Old Cemetery on the Hill

On this date . . . the 15th day of November . . . in the year 1877 . . . in San Patricio County, Texas . . . occurs the death of Susanna O'Docharty, who was tall and slender with a shock of red hair . . . this Susanna, along with many of her family members, were laid to rest in the Old Cemetery on the Hill . . . it has been said of her that she accurately predicted her own death . . . the following is a portion of what is referred to as her epitaph . . . it is from a collection of stories handed down through generations by oral tradition . . .

And now I lie with them upon this hill
Mingling with Texas earth as seasons come and go.
Chilling northers bend grasses almost to the ground;
Low-hung clouds are misty blankets
Dropping days of rain upon the earth.

Then wild flowers make sweet the air in spring;
At dawn birds chirp and trill as if to wake us,
But we lie immutable, insensible to summer heat and winter cold . . .
While we lie here a segment of a forgotten colony.




Here I lie beside my own --
A hundred springs have come and gone
Since first I lay upon this lonely hill. . . .

The Memory becomes a Kaleidoscope

On Thanksgiving day 
the memory becomes 
a kaleidoscope, 
and every minute 
the scene changes.

You give 
to the kaleidoscope of memory 
a turn 
and there they are, 
natural as life, 
around the country hearth 
on a cold winter night.

I see that old Thanksgiving dinner.

Father at one end, 
mother at the other end, 
the children between . . .

Of the ten at that table, 
all are gone save two -- 
some in village churchyard, 
some in city cemetery -- 
but we shall sit with them yet 
at a brighter banquet.

Rev. T. De Witt Talmage. (1832-1902)

Rockdale Reporter. (Rockdale, Tex.), Vol. 10, No. 42, Ed. 1 Thursday, November 19, 1903 Page: 8 of 10

A Little Country Churchyard

I would rather sleep in the southern corner of a little country churchyard than in the tomb of the Capulets. . . . Edmund Burke (1729-1797)

The Family Scribe -- every family has one

My feelings are in each family there is one who seems called to find the ancestors . . . to put flesh on their bones and make them live again . . . to tell the family story and to feel that somehow they know and approve.


To me . . . doing genealogy is not a cold gathering of facts but, instead, breathing life into all who have gone before.


We are the story tellers of the tribe . . . all tribes have one . . . we have been called as it were by our genes . . . those who have gone before cry out to us: Tell our story . . . so, we do . . . and, in finding them, we somehow find ourselves.


How many graves have I stood before now and cried? I have lost count. How many times have I told the ancestors you have a wonderful family you would be proud of us? How many times have I walked up to a grave and felt somehow there was love there for me? I cannot say.


It goes beyond just documenting facts. It goes to who am I and why do I do the things I do.


It goes to seeing a cemetery about to be lost forever to weeds and indifference and saying I can't let this happen. The bones here are bones of my bone and flesh of my flesh. It goes to doing something about it.


It goes to pride in what our ancestors were able to accomplish. How they contributed to what we are today.


It goes to respecting their hardships and losses, their never giving in or giving up, their resoluteness to go on and build a life for their family.


It goes to deep pride that they fought to make and keep us a Nation. It goes to a deep and immense understanding that they were doing it for us. That we might be born who we are. That we might remember them.


So we do. With love and caring and scribing each fact of their existence, because we are them and they are us.


So, as a scribe called I tell the story of my family. It is up to that one called in the next generation to answer the call and take their place in the long line of family storytellers.


That, is why I do my family genealogy, and that is what calls those young and old to step up and put flesh on the bones.

Versions of this piece are found quoted on genealogy sites all over the internet. It is most often attributed to Della M. Cummings Wright.

Tombstone Tuesday :: Seated on an old grave

I now write these lines seated on an old grave (doubtless of a century since at least) on the burial hill of the Whitmans of many generations. 

Fifty and more graves are quite plainly traceable and as many more decay’d out of all form - depress’d mounds, crumbled and broken stones, cover’d with moss - the gray and sterile hill, the clumps of chestnuts outside, the silence, just varied by the soughing wind. 

There is always the deepest eloquence of sermon or poem in any of these ancient graveyards of which Long Island has so many; so what must this one have been to me? 

My whole family history with its successions of links, from the first settlements down to date, told here - three centuries concentrated on this sterile acre.” -- Walt Whitman (1819-1892) from Specimen Days

Wordless Wednesday: An Old Clipping From Reader's Digest

This was shared at Genealojournal by Lisa Wallen Logsdon . . .

Where one of my favorite quotes came from, as seen on my blog 'Old Stones Undeciphered" and on my Facebook Profile and on my Find A Grave Bio  Quote by:  Mavis Fruge

Today I visited yesterday . . .

Today I visited yesterday
And walked among the graves
Of family and friends from long ago
Whose memory had begun to fade.


  The graves were unattended
As were my thoughts of them
When a vision of the ages past
Brought back my sense of kin.

The vision showed the church lawn
On a crisp summer day
The table spread, the food prepared
And friends who would break bread.

  All my relatives were there
both young and old
Grandma and I walked hand and hand
Sharing stories never told.

We laughed and cried
And shared our thoughts
And I found the friend
I thought I'd lost.

As the sun began to fade . . .
The church bell rang out clear
Grandma and the others
slowly disappeared . . .

  Today I visited yesterday
And now the memory is strong
Of the family from which I came . . . and now belong . . .

by Pat Conner Rice

Do not stand at my grave and weep . . .

Gentle Autumn's Rain

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glint on snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain

When you wake in the morning hush
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight
I am the soft starlight at night
I am the song that will never end
I am the love of family and friend

I am the child who has come to rest
In the arms of the Father  who knows him best
When you see the sunset fair
I am the scented evening air
I am the joy of a task well done
I am the glow of the setting sun

Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there, I did not die

Original verse by Mary Frye (1932)
Additional verse by Wilbur Skeels (1996)

Graves of our fathers . . .

"Who are these graves we know not,

Only know they are our fathers."

From a post by . . . :: footnoteMaven :: . . . about an 1887 Guide to Genealogists on How To Write The History of a Family.

I have a hope beyond the grave

It is now night

and all is silent.
I am here alone
and in silence 
all my past friends
with all my relations
fall heavy on my mind.

They all are gone,
and I too must soon follow.

To be laid in the dust 
in the silent grave
and there to be 
forever forgotten
makes the cold chills 
run over my whole body.

I have a hope beyond the grave.

That hope is that 
when I am consigned 
to my grave,
someone on the earth 
might remember me.


From the Diary of Joseph Kemp

April 1, 1853

From The Tri-County Genealogical Society in Missouri. Found today while researching Cole Younger (a distant cousin), who died on this date in 1916. A fellow blogger once had this quote featured on their family history blog, stating that they first heard it on the BYU channel while watching the series, "Ancestors." I have not yet (as of 2009) found other references to a diary of a Joseph Kemp.