Artwork by my niece, Jasmine Earnhart
(c) 2016 by Jasmine D. Earnhart
The Mead Hall
Genealogy Services and Family Archive
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A stranger is just a cousin you haven't met!
The Mead Hall at Trelleborg, Denmark
Built by my ancestor, Harold Bluetooth
Genealogy Thoughts and Poems
I occasionally find a bit of poetry, or philosophical thought, that is related to genealogy and that I find inspirational. For anyone interested, I thought I would share those here. If you have a poem, thought, or inspirational genealogical story, please send it to me here.
Strangers In The Box
by Pam Herazim
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.
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It was the first day of census, and all through the land
each 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 her of 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 colour, 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 Texas? or Utah? or Michigan ... 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 affect 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 voices in our hearts.
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Genealogy
According to the dictionary genealogy is:
1. A record or account of the descent of a family, group or person from an ancestor or ancestors; a family tree.
2. Direct descent from a progenitor; lineage or pedigree.
3. The study or investigation of ancestry and family histories.
To me, however, genealogy is a whole lot more than those three dry sentences. It is finding my roots, my family, and my home.
It is seeing my grandparents as a young couple in a census record with their two baby girls; children who I know will be dead within the year. It is seeing my mother as a one-month-old child. It is seeing my great grandfather's signature on Civil War records and knowing that he and others like him must have gone through hell. It is even finding the skeletons in the closets or the black sheep of the family. It is finding that my family went through some terrible times, but also knowing that they survived.
It is seeing in my mind's eye the careworn faces of all of those who have gone on before me. It is listening to old stories told by our elders and passing those precious stories down. It is writing down those stories and facts for our children and their children.
It is finding cousins I had not seen or heard from in fifty years. It is finding new cousins and new friends, people who have come to mean so very much to me. It is the realization of how important family is. It is the realization of how important it is to honor those ancestors who came before us.
But most of all, it is the sharing of information with others who, like me, love the research. It is not just dusty records or words. It is not only sharing the excitement of finding a new ancestor, but also sharing the frustrations of not being able to find what you are looking for. It is the bouncing of ideas back and forth of theories of what might be and commiserating with another when that theory falls through, which it often does. It is being able to say "Look! Look what I have found!" and knowing that your excitement will be shared and understood.
It is being able to ask a question on a mailing list, knowing that what you are asking may be dumb, but knowing that you will not be treated with disrespect. It is people who give of their time and their energies to help you. It is people who volunteer their time and energies to do lookups on the various county web pages. It is people who volunteer their time and energies for the various historical societies. It is people who give of their time to transcribe old documents and microfilm, and who share that knowledge, whether it is through books sold by historical societies or on web pages.
It is people who go through old cemeteries and take the time to write down those who are buried there and share that knowledge gladly. It is people who share old photographs, old letters and their old family stories, not expecting anything back other than a thank you and the knowledge that they have helped another in their family quest. It is people who go above and beyond what is asked of them because they love genealogy. They love the fun of it, the frustrations of it and the excitement of it.
It is also the knowledge that you are passing down something of worth; that you are leaving behind a little something of yourself. It is the knowledge that, through all of your research, you may have made a difference, however small it may be.
That is a little of what genealogy means to me.
-(Author unknown)
Dear Ancestor
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.
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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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A Valentine
Red roses were her favorites, her name was also Rose.
And every year her husband sent them, tied with pretty bows.
The year he died, the roses were delivered to her door.
The card said, -Be my Valentine,- like all the years before.
Each year he sent her roses, and the note would always say,
I love you even more this year, than last year on this day.-
My love for you will always grow, with every passing year.-
She knew this was the last time that the roses would appear.
She thought, he ordered roses, in advance before this day.
Her loving husband did not know, that he would pass away.
He always liked to do things early, way before the time.
Then, if he got too busy, everything would work out fine.
She trimmed the stems, and placed them in a very special vase.
Then, sat the vase beside the portrait of his smiling face.
She would sit for hours, in her husband's favorite chair.
While staring at his picture, and the roses sitting there.
A year went by, and it was hard to live without her mate.
With loneliness and solitude, that had become her fate.
Then, the very hour, as on Valentines before,
The doorbell rang, and there were roses, sitting by her door.
She brought the roses in, and then just looked at them in shock.
Then, went to get the telephone, to call the florist shop.
The owner answered, and she asked him, if he would explain,
Why would someone do this to her, causing her such pain?
I know your husband passed away, more than a year ago,-
The owner said, -I knew you'd call, and you would want to know.
The flowers you received today, were paid for in advance.-
Your husband always planned ahead, he left nothing to chance.
There is a standing order, that I have on file down here,
And he has paid, well in advance-you'll get them every year.
There also is another thing, that I think you should know,
He wrote a special little card...he did this years ago.-
Then, should ever, I find out that he's no longer here,
That's the card...that should be sent, to you the following year.-
She thanked him and hung up the phone, her tears now flowing hard.
Her fingers shaking, as she slowly reached to get the card.
Inside the card, she saw that he had written her a note.
Then, as she stared in total silence, this is what he wrote...
Hello my love, I know it's been a year since I've been gone,
I hope it hasn't been too hard for you to overcome.-
I know it must be lonely, and the pain is very real.
For if it was the other way, I know how I would feel.
The love we shared made everything so beautiful in life.
I loved you more than words can say, you were the perfect wife.-
You were my friend and lover, you fulfilled my every need.
I know it's only been a year, but please try not to grieve.
I want you to be happy, even when you shed your tears.
That is why the roses will be sent to you for years.-
When you get these roses, think of all the happiness,
That we had together, and how both of us were blessed.
I have always loved you and I know I always will.
But, my love, you must go on, you have some living still.-
Please...try to find happiness, while living out your days.
I know it is not easy, but I hope you find some ways.
The roses will come every year, and they will only stop,
When your door's not answered, when the florist stops to knock.-
He will come five times that day, in case you have gone out.
But after his last visit, he will know without a doubt,
To take the roses to the place, where I've instructed him,
And place the roses where we are, together once again.