Genealogy Chat

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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 could be upon some list of passengers to the USA, but somehow they got missed. And no one else in the 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 the 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

Margaret, I can relate to that lol Sue

That is so apt - and a poem I've never heard before. Kath. x

How true Story of our lives.

'A Prayer For Genealogists' Lord, help me dig into the past, And sift the sands of time; That I might find the roots that made This family tree of mine. Lord, help me trace the ancient roads, On which my fathers trod; And led them through so many lands, To find our present sod. Lord, help me find an ancient book Or dust manuscript, That's safely hidden now away In some forgotten crypt. Lord, let it bridge the gaps that haunts My soul when I can't find, The missing link between some name That ends the same as mine. ~ Curtis Woods ~

(giggle) that poem sounds like one of my folks!

Another poem that's been mentioned quite a lot on the boards:- DEAR ANCESTOR Your tombstone stands out amongst the rest, Neglected and alone, The name and date are chiselled out in polished marble stone. It reaches out to all who care, It is too late to mourn You did not know that I'd exist, You died ...and I was born. Yet each of us is cells of you In flesh, in 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 amongst the ones you left Who would have loved you so. I wonder how you lived and loved, I wonder if you knew, That someday I would find this spot, And come and visit you. Kath. x

n to keep because they are all so good Chris

nudged for me to keep too. Thanks Margaret and Kathleen for sharing them. Caz

I would just like to share a couple too. Whilst transcribing entries in the 1897 Journal, the following poem came to light which is worth sharing: Where are the Wicked Folk buried ? “Tell me, grey haired sexton”, said I, “wherein the field are the wicked folk laid? I have wandered the quiet old graveyard through, And studied the Epitaphs, Old and New But on Monument, Obelisk, Pillar or Stone I read no evil that men have done” The old Sexton stood by a grave newly made With his chin on his hand, his hand on a spade, “Who is the judge when the soul takes its flight ? Who is the Judge ‘twixt the wrong and the right ? Which of us mortals shall dare to say That our neighbour was wicked who died today ?” In our journey through life, the farther we speed, The better we learn that humility’s need Is charity’s spirit that prompts us to find Rather virtue than vice in the lives of our kind. “Therefore good deeds we record on these stones; The evil men do, let it rest with their bones; I have laboured as sexton this many a year, But I never have buried a bad man here.”

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, and 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, and 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? Take time to save your stories, Seize the opportunity when it knocks, Or someday you and yours, Could be strangers in the box.

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 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.

Something to make your day Would you believe...these are copies of actual correspondence received by the Family History Department? Our 2nd great grandfather was found dead crossing the plains in the library. He was married 3 times in the endowment house and has 21children. For running down the Wheelers, I will send $3.00 more. He and his daughter are listed as not being born. I would like to find out if I have any living relatives or dead relatives or ancestors in my family. Will you send me a list of all the Dripps in your library? My Grandfather died at the age of 3. We are sending you 5 children in a separate envelope. Documentation: Family Bible in possession of Aunt Merle until the tornado hit Topeka, Kansas, now only the Good Lord know where it is . . . The wife of #22 could not be found. Somebody suggested that she might have been stillborn. What do you think? I am mailing you my aunt and uncle and 3 of their children. Enclosed please find my Grandmother. I have worked on her for 30 years without success. Now see what you can do. I have a hard time finding myself in London. If I were there I was very small and cannot be found. This family had 7 nephews that I am unable to find. If you know who they are please add them to the list. We lost our Grandmother, will you please send us a copy? Will you please send me the name of my first wife? I have forgotten her name. A 14-year-old boy wrote: 'I do not want you to do my research for me. Will you please send me all of the material on the Welch line, in the US, England and Scotland countries? I will do the research. Further research will be necessary to eliminate one of the parents.

Thanks to everyone, reading these has given me the goose-bumps ! Joan Hope you all had a peaceful Easter x

Heres a joke.. Census man knocks at the door and asks who the head of the household is and the reply is Fred.Well he says can I speak to him.No is the reply..hes gone for cotton. Well I will just have to come back in 10yrs time to see him so off he goes. 10 years passes and the census man knocks on the door again.Is Fred in he asks..No is the reply..Hes gone for cotton..Well I will have to come back again in 10yrs time.. 10yrs passes again and the census man knocks on the door.Is Fred in and dont tell me hes gone for cotton..Oh no is the reply.Hes dead.Dead.. he cant be! Well if you dont believe us then go up to the cemetry and youll see his grave.So off goes the census collector and sure enough finds the grave..and on the tombstone is written.. Here lies Fred...Gone..but not forgotten!... ............................................................................................. 'The poetry of history lies in the quasi-maraculous fact that,once,on this earth,,on this familiar spot of ground,walked other men and women,as actual as we are today,thinking their own thoughts,swayed by their own passions,but now all gone,one generation vanishing after another, gone as utterly as ourselves will shortly be gone,like ghosts at cockcrow'............ (G M Trevelyan) Wanda.x

Nudged, for tomorrow!

The searching for an ancestor --brilliant , the prayer I have with my records --love it , thanks for them , Margaret, Ros

Nudged for when I get back home. Thanks.

'I would like to find out if I have any living relatives or dead relatives or ancestors in my family. ' Lol Donegal Girl!