A poem found in my maternal grandmother's collection. The type of office humor that still gets passed around today. The poem is attributed to "Anon," and I have been unable to find references to it online.
Her saving the poem suggests my grandmother was familiar with the operation of a keypunch in the 1920s and 30s when she worked for the Post Office.
Transylvania, Holland, Alsace, Poland, England, Germany, Lithuania and Texas all contain soil upon which ancestors dwelt; Farmers, beekeepers, shepherds, tailors, blacksmiths, salesmen, clergy, judges, and doctors.
As I research ancestral lines I discover some ancestors celebrated Hanuka, others Christmas, and still others the Green Corn Ceremony; Jewish, Methodist Episcopalian, Puritan, Christian Scientist, Mennonite, Choctaw, and Cherokee.
I shall never find the records for my distant ancestors who either came to this continent by crossing the Land Bridge, or originally emerged from the Nanih Waiya in Mississippi.
I delve through obituaries, microfilm depositories, internet databases; I interview relatives, and rummage through attics.
What I find doesn't alter who I am; It illuminates the divergent, yet still intersecting paths of my ancestors.