Please be patient as I will try to get to my emails as soon as I can. My father passed away on New Year's Eve and I was gone for a month, so I am a bit behind on things. Thanks for your patience. If you would like to leave flowers on my dad's memorial page, click on my dad's name, David Hernes.
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow;
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle Autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush,
Of quiet birds in circled flight;
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there, I did not die
~Mary Elizabeth Frye (1932)
Her memorial page is #40647533
Strangers in the Box
by Pamela A. Harazim
Come, look with me inside this drawer,
In this box I've often seen,
At the pictures, black and white,
Faces proud, still, 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, 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 tossed away?
Make time to save your pictures,
Seize the opportunity when it knocks,
Or someday you and yours could be
The strangers in the box.
Behold and see as you pass by
As you are now so once was I
As I am now so must you be
Prepare for death and follow me
(Taken from the headstone of my great-great-great-great-great-great uncle, Josephus Benoni Bellamy, whom died in 1777 at age 16)
The Recording of a Cemetery
by Thelma Greene Reagan
Today we walked where others walked
On a lonely, windswept hill;
Today we talked where others cried
For Loved Ones whose lives are stilled.
Today our hearts were touched
By graves of tiny babies;
Snatched from the arms of loving kin,
In the heartbreak of the ages.
Today we saw where the grandparents lay
In the last sleep of their time;
Lying under the trees and clouds -
Their beds kissed by the sun and wind.
Today we wondered about an unmarked spot;
Who lies beneath this hallowed ground?
Was it a babe, child, young or old?
No indication could be found.
Today we saw where Mom and Dad lay.
We had been here once before
On a day we'd all like to forget,
But will remember forever more.
Today we recorded for kith and kin
The graves of ancestors past;
To be preserved for generations hence,
A record we hope will last.
Cherish it, my friend; preserve it, my friend,
For stones sometimes crumble to dust
And generations of folks yet to come
Will be grateful for your trust.
Your tombstone stands among the rest;
Neglected and alone.
The name and date are chiseled out
On polished, marble 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 how you lived and loved,
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot,
And come to visit you.
~ Walter Butler Palmer (1906)
His memorial page is #87759950
The Final Gift
Scatter me not to the restless winds
nor toss my ashes to the sea.
Remember now those years gone by
when loving gifts I gave to thee.
Remember now the happy times
the family ties we shared.
Don't leave my resting place unmarked
as though you never cared.
Deny me not one final gift
for all who come to see.
A single lasting proof that says I lived,
I loved and you loved me.
~ Rev. D.H. Cramer
We are the chosen.
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.
Doing genealogy is not a cold gathering of facts, but instead, breathing life into all who have gone before. We are the storytellers of the tribe. All tribes have one.
We have been called, as it were, by our genes. Those who have gone before us cry out to us: Tell our story. So we do.
In finding them, we somehow find ourselves.
~Della M. Cummings Wright
Her memorial page is 88692807
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