Linking the future to the past........... one name at a time!

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Genealogy Humour

Hi Folks:

Following is some Genealogy Humour which have accumulated over the years. Would you like to contribute a cartoon, joke etc. to this page? Just email me your [genealogy-related] funnies...

[Click on the "play" button above! You may need a 'plug-in' to hear the music & view movie]

Many, many years ago when I was twenty three,
I was married to a widow, who was pretty as can be.

This widow had a grown up daughter who had hair of red,
my father fell in love with her, and soon they too were wed.

This made my dad my son-in-law, and really changed my life,
my daughter was my mother, 'cause she was my father's wife.

To complicate the matters, even though it brought me joy,
I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy.

My little baby then became, a brother-in-law to dad,
so became my uncle, tho' it made me very sad.

For if he were my uncle, then that also made him brother,
of the widows grown up daughter, who was of course my step mother.

Father's wife then had a son, who kept them on the run,
and he became my grandchild, for he was my daughter's son.

My wife is now my mother's mother, and it makes me blue,
because although she is my wife, she's my grandmother, too,

If my wife is my grandmother, then I'm her grandchild,
and every time I think of it, it nearly drives me wild.

'Cause now I have become, the strangest case you ever saw,
as husband of my grandmother, I am my own grandpa.

I'm My Own Grandpa- Ray Stevens ( with family tree diagram)

Ray Stevens- I'm my Own Grandpa (Another Version)

One morning, three Cajuns (Thibodeaux, Boudreaux & Arseneault) and three Yankees were in a ticket line at a train station. The three Northerners each bought a ticket and watched as the three Cajuns bought just one ticket.

'How are the three of you going to travel on only one ticket asked one of the Yankees.'Watch and learn,' answered one of the boys from the Louisiana.All six boarded the train where the three Yankees sat down, but the three Cajuns crammed into a toilet together and closed the door.Shortly after the train departed, the conductor came around to collect tickets. He knocked on the toilet door and said, 'Ticket, please.'

The door opened just a crack and a single arm emerged with a ticket in hand. The conductor took it and moved on.The Yankees saw this happen and agreed it was quite a clever idea. Indeed, so clever they decided to do the same thing on the return trip and save some money.That afternoon when they got back to the station, they bought a single ticket for the return trip and watched, while to their astonishment, the three Cajuns didn't buy even one ticket.'How are you going to travel without a ticket?' asked one of the perplexed Yankees. 'Watch and learn,' answered the three Cajun boys in unison.

When they boarded the train, the three Northerners crammed themselves into a toilet and the three Cajuns crammed into another toilet just down the way. Shortly afterthe train began to move, one of the Cajuns left their toilet and walked over to the toilet in which the Yankees were hiding. The Cajun knocked on the door and said, 'Ticket, please.'

Contributed by Jackie Bourque

Remember When...

'Someone asked the other day, 'What was your favorite fast food when you were growing up?' 'We didn't have fast food when I was growing up,' I informed him. 'All the food was slow.' 'C'mon, seriously. Where did you eat?'

'It was a place called 'at home,'' I explained. 'Grandma cooked every day and when Grandpa got home from work, we sat down together at the dining room table, and if I didn't like what she put on my plate I was allowed to sit there until I did like it.'

By this time, the kid was laughing so hard I was afraid he was going to suffer serious internal damage, so I didn't tell him the part about how I had to have permission to leave the table. But here are some other things I would have told him about my childhood if I figured his system could have handled it:

Some parents NEVER owned their own house, wore Levis, set foot on a golf course, traveled out of the country or had a credit card. In their later years they had something called a revolving charge card. The card was good only at Sears Roebuck. Or maybe it was Sears AND Roebuck. Either way, there is no Roebuck anymore. Maybe he died.

