I went searching for an ancestor, I cannot find him still.
He moved around from place to place and did not leave a will.
He married where a courthouse burned, he mended all his fences.
He avoided any man who came to take the U.S. Census.
He always kept his luggage packed, this man who had no fame,
And every 20 years or so this rascal changed his name.
His parents came from Europe, they should be upon a list
of passengers to USA, but somehow they got missed.
And no one else in this world is seaching for this man;
So I play genesolitaire to find him if I can.
I'm told he's buried in a plot, with tombstone he was blessed;
But the Weather took the engraving and some vandals took the rest.
He died before the county clerks decided to keep records.
No Family Bible has emerged in spite of all my efforts.
To top it off this ancestor, who caused me many groans,
Just to give me one more pain, betrothed a girl named Jones.
|Opening a can of worms||. . . .|
|Tooting your own horn||. . . .|
|Jumping to conclusions||. . . .|
|Wading through paperwork||. . . .|
|Jumping on the bandwagon||. . . .|
|Bending over backwards||. . . .|
|Making mountains out of molehills||. . . .|
|Dragging your feet||. . . .|
|Running in circles||. . . .|
|Pushing your luck||. . . .|
|Adding fuel to the fire||. . . .|
|Beating around the bush||. . . .|
|Swallowing your pride||. . . .|
|Hitting the nail on the head||. . . .|
|Passing the buck||. . . .|
|Eating crow||. . . .|
|Climbing the walls||. . . .|
|Throwing your weight around
(depends on your weight)
|. . . .|
Genealogy is my pastime, I shall not stray.
It maketh me to lie down and examine
It leadeth me into still courthouses;
It restoreth my ancestral knowledge.
It leadeth me in paths of census records and
ship's passenger lists for my surname's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the shadows of
research libraries & microfilm readers,
I shall fear no discouragement.
For a strong urge is within me; the curiosity
and motivation they comforteth me.
It demandeth preparation of storage space
for the acquisition of countless documents.
It annointeth my head with burning mid-night
oil; my family group sheets runneth over.
Surely birth, marriage, & death dates shall
follow me all the days of my life;
And I shall dwell in the house of a
family-History seeker forever.
There was a huge nut tree by the cemetery fence. One day two boys filled up a bucketful of nuts and sat down by the tree, out of sight, and began dividing the nuts. "One for you, one for me. One for you, one for me."
A third boy was cycling down the road by the cemetery and as he passed, he thought he heard voices from inside the cemetery. He slowed down to investigate. Sure enough, he heard, "One for you, one for me. One for you." He knew what it was. "Oh my god!" he shuddered, "It's Satan and St. Peter dividing the souls at the cemetery!"
He cycled down the road and found an old man with a cane, hobbling along. "Come quick!" he said, "You won't believe what I heard. Satan and St. Peter are down at the cemetery dividing the souls." The man said, "Shoo, you brat! Can't you see I'm finding it hard enough to walk as it is!" After several pleas, the man hobbled to the cemetery and heard, "One for you, one for me. One for you, one ..."
The old man whispered, "Boy, you's been tellin' the truth! Let's see if we can see the Devil himself." Shivering with fear, they edged toward the fence, still unable to see anything, but they heard, "One for you, one for me. One for you, one for me. And one last one for you. That's all. Let's go get those nuts by the fence, and we'll be done."
They say the old guy made it to town 10 minutes before the boy!
I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of his friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
from the beginning...to the end.
He noted that first came the date of her birth
and spoke of the second with tears,
but he said that what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.
For that dash represents all the time
that she spent alive on earth,
and now only those who loved her
know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own;
the cars, the house, the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash.
So think about this long and hard,
are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left.
(You could be at "dash mid-range.")
If we could just slow down enough
to consider what's true and what's real,
and always try to understand
the way other people feel.
And...be less quick to anger,
and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives
like we've never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect,
and more often wear a smile,
remembering that this special dash
might only last a little while.
So, when your eulogy is being read
with your life's actions to rehash ...
would you be pleased with the things they have to say
about how you spent your dash?
A computer was something on TV
from a science fiction show,
A window was something you hated to clean...
and Ram was the cousin of a goat ...
A byte was something you took when you ate,
Meg was the name of my honey ...
Hardware was used to lock a door ...
Gig was a musicians's job for money.
An application was for employment,
A program was a TV show ...
A cursor used profanity,
A keyboard was a piano ...
Compress was something you did to garbage,
Not something you did to a file ...
And if you unzipped anything in public
You'd be in jail for a while.
Log on was adding wood to a fire,
Hard drive was a long trip on the road.
A mouse pad was where a mouse lived ...
A backup happened to your commode.
Cut you did with a pocket knife,
Paste you did with glue ...
A web was a spider's home
And a virus was the flu.
I guess I'll stick to my pad and paper
and the memory in my head ...
I hear nobody's been killed in a computer crash ...
But when it happens they'll wish they were dead ...
E-mail contributions to Rob Nelson.
Nov 1, 2001