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!
by Wanye Hand ©
Your tombstone stands among the rest;
Neglected and alone.
The name and date are chiselled out
On polished, marbled 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, in blood, in 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.
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We Are The Chosen
My feelings are in each family there are those who seem called to find their ancestors.
To put flesh on their bones and make them live again.
To tell their story and to feel that somehow they know and approve.
Doing genealogy is not a cold gathering of facts, but breathing life into all who have gone before us.
They cry out: 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 my 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 us? I cannot say.
It goes beyond just documenting facts. It goes to who we are and why we do the things we 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 folks here are bones of my bones 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 up or never giving in.
Their resoluteness to go on and build a life for their family.
With love and caring we record each fact of their existence.
Because we are them and they are us.
We might be born that we might remember them.
So, we the chosen tell their story.
Lloyd Ray Timmons, Sr.
The limbs that move, the eyes that see,
These are not entirely me;
Dead men and women helped to shape,
The mold which I do not escape.
The words I speak, my written line,
These are not uniquely mine;
For in my heart and in my will,
Old ancestors are warring still.
Celt, Roman, Saxon, and all the dead,
From whose rich blood my veins are fed;
In aspect, gesture, voices, tone,
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.
In fields they tilled I plow the sod,
I walk the mountain paths they trod;
And round my daily steps arise,
The good and bad of those I comprise.
Written by English Author Richard Rolle,
over 600 years ago.
got from http://www.pennyparker2.com/ancestors.html
Tracing My Tree
I started out calmly tracing my tree
To find, if I could, the making of me
And all that I had was Great Grandfather's name
Not knowing his wife or which way 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
I'd proved poor Great Grandpa had never been born.
One day I was sure the truth I had found
Determined to turn this whole thing upside down
I looked up the records 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 then made me quite sad
Dear ol' Great Grandfather was never a dad.
I think maybe 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?
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Our world is a quiet, peaceful place
We go along at a smooth, even pace;
Until that bug, "Genealogy" bites
Then all is changed, both days and nights.
We search and research each nook and cranny
To find all we can about Gramps and Granny,
Dad and Mom, Uncles and Cousins
We quiz them all, dozens and dozens.
In books we read, in records we search
In old courthouses and in the church;
We hope to find a great, or a great great
Where they lived, why and how they rate.
With pleasure our records we compile
Each one we add brings a smile:
We are inspired, life is much brighter
That bug, "Genealogy" is a real biter.
Alice Mickey Weddle
page last updated: 8/15/2014