Every day those old trees grow taller, fatter off the flesh and blood of our ancestors. They are lost there in the wood, those that begot them that begot us. And as we stumble around trying to guess from which we came, those old sentinels stand, watching over us it seems, whispering to each other as if ancient mothers proud of their toddling infants. Hush and you can hear. Take a walk with me in the wood. When I go there I feel like I’ve made it home. Safe in the arms of my mother, safe on the knees of my father. Every leaf is their flesh. Every branch is their bone. Come lay your head on the warm sandy soil. Listen to the stories they have to tell. Do not waste the wisdom they share.
(I wrote this poem shortly after I began my journey into researching my ancestry. After finding information stating the original gravesite of my Great-Greats (Aaron Hutcheson and Rutha Tharpe Hutcheson) were lost because a descendent that inherited the property either leased or sold it to the timber company, and the graves were destroyed. As I dove deeper into this venture I found that there are so many graves lost to the forest, or to progress, that this poem is for all of them.)
Myra is 25 degrees from Charlotte Brontë, 20 degrees from Louisa Alcott, 38 degrees from Victoria Benedictsson, 23 degrees from Rosalind Nield, 24 degrees from Elizabeth Gaskell, 32 degrees from Amy de Leeuw, 21 degrees from Harriet Arbuthnot, 23 degrees from Aurore Dupin de Francueil, 28 degrees from Isabella Crawford and 19 degrees from Barry Smith on our single family tree. Login to find your connection.