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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
( Unknown Author )
Casey Genealogy (Husband's)
CASEY/ BONNER/ TURNER/ JENKINS/ CRENSHAW ....
Blackwell Genealogy (Mine)
This is a work in progress and some of it is from census records or cemetery records. I know that it is not all correct but is as close to being correct as I have been able to get it so far. If you know of any corrections that need to be made, please let me know.
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 imagine his voice loud and clear;
"May God Bless you all for another ten years."
Now picture a time warp ... it's 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.
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