The 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 stirring of the
wee one inside.
He noted the sex, the color, and the
age
The marks from the quill soon filled
up the page.
At the number of children, she nodded
her head
And he saw her lips quiver for the three
that were dead.
The places of birth she "never
forgot"
Was it Kentucky? Utah? 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, 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 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 voice in our heart.
Author Unknown