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. . . .

In memory of Betty and Iola and Dorris

Psalm 102:18

Let this be written

for a future generation . . .

Alex Haley is often quoted as having said that when an old person dies, it is like a small library burning. 

The difference is, most libraries only have books for which there are duplicates in many other libraries. 


But when an old person dies, it is a tragic loss of the many and varied pages and chapters of the assorted books of that person's unique life . . . it is left to us, the living, to remember and record and memorialize their stories . . .

Remembering and honoring
the varied lives of . . .

BETTY NALLS
my neighbor and friend
21 January 1928 ~ 17 January 2018

IOLA AVRETT
my 1st cousin once removed
11 February 1921 ~ 20 January 2018

DORRIS HENRY
mother of my 2nd cousins
19 January 1926 ~ 20 January 2018

Let them not vanish

like ghosts of forgotten memories . . . 

Sentimental Sunday :: Remembering the Grandmas

Remembering the Grandmas on Mother's Day . . .




I hear the voices of my grandmas
Calling out from a distant past
"Please do not let us be forgot.
Record our stories that we may last."


Tell the children of our wanderings
Let the kinfolk hear the tales
How we braved the new horizons
How we blazed the olden trails.


How we buried too many babies
How we struggled to keep them fed
How we caressed the hands of our loved ones
As they lay dying on their beds.


How we endured many a hardship
With an eye to the future goal
To create a more promising future
And to keep our family whole.


They were as different from each other
As the scraps in a crazy quilt
Yet once the pieces were sewn together
Another generation they had built


I can sense them calling out to me
From the gloaming of my past
"Please do not let us be forgot.
Record our stories that we may last."

The above family poem was composed by me back in 2009 in response to a challenge posted at Genea-Musings: Saturday Night Genealogy Fun - Poetry and Genealogy . . . and the Wordle (name cloud) was created at wordle.net . . .

Time's swift tide

When we shall have passed away, may some pilgrim linger near the spot where we are laid, perchance bestow a passing glance or smile of recognition on the name of him whose motives were unselfish, whose humble deeds live on making the very atmosphere heavy with the sweet perfume of goodness.


When beauty's face with youth no longer glows,
When Time's swift tide for us no longer flows.
May children's children read, some far off day,
The name above our long-forgotten clay.
And find a fragrant blossom o'er our dust,
Which breathes a benediction of the just.
Official Report of the American Tyler Family Reunion

Unvisited Tombs

And now having inscribed this brief record, I realize how difficult it is to write history.


A few names have been mentioned,
a few dates noted,
but how many threads must be dropped,
how many facts unwritten,
how many persons forgotten.

Faces vanish,
voices are hushed,
footsteps heard no more.

It may be events important in their results,
names potent for good or ill,
have found no place in this simple story . . .

And we deeply feel the truth of that beautiful saying of George Eliot:

The growing good of the world
is partly dependent on unhistoric acts;
and that things are not so ill
with you and me
as they might have been,
is half owing to the number
who lived faithfully a hidden life,
and rest in unvisited tombs.

Charles P. Kane (1850-1918)

To Bring the Dead to Life

TO BRING THE DEAD TO LIFE
by
Robert Graves

To bring the dead to life
Is no great magic.
Few are wholly dead:
Blow on a dead man's embers
And a live flame will start.

Let his forgotten griefs be now,
And now his withered hopes;
Subdue your pen to his handwriting
Until it prove as natural
To sign his name as yours.

Limp as he limped,
Swear by the oaths he swore;
If he wore black, affect the same;
If he had gouty fingers,
Be yours gouty too.

Assemble tokens intimate of him --
A ring, a hood, a desk:
Around these elements then build
A home familiar to
The greedy revenant.

So grant him life, but reckon
That the grave which housed him
May not be empty now:
You in his spotted garments
Shall yourself lie wrapped.

from
Terry Thornton's
Hill Country HOGS Blog

Ghosts of forgotten memories

Alex Haley is often quoted as having likened the death of an old person to the burning of a library . . . such a tragic loss of the many and varied pages and chapters of the assorted books of a unique life . . . and even more so if others have not listened to and remembered and memorialized the stories . . . then they just vanish . . . like ghosts of forgotten memories . . .

Remembering . . . Alexander Palmer Haley . . . born 11th August 1921 in Ithaca, New York . . . died 10th February 1992 in Seattle, Washington . . .

Begotten and never forgotten

I can sense them calling out to me

From the gloaming of my past

"Please do not let us be forgot.

Record our stories that we may last."

From an original poem posted at .: BeNotForgot :. which was composed for Randy Seaver's Genea-Musings: Saturday Night Genealogy Fun - Poetry and Genealogy.

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.