GENEALOGY

    THOUGHTS FOR THE GENEALOGIST!

art-00041-revised-cemetery

 

       ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

                  By Thomas Gray (1716-1771)1

 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the Poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour:-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault
If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton

here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood.

Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, —

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
“Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.

“One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

“The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” 

 

An elegy is a somber poem or song that praises or laments the dead.  I was particularly drawn to some of its’ text, which does pertain to the purpose of the genealogists’.  It is our duty to give life & meaning to the families lives, that we embrace in memory.  I often called the idea, as giving a face to our ancestors or even getting on touch with our genes.  In everyone of us, we are a compilation of our past, their gifts, their intellect, & their sorrows.  As I would approach a cemetery plot & observe the dates on the tombstones, I can almost hear the mourning of pure grief over the loss of many children or one in their prime, like my uncle, Paul.  He was training for the Bobsled event in the Olympics.  The day before he was to be ordained as a minister, he was killed as he slid into a tree.

 

The 22nd stanza:

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d, 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind? 

 

These poor humble people were doomed to be forgotten. Perhaps, they looked back longing with regret, that they could not stay a little longer.

 

The 23rd stanza:

 

“On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

Ev’n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires”.

 

“These lines speak of the universal need on the part of the dead to be mourned and remembered. The dying rely on the living to keep their memory alive; the “closing eye” of the person at the point of death has a fundamental need for the “pious drops”, or tears, of those left behind who mourn their passing.  The longing of the dead to be remembered reaches from beyond the grave, “ev’n from the tomb”.  Some translators have interpreted the last line of the stanza to mean that the memory of the dead, along with their yearnings, actually live on in those of us who remain in tangible form on earth.”

 

 

The Epitaph

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair science frown’d not on his humble birth,
And melancholy mark’d him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heav’n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to mis’ry all he had, a tear,
He gain’d from heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his father, and his God.

So let’s begin the NOW with an awareness & purpose of who we are, And have a purposeful direction with a decent respect for our history.  Each day lived is another day in YOUR HISTORY.  HOW WILL YOU LIVE EACH CHAPTER?  Will your future revere your life?  What will your epitaph read?

 

Sources:

http://www.enotes.com/elegy-written/

http://www.enotes.com/elegy-written/summary#startofreplay

http://www.enotes.com/elegy-written/text-poem

GENEALOGY

 

THE FLOUR SACK

THE FLOUR SACK

LOOKING AHEAD, BUT REMEMBERING THE GOOD OLD DAYS! 

At this time of year, as we look ahead, we can’t help but look back on years past.  People of age reflect on THE GOOD OLD DAYS & how things have changed.  I also marvel at how fast years pass, especially when one reaches a ripe old age.  Young people need to be mindful of the moment, & treasure each step in their life, as if it may be the last!  Even the sorrow/ trauma/ loss is a part of the life experience.  We grow or decline in regards to our response & action to the event. By the way, Did you have your pork & sauerkraut for New Years?  The reason for pork is that a pig is always rooting ahead & a chicken is always scratching backwards!  Soooo- let’s look ahead to New Year for good fortune & health.

Now for the nostalgia of THE GOOD OLD DAYS!

 

                   We sewed and used them in the 50’s

THE FLOUR SACK

BY COLLEEN B. HUBERT

 

IN THAT LONG AGO TIME WHEN THINGS WERE SAVED,
WHEN ROADS WERE GRAVELED AND BARRELS WERE STAVED,
WHEN WORN-OUT CLOTHING WAS USED AS RAGS,
AND THERE WERE NO PLASTIC WRAP OR BAGS,
AND THE WELL AND THE PUMP WERE WAY OUT BACK,
A VERSATILE ITEM, WAS THE FLOUR SACK.
 

PILLSBURY’S BEST, MOTHER’S AND GOLD MEDAL, TOO
STAMPED THEIR NAMES PROUDLY IN PURPLE AND BLUE.

 

THE STRING SEWN ON TOP WAS PULLED AND KEPT;
THE FLOUR EMPTIED AND SPILLS WERE SWEPT.
THE BAG WAS FOLDED AND STORED IN A SACK
THAT DURABLE, PRACTICAL FLOUR SACK.
THE SACK COULD BE FILLED WITH FEATHERS AND DOWN,
FOR A PILLOW, OR IT WOULD MAKE A NICE SLEEPING GOWN.
IT COULD CARRY A BOOK AND BE A SCHOOL BAG,
OR BECOME A MAIL SACK SLUNG OVER A NAG.
IT MADE A VERY CONVENIENT PACK,
THAT ADAPTABLE, COTTON FLOUR SACK.
THEY COVERED UP DOUGH, HELPED PASS PANS SO HOT,
TIED UP DISHES FOR NEIGHBORS IN NEED,
AND FOR MEN OUT IN THE FIELD TO SEED.
THEY DRIED DISHES FROM PAN, NOT RACK
THAT ABSORBENT, HANDY FLOUR SACK!

AND A PARACHUTE FOR A CAT NAMED JACK.
FROM THAT LOWLY, USEFUL OLD FLOUR SACK!  SO NOW MY FRIENDS, WHEN THEY ASK YOU
AS CURIOUS YOUNGSTERS OFTEN DO,
“BEFORE PLASTIC WRAP, ELMER’S GLUE
AND PAPER TOWELS, WHAT DID YOU DO?”
TELL THEM LOUDLY AND WITH PRIDE DON’T LACK,
“GRANDMOTHER HAD THAT WONDERFUL FLOUR SACK!”

BLEACHED AND SEWN, IT WAS DUTIFULLY WORN
AS BIBS, DIAPERS, OR KERCHIEF ADORNED.
IT WAS MADE INTO SKIRTS, BLOUSES AND SLIPS.
AND MOM BRAIDED RUGS FROM ONE HUNDRED STRIPS
SHE MADE RUFFLED CURTAINS FOR THE HOUSE OR SHACK,
FROM THAT HUMBLE BUT T REASURED FLOUR SACK!

AS A STRAINER FOR MILK OR APPLE JUICE, STRONG>
TO WAVE MEN IN, IT WAS A VERY GOOD USE,
AS A SLING FOR A SPRAINED WRIST OR A BREAK,
TO HELP MOTHER ROLL UP A JELLY CAKE,
AS A WINDOW SHADE OR TO STUFF A CRACK,
WE USED A STURDY, COMMON FLOUR SACK!

AS DISH TOWELS, EMBROIDERED OR NOT,

WE POLISHED AND CLEANED STOVE AND TABLE,
SCOURED AND SCRUBBED FROM CELLAR TO GABLE,
WE DUSTED THE BUREAU AND OAK BED POST,
< FONT face=”Comic Sans MS”>MADE COSTUMES FOR OCTOBER (A SCARY GHOST)

 

 

              A  1930 class
  
Most all these girls’ dresses were made from flour sacks…

This precious piece has traveled the e-mail circuit.  Maybe you’ve seen it, but it’s the real thing!

GENEALOGY

MEMORIES OF A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD  is the name!!!!!!!

My website is up & running now.  There are 72279 individuals in the site.  

HERE IS DIRECT WEBSITE 

 

http://wc.rootsweb.ancestry.com/cgi-bin/igm.cgi?db=datrlr36