I've been researching my families for 30+ years and owe gratitude to the gravers here who've memorialized my people before I even knew where to look for them. My families: Bland, Graham, Wise, Hanson, Von Inse/Ince, Randolph, Bolling, Padfield, Hill, Tadlock, Bacon, Parke, Cocke, Jones, Poythress, Houston, Rice, Peeler, Allgood, Brown, Rumfelt, Marly/Marley, Patrick, Mashburn, Johnston, Brown, Wetherington, Taulbee, Armstrong, Lockhart, Campbell.

I'll make corrections, add info and likely make transfers unless I'm more closely related. Please use the edit tab.

This verse is mine, dedicated to my Bill, to gravers everywhere, especially to DPlus9 (#46635247), Buck Ivey (#46557951), Bill's cousin Roanna (#46932997), my cousin Jan (#46607804), my cousin Tunie (#46536984), my cousin Daphne (#46889859), my cousin Scott Peeler (#??)--all cousins discovered through findagrave. If you like my poem, you should see Jan's. Feel free to share my verse and credit my name or not.

THE GRAVER
My Bill looks red and windblown
As he trundles down the hill.
We seek Mary Bland, the widow, who lies
Buried and is missing still.
Those in the past who'd found her
Six miles from town had said.
No road nor which direction. I ask,
"Where were their heads?"

We've rushed to use the sunlight
And there's snow just past sunset.
The antique shop man has sent us
To these Quakers who lie here yet.
Best do it now while the weeds are low
And before it's summer hot,
And he'd called ahead to the hunt club
So we'd not be shot.

Bill went to do the scouting,
Crossing dales and over berm.
The wind blows cold, cuts to the bone,
And we think I'm too infirm.
"There are so many small ones,"
As his tale he does relate,
"But no sign of Bland in all this land."
Hmmm, is this our fate?

Bill says, "There are so many,
Both looking high and looking low,
They're scattered every which way
To squeeze them in just so.
The markers all lean over
Midst the reeds and midst the thorn.
Some stones peek up just barely
As if they had been shorn."

His knees were groaning loudly
As he stooped to see beneath.
His back was aching badly as…
Oh, dear, "The name was Heath."
He gazes o'er the distance,
Looking tired and looking worn.
He sighs, then cheers, "Next weekend...."
A new "graver" has been born.

Mary Bland is still missing near Disputanta VA and local hunters are helping us to look for her, organized by the local antique store owner. They say they trip over grave stones in the woods all the time.

I've been researching my families for 30+ years and owe gratitude to the gravers here who've memorialized my people before I even knew where to look for them. My families: Bland, Graham, Wise, Hanson, Von Inse/Ince, Randolph, Bolling, Padfield, Hill, Tadlock, Bacon, Parke, Cocke, Jones, Poythress, Houston, Rice, Peeler, Allgood, Brown, Rumfelt, Marly/Marley, Patrick, Mashburn, Johnston, Brown, Wetherington, Taulbee, Armstrong, Lockhart, Campbell.

I'll make corrections, add info and likely make transfers unless I'm more closely related. Please use the edit tab.

This verse is mine, dedicated to my Bill, to gravers everywhere, especially to DPlus9 (#46635247), Buck Ivey (#46557951), Bill's cousin Roanna (#46932997), my cousin Jan (#46607804), my cousin Tunie (#46536984), my cousin Daphne (#46889859), my cousin Scott Peeler (#??)--all cousins discovered through findagrave. If you like my poem, you should see Jan's. Feel free to share my verse and credit my name or not.

THE GRAVER
My Bill looks red and windblown
As he trundles down the hill.
We seek Mary Bland, the widow, who lies
Buried and is missing still.
Those in the past who'd found her
Six miles from town had said.
No road nor which direction. I ask,
"Where were their heads?"

We've rushed to use the sunlight
And there's snow just past sunset.
The antique shop man has sent us
To these Quakers who lie here yet.
Best do it now while the weeds are low
And before it's summer hot,
And he'd called ahead to the hunt club
So we'd not be shot.

Bill went to do the scouting,
Crossing dales and over berm.
The wind blows cold, cuts to the bone,
And we think I'm too infirm.
"There are so many small ones,"
As his tale he does relate,
"But no sign of Bland in all this land."
Hmmm, is this our fate?

Bill says, "There are so many,
Both looking high and looking low,
They're scattered every which way
To squeeze them in just so.
The markers all lean over
Midst the reeds and midst the thorn.
Some stones peek up just barely
As if they had been shorn."

His knees were groaning loudly
As he stooped to see beneath.
His back was aching badly as…
Oh, dear, "The name was Heath."
He gazes o'er the distance,
Looking tired and looking worn.
He sighs, then cheers, "Next weekend...."
A new "graver" has been born.

Mary Bland is still missing near Disputanta VA and local hunters are helping us to look for her, organized by the local antique store owner. They say they trip over grave stones in the woods all the time.