My parents never drove me to soccer practice. This was mostly because we never had heard of soccer. I had a bicycle that weighed probably 50 pounds, and only had one speed, (slow). We didn't have a television in our house until I was 11, but my grandparents had one before that. It was, of course, black and white, but they bought a piece of colored plastic to cover the screen. The top third was blue, like the sky, and the bottom third was green, like grass. The middle third was red. It was perfect for programs that had scenes of fire trucks riding across someone's lawn on a sunny day Some people had a lens taped to the front of the TV to make the picture look larger.

I was 13 before I tasted my first pizza, it was called 'pizza pie.' When I bit into it, I burned the roof of my mouth and the cheese slid off, swung down, plastered itself against my chin and burned that, too. It's still the best pizza I ever had.

We didn't have a car until I was 15. Before that, the only car in our family was my grandfather's Ford. He called it a 'machine.'

I never had a telephone in my room. The only phone in the house was in the living room and it was on a party line. Before you could dial, you had to listen and make sure some people you didn't know weren't already using the line.

Pizzas were not delivered to our home. But milk was.

All newspapers were delivered by boys and all boys delivered newspapers I delivered a newspaper, six days a week. It cost 7 cents a paper, of which I got to keep 2 cents. I had to get up at 4 AM every morning. On Saturday, I had to collect the 42 cents from my customers. My favorite customers were the ones who gave me 50 cents and told me to keep the change. My least favorite customers were the ones who seemed to never be home on collection day.

Movie stars kissed with their mouths shut. At least, they did in the movies. Touching someone else's tongue with yours was called French kissing and they didn't do that in movies. I don't know what they did in French movies. French movies were dirty and we weren't allowed to see them

If you grew up in a generation before there was fast food, you may want to share some of these memories with your children or grandchildren. Just don't blame me if they bust a gut laughing.

Growing up isn't what it used to be, is it? MEMORIES from a friend:

My Dad is cleaning out my grandmother's house (she died in December) and he brought me an old Royal Crown Cola bottle. In the bottle top was a stopper with a bunch of holes in it. I knew immediately what it was, but my daughter had no idea. She thought they had tried to make it a salt shaker or something. I knew it as the bottle that sat on the end of the ironing board to 'sprinkle' clothes with because we didn't have steam irons. Man, I am old. How many do you remember? Head lights dimmer switches on the floor. Ignition switches on the dashboard.Heaters mounted on the inside of the fire wall. Real ice boxes.Pant leg clips for bicycles without chain guards. Soldering irons you heat on a gas burner.Using hand signals for cars without turn signals. Older Than Dirt Quiz:

Count all the ones that you remember not the ones you were told about: (Ratings at the bottom)

1. Blackjack chewing gum

2. Wax Coke-shaped bottles with colored sugar water

3. Candy cigarettes

4. Soda pop machines that dispensed glass bottles

5. Coffee shops or diners with tableside juke boxes

6. Home milk delivery in glass bottles with cardboard stoppers

7. Party lines

8. Newsreels before the movie

9. P.F. Flyers

10. Butch wax

11. Telephone numbers with a word prefix (OLive-6933)

12. Peashooters

13. Howdy Doody

14. 45 RPM records

15. S& H greenstamps

16 Hi-fi's1

7. Metal ice trays with lever

18. Mimeograph paper

19 Blue flashbulb

20. Packards

21. Roller skate keys

22. Cork popguns

23. Drive-ins

24. Studebakers

25. Wash tub wringers

If you remembered 0-5 = You're still young. If you remembered 6-10 = You are getting older. If you remembered 11-15 = Don't tell your age. If you remembered 16-25 = You're older than dirt!

I might be older than dirt but those memories are the best part of my life. Don't forget to pass this along!! Especially to all your really OLD friends...

History Of A Family

For some time many of us have wondered just who is Jack Schitt? We find ourselves at a loss when someone says, "You don't know Jack Schitt!" Well, thanks to my genealogy efforts, you can now respond in an intellectual way.
Jack Schitt is the only son of Awe Schitt. Awe Schitt, the fertilizer magnate, married O. Schitt, the owner of Needeep N. Schitt, Inc. They had one son, Jack. In turn, Jack Schitt married Noe Schitt.

