|  THE CENSUS TAKER
(to tune of night before christmas) It was the first day of census, and all through the land, each 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 throught 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 her of 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 her head 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.. through 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... its 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 effect 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 throught their blood in our veins and their voice in our heart. L. Needham Posted by Nan
 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 the family tree. Poor Grandpa 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 babysit, the curtains are a fright No buttons left on Grandpa’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 the family tree. 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 here 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 records shows was a hopeless 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 folks, the poor and then, ‘twas fate, it had to be Somehow the conversation turned to Grandma and her 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 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 f ears were groundless, but just like some disease, Grandma’s become an addict - she’s hooked on the family tree. 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 its done, I’ll climb your family tree!”
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