I have gathered and transcribed several items of humor, poems and prose for Genealogists that have touched me in some way. The ones I have selected and printed below are my favorites of the hundreds that can be found – and the ones that hit home the most.
Your tombstone stands among the rest;
Neglected and alone
The name and date are chiseled 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
So many 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.
Genealogy – where you confuse the dead and irritate the living.
Murphy’s Law for Genealogists
The public ceremony in which your distinguished ancestor participated and at which the platform collapsed under him turned out to be a hanging.
When at last after much hard work you have solved the mystery you have been working on for two years, your aunt says, “I could have told you that.”
You grandmother’s maiden name that you have searched for four years was on a letter in a box in the attic all the time.
You never asked your father about his family when he was alive because you weren’t interested in genealogy then.
The will you need is in the safe on board the Titanic.
Copies of old newspapers have holes occurring only on the surnames.
John, son of Thomas, the immigrant whom your relatives claim as the family progenitor, died on board ship at
Your gr. grandfather’s newspaper obituary states that he died leaving no issue of record.
The keeper of the vital records you need has just been insulted by an another genealogist.
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.
The only record you find for your gr. grandfather is that his property was sold at a sheriff’s sale for insolvency.
The one document that would supply the missing link in your dead-end line has been lost due to fire, flood or war.
The town clerk to whom you wrote for the information sends you a long handwritten letter which is totally illegible.
The spelling for your European ancestor’s name bears no relationship to its current spelling or pronunciation.
None of the pictures in your recently deceased grandmother’s photo album have names written on them.
No one in your family tree ever did anything noteworthy, owned property, was sued or was named in wills.
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.”
Ink fades and paper deteriorates at a rate inversely proportional to the value of the data recorded.
The 37 volume, sixteen thousand page history of your county of origin isn’t indexed.
You finally find your gr. grandparent’s wedding records and discover that the brides’ father was named John Smith.
Whoever said “Seek and ye shall find” was not a genealogist.
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.
Originally posted 2016-04-26 10:17:36. Republished by Blog Post Promoter