The deeply religious couple produced six children: Holie Schitt, Giva Schitt, Fulla Schitt, Bull Schitt, and the twins Deap Schitt and Dip Schitt. Against her parents' objections, Deap Schitt married Dumb Schitt, a high school dropout.

After being married 15 years, Jack and Noe Schitt divorced. Noe Schitt later married Ted Sherlock, and, because her kids were living with them, she wanted to keep her previous name. She was then known as Noe Schitt Sherlock.

Meanwhile, Dip Schitt married Loda Schitt, and they produced a son with a rather nervous disposition named Chicken Schitt. Two of the other six children, Fulla Schitt and Giva Schitt, were inseparable throughout childhood and subsequently married the Happens brothers in a dual ceremony. The wedding announcement in the newspaper announced the Schitt-Happens nuptials.

The Schitt-Happens children were Dawg, Byrd, and Hoarse. Bull Schitt, the prodigal son, left home to tour the world. He recently returned from Italy with his new Italian bride, Pisa Schitt.

Now when someone says, "You don't know Jack Schitt", you can correct them.

Sincerely,

Crock O. Schitt

Contributed by one of my niece, Monique Bouchard (Noe Schitt)

Six retired Cajuns were playing bouree in a Holly Beach house when Euzèbe loses $500 on a single hand, clutches his chest and drops dead at the table.
Showing respect for their fallen comrade, the other five respectfully stand at the table while finishing their playing time.
Boudreaux looks around and asks sheepishly, "Now, who is going to tell the wife?" They draw straws and Guilbeau picks the short one. They tell him to be discreet, be gentle, don't make a bad situation any worse.
"Gentlemen! Discreet? I'm the most discreet person you will ever meet. Discretion is my middle name, leave it to me."
Guilbeau goes over to Euzebe's house in Hackberry, knocks on the door, the wife answers, and asks what he wants. Guilbeau declares, "Your husband just lost $500, and is afraid to come home."
She hollers, through the door, "TELL HIM TO DROP DEAD!"
Guilbeau says, "I'll go tell him."

Contributed by Michel Granger

Three Cajuns died in a car crash on Christmas Eve and were met by Saint
Peter at the pearly gates

"In honor of this holy season," Saint Peter said, "you must each possess
something that symbolizes Christmas to get into heaven."

The first man an office worker, fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a
lighter. He flicked it on. "It represents a candle", he said.

"You may pass through the pearly gates" Saint Peter said.

The second man a truck driver, reached into his pocket and pulled out a set
of keys. He shook them and said, "They're bells".

Saint Peter said "you may pass through the pearly gates".

The third man, Euzebe from the bayou, started searching desperately through
his pockets and finally pulled out a pair of women's panties.

St. Peter looked at the man with a raised eyebrow and asked, "And just
what do those symbolize?"

Euzebe replied, "They're Carols".

Contributed by Michel Granger

A Report From the 2005 World Women's Liberation Conference

The first speaker, a lady from England stood up and said, "During last years' conference we spoke about being more assertive with our husbands. Well, after the conference I went home and told my husband, Barrington, that I would no longer cook for him and that he would have to do it himself!

After the first day, I saw nothing. After the second day, I saw nothing. But on the third day, I saw that he had cooked a wonderful roast lamb."

The crowd cheered.

The second speaker, from Russia, stood up and said, "After last years' conference I went home and told my husband, Ivan, that I would no longer do his laundry and that he would have to do it himself.

After the first day, I saw nothing. After the second day, I saw nothing. But on the third day, I saw that he had done not only his own washing, but my washing as well."

The crowd again cheered.

The third speaker, a Cajun lady from Thibodaux, Louisiana, stood up and said,

"Afta last years' conference, I went rat home and tole dat lazy Coonass husband 'o mine, Boudreaux, dat I wadn't gonna do no mo'a his cookin', cleanin' or shoppin' and dat he wuz gonna have to do it all fer hissef."

