THE OLD HOMEPLACE
It's been ten long years since I left my home
In the Hollow where I was born
Where the cool fall nights make the wood smoke rise
And the fox hunter blows his horn
I fell in love with a girl from the town
As I thought she would always be true
We raised a family and had a good life
Simple living was all we knew.
Now years have gone - I know not where
And we visited to the old homestead.
It didn't stand where it once had stood
I had such a feeling of dread.
What have they done to the old home place?
Why did they tear it down?
Why did I leave the plow in the field,
And look for a job in town?
Now the geese fly south and the cold wind blows
As I stand here and hang my head.
Gone are my dreams, gone is our old home
All was lost with the old homestead.

Genealogy is more than just a hobby. It can become an addiction. We search our family history in many strange places. We stumble through forgotten graveyards and sneeze our way through dusty vital records archives. We search out our ancestors in census indexes, passenger lists, Church records and various finding aids. We beg (bug?) our elders for any bit of memories they can dredge up. We discuss the events of a hundred years ago and how they might have influenced the lives of our ancestors. We are thrilled about old newspaper clippings and a marriage certificate dated 1852 is a treasure to be wondered at. Most of all, the Genealogy hobbyist loves to share. We work with each other and share our findings with anybody that may be interested in 'our line'. Do we have other jobs - things we have to do? Of course. But a good genealogist knows how to 'Multi-Task' and get all of that done. Then we can settle down, dig through those old papers and smile brightly when we find what we have been looking for - for so long.

Strangers in the Box

STRANGERS IN THE BOX
Come look with me inside this draw, in this box I've often seen
At the pictures, black and white. Faces proud, still, serene.
I wish I knew these people, these strangers in this box.
Their names and all their memories, are lost among my socks.
I wonder what their lives were like - how did they spend their days?
What about their special times? I'll never know their ways.
If only someone had taken time - to record who, what, where or when.
These faces of my heritage , would come to life again.
Could this become the fate, of pictures we take today?
The faces and the memories - someday to be passed away?
Make time to save your stories, seize the opportunity when it knocks,
Or someday you and yours could be, the strangers in this box.