A CALLING ~ What calls us to find the ancestors? It goes beyond a simple curiosity. We are compelled, possessed by something bigger than us that is begging to be revealed. There’s one in most every family called to be the scribe, and I am one in our clan’s long line of storytellers. We gather and assemble the ancestors and breathe life into them again. We take what we find and chronicle the facts of their existence, remembering their names, who they were, and what they did. They are the sum of who we are, and without them, we would not exist. We greet those who came before us, restoring their place in line. We search for them in public libraries, county records, and weed-filled or well-kept cemeteries. We comb through yellowed newspapers, family archives, lovely old letters, and photo albums. We find them! And in finding them, we find ourselves.
Catherine (Clemens) Sevenau, Sep 2009 (Inspired by “We Are the Chosen” written by Della M. Cummings, 1943)
FIND A GRAVE ~ In December 2008, I added my first post to Find a Grave, a site where people around the world create records and upload headstone photos. I’ve added 3,700 memorials and managed over 8,000. (I’d been writing a family memoir, and my sister, who was dying, got mad and threatened to put a hex on me if I didn’t take out a story about her which she originally said I could use, so to keep her happy and to protect myself from her sticking a bunch of pins in me, I switched gears, waiting five years until I thought it was safe to finish the memoir). During that hiatus, I also created genealogical posts for my family lines, 211 of them and counting. I’m only halfway done. I think I have a touch of OCD.
TELLER OF TALES ~
These tales are a history, a fable, a prayer
of those gone before me, now gathered with care.
The diaries and pictures and letters enclosed
deciphered my kin and what they supposed.
Those who are living—their stories intact,
Those gone before us—who knows what was fact?
I met not the aunts nor uncles you’ll greet
Met not the grandparents whose waltz is complete.
I presume who they were by looking at me
our blossoms and thorns twining through the same tree.
Our shadows and secrets for so long passed down,
those thistles and thorns now replaced by a crown.
It was back in the thirties my parents did meet,
then married, had children with ten little feet.
I am the youngest, this teller of tales,
unearthing my family, removing our veils.
I’m descended from Clemens, the kin of my dad
who married a Chatfield—a girl some thought bad.
I’ve written of both, their histories and lives,
of Mom’s other husband and Daddy’s three wives.
I know they’ll excuse me—my gaffes and asides,
tis those who are living who might have my hide.
I wrote of my brother, my sisters, and me,
recording our stories with hazed memory.
Some snort, some are angry, some threaten, some rear,
some nights I don’t sleep from the scorn that I fear.
But it’s none of my business what they think of me,
I wrote what I deemed ’bout this family tree.
IN MEMORIAM ~ With all the sadness and trauma going on in the world at the moment, it is worth reflecting on the death of a very important person, which almost went unnoticed last week. Larry LaPrise, the man who wrote “The Hokey Pokey,” died peacefully at age 93. The most traumatic part for his family was getting him into the coffin. They put his left leg in… and then the trouble started.”
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