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Wanda L (#47106114)
 member for 5 years, 9 months, 16 days
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Bio Photo I Am Still Here
(Todavia Estoy Aqui)Ľ

So hard we work the land
Till we blister our hand
We sweat from sun up to
Trying to make a living,
trying to make it right
But I am still here,
todavia estoy aqui

My spirit will always run free
Youíll hear my laughter,
feel my glee
We toss the rocks aside
Built the fence with pride
Every grain of sand
reminding us of our fears

One day the swirling sand
will absorb our tears
But I am still here,
todavia estoy aqui
My memories have long
been cast
Dreams planted with promises
never to be surpassed

We grew wiser and older
Dropping the boulder off
our shoulder
We bore our children,
sent them off to school
With hope of them following
the simple golden rule

But I am still here,
todavia estoy aqui
Holding the key to
heavenís gate
Toiling in the stars
in a volunteer state

I am still here,
todavia estoy aqui
Drinking from that final
watering hole
Never leaving your heart
and soul
I am still here,
todavia estoy aqui

Alfred Ramos


"The Chosen"

We are the chosen.
In each family there is one (or more) who seems called to find the ancestors.
To put flesh on their bones and make them live again.
To tell the family story and to feel that somehow they know and approve.
Doing genealogy is not a cold gathering of facts but, instead, breathing life into all who have gone before.
We are the story tellers of the tribe. All tribes (hopefully) have at least one. We have been called, as it were, by our genes.
Those who have gone before cry out to us: Tell our story. So, we do. In finding them, we somehow find ourselves.



"If you could see your ancestors
All standing in a row,
There might be some of them, perhaps,
You wouldn't want to know.
But, here's another question, which
Requires another view,
If you could meet your ancestors,
Would they be proud of you?"

-Arkansas Parent-Teacher


Strangers in the Box
By Pamela A. Harazim

Come, look with me inside this drawer,
In this box I've often seen,
At the pictures, black and white,
Faces proud, still, serene.
I wish I knew the people,
These strangers in the box,
Their names and all their memories
Are lost among my socks.
I wonder what their lives were like.
How did they spend their days?
What about their special times?
I'll never know their ways.
If only someone had taken time
To tell who, what, where, when,
These faces of my heritage
Would come to life again.
Could this become the fate
Of the pictures we take today?
The faces and the memories
Someday to be tossed away?
Make time to save your pictures,
Seize the opportunity when it knocks,
Or someday you and yours could be
The strangers in the box.

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