The crowd got to their feet and roared approval.

When it became quiet, she continued, "And I tole 'em I wadn't gonna be down' no mo cleaning' 'em nasty crawfish, gigging' no mo bullfrogs and water dags, skinning' none'a dem musrats and nutrias or check'n no mo catfeesh trotlines."

The crowd went wild - the cheering and clapping lasted for at least five minutes.

When it again became calm, she continued, "Afta the fust day, I didn't saw nuttin'.

Afta the second day, I didn't saw nuttin' too.

But afta the thud day, I could saw a little bit outta my left eye."

Contributed by Bill Schneider

Weapon of choice

One day Boudreaux, him, he was sittin' in his coffee shop drinkin' a pop, when dis grate big fella come in and knocks him off da stool. The big fella say, "Dat was a karate chop frum Korea."

Boudreaux, him, he don't say nuttin', he jus get back on his stool an take anudder drink frum his pop.

WHAM! Da big fella knock Boudreaux down agin an' say, "Dat was a judo chop frum Japan." Boudreaux still don't say nuttin', he jus get up an walk out of dat coffee shop.

Bout a hour later, Boudreaux come back in an witout sayin nuttin', he walk up to dat big fella an WHACK! he knock dat big fella off his stool an knock him out cold.

Den Boudreaux tell da manager, "Mais, wen he wake tell him dat was a crowbar from da Home Depot."

Contributed by Jackie Bourque

The Ten Commandments in Cajun... (Keeps it REAL Simple)

1. God is number one... and das' All.

2. Don't pray to nuttin' or nobody... jus' God.

3. Don't cuss nobody... 'specially da Good Lord.

4. When it be Sunday... pass yo'self by God's House.

5. Yo mama an' yo daddy dun did it all... lissen to dem.

6. Killin' duck an' fish, das' OK... people - No!

7. God done give you a wife... sleep wit' jus' her.

8. Don't take nobody's boat... or nuttin' else.

9. Don't go wantin' somebody's stuff.

10. Stop lyin'... yo tongue gonna fall out yo mouf!

Contributed by Stan Card

A Cajun man wants a job, but the foreman won't hire him until he passes a little math test.

"Here's your first question," the foreman said. "Without using numbers, represent the number 9."

"Without numbers?" the Cajun says, "Dat is easy." and proceeds to draw three trees.

"What's this?" the boss asks.

"Ave you got no brain? Tree and tree and tree make nine," says the Cajun.

"Fair enough," says the boss. "Here's your second question. Use the same rules, but this time the number is 99."

The Cajun stares into space for awhile, then picks up the picture that he has just drawn and makes a smudge on each tree. "Ere you go."

The boss scratches his head and says, "How on earth do you get that to represent 99?"

"Each of da trees is dirty now. So, it's dirty tree, and dirty tree, and dirty tree. Dat is 99."

The boss is getting worried that he's going to actually have to hire this Cajun, so he says, "All right, last question. Same rules again, but represent the number 100."

The Cajun stares into space some more, then he picks up the picture again and makes a little mark at the base of each tree and says, "Ere you go. One hundred."

The boss looks at the attempt. "You must be nuts if you think that represents a hundred!"

The Cajun leans forward and points to the marks at the base of each tree and says, "A little dog came along and crap by each tree. So now you got dirty tree and a turd, dirty tree and a turd, and dirty tree and a turd, which makes one hundred.....So, when I start?!"

My thanks to Jackie Bourque for the above-noted joke.

What is a Cajun (... a fun definition)

[ Copyright © 1972-2005, Bob R. Hamm. All Rights Reserved ]

Between the red hills of North Louisiana and the blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, lives the Cajun. Among the marshes and the bayous, the tall oaks and whispering moss, he carries on the traditions of his hardy Nova Scotian ancestors, les Acadiens (the Acadians), whose flight from persecution brought them to the lush South Louisiana soil over two centuries ago.

