| ADDICTED TO GENEALOGY |
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| GRANDMA AND THE FAMILY TREE
There's been a change in Grandma She's always reading history or jotting down some date. She's tracking back the family, we'll all have pedigrees. Oh, Grandma's got a hobby, she's climbing Family Trees. Poor Grandpa does the cooking now, or so he states, That worst of all, he has to wash the cups and dinner plates. 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 Granddad'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. She goes down to the courthouse and studies ancient lore, We know more about our forebears than we ever did before. The books are old and dusty, they make poor Grandma sneeze, A minor irritation when you're climbing Family Trees. 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 worthwhile avocation, to that we all agree, A monumental project, to climb the Family Tree. Now some folks came from Scotland and some from Galway Bay, Some were French as pastry, some German, all the way. Some went on west to stake their claim, some stayed near by the sea, Grandma hopes to find them all as she climbs the Family Tree. She wanders through the graveyard in search of date or 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. There were pioneers and patriots mixed in 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 record shows was hopelessly a crook. Blacksmith, weaver, farmer, judge, some tutored for a fee, Long lost in time, now all recorded on the Family Tree. To some it's just a hobby, to Grandma it's much more, She knows 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 supposed! Grandma will cook and sew, serve cookies with our tea. We'll all be fat, 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 - 'twas 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 Grandma's voice we heard that old familiar ring. She told him all about the past and soon was plain to see The Preacher, too, was nearly snared by Grandma and the Family Tree. He never knew his Grandpa, his mother's name was……Clark? He and Grandma talked and talked, outside it grew quite dark. We'd hoped our fears were groundless, but just like some disease, Grandma's become an addict - she's hooked on Family Trees! Our souls were filled with sorrow, our hearts sank with dismay, Our ears could scarce believe the words we heard our Grandma say, "It sure is a lucky thing that you have come to me, I know exactly how it's done, I'll climb your Family Tree!" (Author unknown) |
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| Murphy's Laws of Genealogy
1. The public ceremony in which your distinguished ancestor participated and at which the platform collapsed under him turned out to be his hanging. 2. When at last after much hard work you have evolved the mystery that you have been working on for two years, your aunt says, "I could have told you that." 3. You search ten years for your grandmother's maiden name to eventually find it on a letter in a box in the attic. 4. You never asked your father about his family when he was alive because you weren't interested in genealogy then. 5. The will you need is in the safe on board the Titanic. 6. Copies of old newspapers have holes occurring only on the surnames. 7. John, son of Thomas the immigrant whom your relatives claim as the family progenitor, died on board ship at the age of 10. 8. Your great grandfather's newspaper obituary states that he died leaving no issue of record. 9. Another genealogist has just insulted the keeper of the vital records you need. 10. The relative who had all the family photographs gave them all to her daughter who has no interest in genealogy and no inclination to share. 11. The only record you find for your great grandfather is that his property was sold at a sheriff's sale of insolvency. 12. The one document that would supply the missing link in your dead end line has been lost due to fire, flood, or war. 13. The town clerk to whom you wrote for the information sends you a long handwritten letter which is totally illegible. 14. The spelling of your European ancestor's name bears no relationship to its current spelling or pronunciation. 15. None of the pictures in your recently deceased grandmother's photo album have names written on them. 16. No one in your family tree ever did anything noteworthy, owned property, was sued or was named in a will. 17. You learn that your great aunt's executor just sold her life's collection of family genealogical materials to a flea market dealer "Somewhere in New York City." 18. Ink fades and paper deteriorates at a rate inversely proportional to the value of the data recorded. 19. The 37 volume, 16,000 page history of your county of origin isn't indexed. 20. You finally find your great grandparents' wedding record and discover that the bride's father was named John Smith. 21. Yours is the ONLY last name not found among the 3 billion in the world-famous Mormon archives in Salt Lake City. |
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| THE LAST SUNDAY IN ENGLAND
The emigrants kneel in the old parish Church. For the last time, it may be forever: They scarcely had known that it would be so hard. The ties of a lifetime to sever. For the last time they look on the ivy-clad walls. For the last time they hear the bells ringing. 'Twas there they were married, and now to that church How fondly their sad hearts are clinging! They listen once more to the good Rector's voice, They will try to remember his teaching: And hope they may never forget what he says, As they look in his face while's he preaching. That voice they have heard by the bed of the sick- That face they have seen by the dying- At the altar, the font, and the newly dug grave The means of salvation supplying. For the last time they stand where their forefathers names They read on the headstones and crosses: There are newly cut names: and others so old. They are covered by lichens and mosses. Then a last look they take at a green little mound, Where one of their children is sleeping. And gather a daisy that grows at the head- Then turn away silently weeping. The neighbours are waiting to bid them "God Speed" To think of them each one professing- At the gate of the churchyard the old Rector stands To give them his fatherly blessing. He placed in their hands the best of all gifts, A Bible and Prayer book, at parting: They could not say much, but he knew what they felt- To their eyes the warm tear-drops were starting. "Keep these in your heart" as he gave them, he said, "And trust to the cross of Christ only: Then the Lord will be with you wherever you go, And then you need never feel lonely." (Author unknown) |
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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 Some day to be passd away Make time to save your stories, Seize the opportunity when it knocks, Or some day you and yours could be The strangers in the box. ( Author Unknown) |
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Record The Echo Of Past Footsteps Enriches One’s Present And Is A Loving Gift To The Future © A. L. Griffiths 1985 |
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| Top 10 Indicators that you've become a gene-aholic:
10. You introduce your daughter as your descendent. 9. You've never met any of the people you send e-mail to, even though you're related. 8. You can recite your lineage back eight generations, but can't remember your nephew's name. 7. You have more photographs of dead people than living ones. 6. You've taken a tape recorder and/or notebook to a family reunion. 5. You've not only read the latest GEDCOM standard, but you also understand it. 4. The local genealogy society borrows books from you. 3. The only film you've seen in the last year was the 1880 census index. 2. More than 1/2 of your book collection is made up of marriage records or pedigrees. 1. Your elusive ancestor has been spotted in more different places than Elvis! |
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| The Old Spinning Wheel
There's an old spinning wheel in the parlor Spinning dreams of the long, long ago, Spinning dreams of an old fashioned garden And a maid with her old fashioned beau. Sometimes it seems that I can hear her in the twilight At the organ softly singing "Sweet and Low", There's an old spinning wheel in the parlor, Spinning dreams of the long, long ago, There's an old spinning wheel in the parlor Spinning dreams of the long, long ago, Spinning dreams of an old fashioned garden And a maid with her old fashioned beau. Sometimes it seems that I can hear her in the twilight At the organ softly singing "Sweet and Low", There's an old spinning wheel in the parlor, Spinning dreams of the long, long ago |
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| The Story Tellers We are the chosen. My feelings are 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. 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. 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 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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