GRANDMA AND THE FAMILY TREE There's been a change in Grandma, we've noticed her of late, She's always reading history or jotting down some date. She's tracking back the family, we'll all have pedigrees. Oh, Grandma's got a hobby, she's climbing Family Trees.
Poor Granddad does the cooking and now, or so he states, That worst of all, he has to wash the cups and dinner plates. Grandma can't be bothered, she's busy as a bee Compiling genealogy - for the Family Tree.
She has no time to baby-sit, the curtains are a fright, No buttons left on Granddad’s shirt, the flower bed's a sight. She's given up her club work, the serials on TV, The only thing she does nowadays is climb the Family Tree.
She goes down to the courthouse and studies ancient lore, We know more about our forebears than we ever knew before. The books are old and dusty, they make poor Grandma sneeze, A minor irritation when you're climbing Family Trees.
The mail is all for Grandma, it comes from near and far, Last week she got the proof she needs to join the DAR. A worthwhile avocation, to that we all agree, A monumental project, to climb the Family Tree.
Now some folks came from Scotland and some from Galway Bay, Some were French as pastry, some German, all the way. Some went on west to stake their claim, some stayed near by the sea, Grandma hopes to find them all as she climbs the Family Tree.
She wanders through the graveyard in search of date or name, The rich, the poor, the in-between, all sleeping there the same. She pauses now and then to rest, fanned by a gentle breeze That blows above the Fathers of all our Family Trees.
There were pioneers and patriots mixed in our kith and kin Who blazed the paths of wilderness and fought through thick and thin. But none more staunch than Grandma, whose eyes light up with glee Each time she finds a missing branch for the Family Tree.
Their skills were wide and varied, from carpenter to cook And one (Alas!) the record shows was hopelessly a crook. Blacksmith, weaver, farmer, judge, some tutored for a fee, Long lost in time, now all recorded on the Family Tree.
To some it's just a hobby, to Grandma it's much more, She knows the joys and heartaches of those who went before. They loved, they lost, they laughed, they wept, and now for you and me They live again in spirit, around the Family Tree.
At last she's nearly finished and we are each exposed. Life will be the same again, this we all supposed! Grandma will cook and sew, serve cookies with our tea. We'll all be fat, just as before that wretched Family Tree.
Sad to relate, the Preacher called and visited for a spell, We talked about the Gospel, and other things as well, The heathen folk, the poor and then - 'twas fate, it had to be, Somehow the conversation turned to Grandma and the Family Tree.
We tried to change the subject, we talked of everything But then in Grandma's voice we heard that old familiar ring. She told him all about the past and soon was plain to see The preacher, too, was nearly snared by Grandma and the Family Tree.
He never knew his Grandpa, his mother's name was Clark He and Grandma talked and talked, outside it grew quite dark. We'd hoped our fears were groundless, but just like some disease, Grandma's become an addict - she's hooked on Family Trees!
Our souls were filled with sorrow, our hearts sank with dismay, Our ears could scarce believe the words we heard our Grandma say, "It sure is a lucky thing that you have come to me, I know exactly how it's done, I'll climb your Family Tree!"
Acknowledgements: Poem by Virginia Day McDONALD The Genealogy Bug My husband has been bitten by the Genealogy bug And through our family history he has diligently dug. He's unearthed all kinds of skeletons Some were convicts, some were gentry And many had "special permits" for their Australian entry. Our ancestors were a mixed bunch Irish, Welsh and Scottish to name a few But up to date we haven't found We're listed in Who's Who! They say the dead can rest in peace But I've really got my doubts, Since I heard some of the stories That these "genies" have found out. Our once tidy house is littered With papers, books and charts As he tries to piece together Names and places from the past. Sometimes when sitting and talking, He will suddenly blurt out, Did I tell you so and so's father bla! bla! bla! Till one day I'm sure I'll shout. And the countless phone calls Beep, Beep, Is Mr. Nicholas there please? And intuitively I know They have the dread disease. So if your spouse has caught the Bug And talks non-stop day and night Just keep your fingers crossed They got their flaming records right. For you never know just who you'll find You are related to, And that person that you cannot stand. Might be kin to you! By Thea NICHOLAS (This poem was found in the PORTLAND History House, in VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA in 2001) Page made by Tanya for MSN Group Tuts Art ©rosebudsandmore |