In other parts of the world, little girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice, while little boys are made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails. Little Cajun children are made of gumbo, boudin and sauce piquante . . .crawfish stew and Oreilles de Cochon. A Cajun child is given bayous to fish in, marshes to trap in, room to grow in and churches to worship in.

A Cajun likes fiddles and accordions in his music, plenty of pepper in his courtbouillon, shrimp in his nets, speed in his horses, neighborliness in his neighbors and love in his home. A Cajun dislikes people who don't laugh enough, fish enough, or enjoy enough of all the good things God has given to the Cajun Country.

He doesn't like to be hurried when he's resting or distracted when he's working. He doesn't like to see people unhappy, and he'll do all he can or give all he has to bring a smile to a face stricken with sadness.

A Cajun likes to dance and laugh and sing when his week of hard work has ended. And just as Saturday night at the fais-do-do replenishes his store of energy and his personal balance so he can meet the next week's chores with vigor, Sunday at Church refreshes his spiritual and moral values and keeps strong his always sustaining faith.

A link with a proud past, a Cajun is a man of tolerance who will let the world go its way if the world will let him go his. He is a man of great friendliness who will give you the crawfish off his table, the Sac-au-Lait off his hook or the shirt off his back.

But if you cross a Cajun, he'll give you the back of his hand or the toe of his boot. If he likes you, he'll give you his whole wide, wonderful world. If he doesn't, he'll give you a wide berth. A Cajun is a complex person, with as many ingredients in his makeup as there are in the gumbo Mama makes for special company.

He has tolerance for those who earn it ... charity for those who need it ... a smile for those who will return it ... and love for all who will share it.

BUT ... a Cajun can be as stubborn as a mule and as ornery as an alligator. If he sets his head on something, he'll fight a circle saw before he'll yield to your opinions. You'd as well argue with a fence post as try to change the mind of a Cajun. And, as fun-loving as he is, a Cajun can work as long and hard as any man. He carved out "Acadiana" by hand, from the swamps and marshes and uncultivated prairies.

But when the work is done and the argument ended, a Cajun can sweep you right into a wonderful world of joie de vivre with an accordion chorus of "Jolie Blonde" and a handful of happy little words.

Five little words to be exact: "Laissez les bon temps rouler!" Let the good times roll!

Another fun-definition of a Cajun...

According to the history books, a Cajun is a descendant of
a hardy group of Nova Scotian exiles who settled over 200
years ago along the bayous and marshes of south Louisiana.
The name Cajun is a extraction of "Acadienne.... Acadian."
*
Little Cajun children are made of gumbo, boudin, and sauce
piquante, crawfish stew and oreilles de cochon. A Cajun
child is given bayous to fish in, marshes to trap in, room to
grow in, and churches to worship in.
*
A Cajun likes fiddles and accordions in his music, plenty of
pepper in his courtbouillon, shrimp in his nets, speed in his
horses, neighborliness in his neighbors, and love in his home.
*
He dislikes people who don't laugh enough, fish enough,
or enjoy enough of all the good things God has given to the
Cajun country. Also, he dislikes being hurried when he's
resting and distracted when he's working; seeing people
unhappy; and he'll do all he can or give all he has to bring
a smile to a face stricken with sadness.
*
A Cajun likes to dance and laugh and sing when his week of
hard work has ended. Just as Saturday night at the fais-do-do
replenishes his store of energy and personal balance so that
he can meet the next weeks chores with vigor, Sunday at
church refreshes his spiritual and moral values and keeps
strong his always-sustaining faith.
*
A Cajun is a link with a proud past. His is a glorious heritage!
He is a man of tolerance who will let the world go its way if
the world will let him go his. He is a man of great friendliness
who will give you the crawfish off his table, the sac-a-lait off
his hook, or the shirt off his back.
*
A Cajun is a complex person, with as many ingredients in his
makeup as the gumbo Mama makes for special company.
He has tolerance for those who earn it, charity for those who
need it, a smile for those who will return it, and love for all
who will share it.
*
If a Cajun likes you, he'll give you this whole wide, wonderful
world; and if he doesn't, he'll give you a wide berth. When
you cross a Cajun, he gives you the back of his hand and the
toe of his boot, for he can be stubborn as a mule and ornery
as an alligator.
*
If he sets his head on something, he'll fight a circle-saw before
he'll yield to your opinions.... You'd as well argue with a fence
post as try to convince a Cajun!
*
As fun-loving as he is, a Cajun can work as hard and as long
as any living man. He carved out "Acadiana" by hand, from
the swamp and marshes and uncultivated prairies.
*
When work is done and argument is ended, a Cajun can sweep
you into a wonderful world of joie de vivre with an accordion
chorus of "Jole Blone" and a handful of happy little words....
Ten little words to be exact...
"Léssez le bon ton roullé! Let the good times roll!

