The 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,
Towards the smell of fresh bread wafting up through
the air.
The woman was tired, with lines on her face;
And wisps of brown hair 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 of her 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 felt the faint stirrings of the wee one inside.
He noted the sex, the colour, the age.
The marks from the quill soon filled up the page.
At the number of children, she nodded her head;
And he saw her lips quiver at 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, on that she was clear;
But she wasn’t quite sure 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 rode away t’owards the
sun.
We can almost imagine the voice loud and clear,
“May God bless you all for another ten years.”
Now picture a time-warp –
it’s 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 affect 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 out heart.
- - - o O o - - -
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