Aavedt

Member for
8 years · 3 months · 4 days
Find A Grave ID
47229161

Bio

In fourth grade, many,many years ago, I became involved with this wonderful hobby. Thank you for having this website!
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Cemetery: euphemism coined by the early Christian writers. It is a Greek word for dormitory, a place to sleep.
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"...passing down memories is the strongest link in the gossamer bridge that binds us as people."
David Baldacci.
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"The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living." Marcus Tullius Cicero.
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In eternal honor of our ancestors
Who left behind so much,
Who started here with so little,
That we might have everything.
Pax Christi.
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Genealogy is the warp on which the fabric of history is woven. It is the most immediate, personal kind of history, and for many the most satisfying kind,rooted in the pervasive values of family and heritage. It is an essential part of the one great task each of us is called upon to undertake----the exploration of who we are.
From the Vesterheim Genealogical Center and Naeseth Library literature. Madison, Wisconsin.
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A woman was trying to impress her friends at a party one afternoon. "My family's ancestry is very old." she said. "It dates back to the days of King John of England." Then turning to a woman sitting nearby, she said condescendingly, "How old is your family, my dear?"
"Well," replied the woman with a smile. "I can't really say. all of our family records were lost in the Flood."
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They, who blazed the trail and broke the Virgin soil,
Ne'er garnered half the harvest of their toil;
To-day, wher'er they sowed, others reap
To them is sleep."
their brave deeds and, alas, too often their very names are forgotten.

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""High fortune may be tossed away,
Nor health nor skill my long endure,
Only the name I bear is sure,
And since from it I cannot hide,
Lord, let me hold my name in pride."
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It's hard to understand how a cemetery can raise its burial costs and blame it on the high cost of living.
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All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

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