GENEALOGY POX
[Very contagious to adults. No known cure.]

SYMPTOMS: Continual complaint as to need for names, dates and places. Patient has a blank expression, sometimes deaf to spouse and children. Has no taste for work of any kinds, except feverishly looking through records at libraries and courthouses and scanning genealogical websites. Has compulsion to write letters and e-mail. Swears at mail carrier when no mail is left and at computer when there is no e-mail. Frequents strange places such as cemeteries, ruins, and remote, desolate country areas. Makes secret night calls, hides phone bills from spouse, and mumbles to self. Has strange, faraway look in eyes.
TREATMENT: Medication is useless. Disease is not fatal, but gets progressively worse. Patient should attend genealogy workshops, subscribe to genealogical magazines and newspapers, frequent genealogical chat-rooms, and be given a quiet corner in the house where he or she can be alone.
REMARKS: The unusual nature of this disease is: the sicker the patient gets, the more he or she enjoys it!

Blessings of a Family Genealogist

Blessed are the great-grandfathers, who saved embarkations and citizenship papers.
For they tell whence they came.

Blessed are the great grandmothers, who hoarded newspaper clippings and old letters,
For these tell the story of their time.

Blessed are all grandfathers, who filed every legal document,
For this provide the proof.

Blessed are grandmothers, who preserved family Bibles and diaries,
For this is our heritage.

Blessed are fathers, who elect officials that answer letters of inquiry,
For--to some--the only link to the past.

Blessed are the mothers, who relate family traditions and legend to the family,
For one of her children will surely remember.

Blessed are relatives, who fill in family sheets and extra data,
For to them we ow the family history.

Blessed is any family, whose member strives for the preservation of records,
For theirs is a labor of love.

Blessed are the children, who will never say,
"Grandma, you have told that old story twice today."

The top ten indicators that you've become a Gene-aholic

10. You introduce your daughter as your descendant.
9. You've never met any of the people you send e-mail to, even though you are related.
8. You can recite your lineage back 8 generations, but can't remember your nephew's name.
7. You have more photographs of dead people than living ones.
6. You have taken a tape recorder and or notebook to a family reunion.
5. You have not only read the latest Gedcom standards, you understand it.
4. The local genealogy society borrows books from you.
3. The only film you have seen in the last year was the 1880 census index.
2. More than half of your CD collection is made up of marriage records or pedigrees.
1. Your elusive ancestors have been spotted in more places than Elvis.

No Footprints in the Sands of Time

It's nice to come from gentle folks
Who wouldn't stoop to brawl,
Who never took a lusty poke
At anyone at all.

*
Who never raised a raucous shout
At any Country Inn,
Or calmed an ugly fellow lout
With a belaying pin.

*
Who never shot at a revenuer
Hunting for a still;
Who never rustled cattle
And agreed with Uncle's will;

*
Who lived life as they ought
Without uncouth distraction;
And shunned like leprosy a thought
Of taking leagal action.

*
It's nice to come from gentle folks
Who've never know disgrace,
But oh, though scandal is no joke...

