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, withlines 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 herhead;
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 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 the 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 yearnings 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
Just let's hope this doesn't happen though
:-
A FAMILY HISTORIANS LAMENT
I've been doing family history for nearly 30 years,
Diligently tracing my illustrious forebears,
From Pigeon Lake to Peterborough, Penrith to Penzance,
My merry band of ancestors has led me quite a dance.
There's cooks from Kent and guards from Gwent and chimney sweeps from
Chester.
There's even one daft fisherman lived all his life in Leicester,
There's no- one rich or famous, no not even well-to-do,
Though a second cousin twice removed once played in goal for Crewe.
I've haunted record offices from Gillingham to Jarrow,
The little grey cells of my mind would humble Hercule Poirot.
I've deciphered bad handwriting that would shame a three year old,
And brought the black sheep of the family back to the fold.
My bride of just three minuets, I left standing in the church,
As I nipped into the graveyard for a spot of quick research.
Eventually I found an uncle, sixty years deceased.
That was far more satisfying than a silly wedding feast,
After three weeks of wedded bliss, my wife became despondent
She named the public records office as the co-respondent.
I didn't even notice when she packed her bags and went
I was looking for a great granddad's will who'd died in Stoke on Trent
But now my 30 year obsession's lying in the bin
Last Tuesday week, I heard some news that made me pack it in.
T'was then my darling mother, who is not long for this earth,
Casually informed me they'd adopted me at birth!
Author Unknown
|
Back to Top
