Grandma's Apron

Grandma's Apron
When I used to visit Grandma.
I was very much impressed,
by her all-purpose apron,
and the power it possessed.
For Grandma, it was everyday
to choose one when she dressed.
The strings were tied and freshly washed,
and maybe even pressed.
The simple apron that it was,
you would never think about;
the things she used it for,
that made it look worn out.

She used it for a basket,
when she gathered up the eggs,
and flapped it as a weapon,
when hens pecked her feet and legs.
She used it to carry kindling
when she stoked the kitchen fire.
And to hold a load of laundry,
or to wipe the clothesline wire.
She used it for a hot pad,
to remove a steaming pan,
and when her brow was heated,
she used it for a fan.
It dried our childish tears,
when we'd scrape a knee and cry,
and made a hiding place
when the little ones were shy.
Farm produce took in season,
in the summer, spring and fall,
found its way into the kitchen
from Grandma's carry all.
When Grandma went to heaven,
God said she now could rest.
I'm sure the apron she chose that day,
was her Sunday best.

Author unknown

The Way I Walk

"The Way I Walk"

by Dorothy Hallard

 

The way I walk
I see my mother walking
My feet secure and firm upon the ground

The way I talk
I hear my daughter talking
And hear my mother's echo in the sound

The way she thought
I find myself now thinking
The generations linking in a firm continuum of mind

The bridge of immortality
I'm walking
The voice before me echoing behind.

Strangers In The Box

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.

author Pam Harazim,

Dear Ancestor

DEAR ANCESTOR
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 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.
Author Unknown

Women and children asked to return to Canada in 1917

 

My Maternal Grandmother had come to Canada and married, she returned to England to be closer to her husband whom had enlisted in 1915. She was asked to leave England, even though it had been her birth place, and return to Canada due to a shortage of food. She kept this poem folded in her stationery box. I suppose it reminded her of her return to Canada with two small children to find a home where she knew on one, and wait the arrival of her husband.

 

Dear Ancestor

DEAR ANCESTOR
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 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.
Author Unknown

In the Shade of the Family Tree

"In The Shade of the Family Tree"

     

All the names on these pages,
it's hard to believe,
that hundreds of people
are related to me.

Grandmas and Grandpas,
Uncles and Aunts,
Cousins, more cousins
Me? Stop? No, I can't!

Germany, Canada,
Scotland, and France
All came together
Just out of chance.

To think that I started
with just a blank sheet.
Now put end to end,
the tree measures in feet!

Volumes of info
gathered up from the past,
saved acid free
'cause I want it to last.

It's possible that
there have been some mistakes
but all of these names,
why bother to fake?

I'm hoping some day
some ambitious descendant
will cherish my volumes
so glad that I've done it.

I can't help but think that
if everyone did this
we'd find, none too soon,
we have very few differences.

Please, listen to me
don't leave it to fate.
Gather much from your elders
before it's too late.

--March 9, 1999

Author: Julie Quick

Genealogist's Christmas Eve

Genealogist's Christmas Eve

'Twas the night before Christmas
When all through the house
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even my spouse.

The dining room table with clutter was spread
With pedigree charts and with letters which said...
"Too bad about the data for which you wrote;
Sank in a storm on an ill-fated boat."

Stacks of old copies of wills and such
Were proof that my work had become too much.
Our children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugarplums danced in their heads.

And I at my table was ready to drop
From work on my album with photos to crop.
Christmas was here, and such was my lot
That presents and goodies and toys I'd forgot.

Had I not been busy with grandparents' wills,
I'd not have forgotten to shop for such thrills,
While others bought gifts to bring Christmas cheers,
I'd spent time researching those birth dates and years.

While I was thus musing about my sad plight,
A strange noise on the lawn gave me such a great fright.
Away to the window I flew in a flash,
Tore open the drapes and yanked up the sash.

When what with my wondering eyes should appear,
But an overstuffed sleigh and eight small reindeer.
Up to the house top the reindeer they flew,
With a sleigh full of toys and 'ole Santa Claus, too.

And then in a twinkle, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of thirty-two hoofs.
As I drew in my head, and bumped it on the sash,
Down the cold chimney fell Santa--KER-RASH!

"Dear" Santa had come from the roof in a wreck,
And tracked soot on the carpet, (I could wring his short neck!)
Spotting my face, good 'ole Santa could see
I had no Christmas spirit you'd have to agree.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work
And filled all the stockings, (I felt like a jerk).
Here was Santa, who'd brought us such gladness and joy:
When I'd been too busy for even one toy.

He spied my research on the table all spread
"A genealogist!" He cried! (My face was all red!)
"Tonight I've met many like you," Santa grinned,
As he pulled from his sack a large book he had penned.

I gazed with amusement--the cover it read
Genealogy Lines for Which You Have Plead.
"I know what it's like as a genealogy bug."
He said as he gave me a great Santa hug.

"While the elves make the sleighful of toys I now carry,
I do some research in the North Pole Library!
A special treat I am thus able to bring,
To genealogy folk who can't find a thing."

"Now off you go to your bed for a rest,
I'll clean up the house from this genealogy mess."
As I climbed up the stairs full of gladness and glee,
I looked back at Santa who'd brought much to me.

While settling in bed, I heard Santa's clear whistle,
To his team, which then rose like the down of a thistle.
And I heard him exclaim as he flew out of sight,
"Family history is Fun! Merry Christmas! Goodnight!"

--Author Unknown

Gramma and the Family Tree

     

GRANDMA AND THE FAMILY TREE

There's been a change in Grandma, we've noticed her of late,
She's 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 and 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 knew 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 times 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 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

The House with Nobody in It

While out driving, I often think of this poem, it's one we had to memorize at school.

 

 

The House with Nobody in It

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track
I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.
I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute
And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.

I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;
That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.
I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do;
For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.

This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,
And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.
It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied;
But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.

If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid
I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.
I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be
And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.

Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door,
Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store.
But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone
For the lack of something within it that it has never known.

But a house that has done what a house should do,
a house that has sheltered life,
That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,
A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet,
Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track
I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,
Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,
For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

Joyce Kilmer

Must Be Sunday

Here it is Sunday already, what's happening with everyone, why not share with us

Sunday Drive

 

When I was young back in the day

Come Sunday after church and play

We’d pile into the family car

And drive away, not very far

Into the hills about our town

We’d ride them up and coast them down

And while we traveled ‘round about

We’d sing together, laugh and shout

We’d tell a joke and sing some songs

Until the trees cast shadows long

Then home we’d come for supper time

And maybe sit and read a rhyme

By Geoffrey Schmitt

Our drive took us to Herschel where my husbands Great grandparents settled in 1917