It's far easier to trace!

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 twenty years or so, this rascal changed his name.

His parents came from Europe, they should be on some list,
Of passengers to the USA, but somehow they got missed.

And no one else in this world is searching for this man,
So I play "Geno-Solitaire" to find him if I can.

I'm told he's buried in a plot, with tombstone he is blessed,
But weather took engraving and 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 to a girl name Jones!!!

Murphy's Laws of Family History

The keeper of the vital records you need will just have been insulted by another genealogist

Your great-grandfather's obituary states that he died, leaving no issue of record.

The town clerk you wrote to in desperation, and finally convince to give you the information you need, can't write legible and doesn't have a copying machine.

That ancient photograph of four relatives, one of whom is your progenitor, carries the names of the other three.

Copies of old newspapers have holes which occur only on maiden names.

No one in your family tree ever did anything noteworthy, always rented property, was never sued, and was never named in wills.

You learned that Great aunt Matilda's executor just sold her life's collection of family genealogical materials to a flea market dealer "somewhere in New Your City".

Yours is the ONLY last name not found among the three billion in the world famous Mormon archives in Salt Lake City.

Ink fades and paper deteriorates at a rate inversely proportional to the value of the data recorded.

The critical link in your family tree is named "Smith".

The Art of Census-Taking

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 through 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 ... though 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,
Through their blood in our veins and their voice in our heart.

The Extended Family

There was a Mama and a Papa,
And a boy that was grown.
The boy wanted to marry
And have a wife of his own.

*
So he went to his Papa to get his OK
'Cause the girl was willing to name the day.
But his Papa said, "Boy, I have to say, No.
That girl is your sister, but your Mama don't know."

*

The summer went by and the winds did blow,
The boy met another girl and loved her so,
Again he went to his Papa to ask his advice,
And again his Papa said "No dice."
"Even though you say you love that girl so,
That maiden is your sister, but your Mama don't know."

*

Now the boy was sad and he hung his head,
Then he told his Mama what his Papa had said.
But Mama, she laughed and said, "Go boy, go."
"Your Papa ain't your Daddy, but your Papa don't know!"

Grandma Climbed The Family Tree

There's been a change in Grandma, we've noticed as of late
She's always reading history, or jotting down some date.
She's tracing back the family, we all have pedigrees.
Grandma's got a hobby, she's climbing Family Trees....

Poor Grandpa does the cooking, and now, or so he states,
he even has to wash the cups and the dinner plates.
Well, 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.

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 monumental project - to that we all agree,
A worthwhile avocation - to climb the Family Tree.

There were pioneers and patriots mixed with 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.

To some it's just a hobby, to Grandma it's much more.
She learns 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 suppose.
Grandma will cook and sew, serve crullers with our tea.
We'll have her back, just as before that wretched Family Tree.

One time, an Acadian named Yvon Cyr [yeah, sure <grin>] decided to take a Holiday with his wife and explore Cajun country in southwest Louisiana and try to find out what a Cajun and a Crawfish was.......Well...this is the story he heard.

Many, many years ago Mama & Papa Lobster had taken a holiday down the eastern coast all the way to Lake Charles, Louisiana. De two, didn't know what a Cajun was! That was a long trip for them to take and that's how they got to be their present day size and are now called "Crawfish" some say. So, one day Mama and Papa and the little bebes went for a walk in the bayou. All of a sudden, one of the baby crawfish gets all excited and so scared, runs to her Mama ....Mama, what is dat big ting? Mon bebe, that's just a cow and it won't eat you. They continue the walk, another bebe comes arunnin, scared, asks Mama what dat ting is. Mama, she say don't be scared bebe, that's just an alligator and he won't eat you. They continue meeting all these new creatures the bebes had never seen before and enjoying the day. All of a sudden, Mama and Papa both start hollering to the bebes to run as fast as they can. But, Mama, what is that ting you is so scared of? Just you run, Mama says, that is a Cajun and he will eat anything!!!!