, sometimes deaf to spouse and children. Has no taste for work of any kind, except feverishly looking through records at libraries and courthouses. Has compulsion to write letters. Swears at mailman when he doesn't leave mail. Frequents places such as cemeteries; ruins; and remote, desolate country areas. Makes secret night calls, hides phone bills from spouse, and mumbles to self. Has a strange, faraway look in eyes.
NO KNOWN CURE.
TREATMENT: Medication is useless. Disease is not fatal, but gets progressively worse. Patient should attend genealogy workshops, subscribe to genealogical magazines, and be given a quiet corner in the house where he or she can be alone.
REMARKS: The unusual nature of this disease is -- the sicker the patient gets, the more he or she enjoys it!
--Author Unknown
March 16, 2000
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
March 17, 2000
The Mile Marker
Three Irishmen, Paddy, Sean and Shamus, were stumbling home late one night and found themselves on the road which led past the old graveyard.
"Come have a look over here", says Paddy, "It's Michael O'Grady's grave, God bless his soul, he lived to the ripe old age of 87."
"That's nothing", says Sean, "here's one named Patrick O'Toole. It says here that he was 95 when he died."
Just then, Shamus yells out, "But here's a fella that died when he was 145 years old!"
"What was his name?" asks Paddy.
Shamus lights a match to see what else is written on the stone marker, and exclaims, "Miles from Dublin."
