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|Bio and Links|
In my youth, I lived in a small town in northern Indiana. One of the places we played was in the local cemetery. I become fascinated with the headstones and wondered what the people under the stone were like.|
As a retired phone man, I put that fascination and my love of photography to work.
I'm not into the numbers game. I take time and try to find some facts on the person I'm writing about. Feel free to use my photos and my writings if it helps you find your past, as long as its not for profit. If I can help you in any way, drop me a line. Additions and corrections are welcome.
I'm sorry, I don't work well with rude or pushy people. If you don't receive an answer to your request right away, think about it, and try again.
Your tombstone stands among the rest;
neglected and alone
The name and date are chiseled out
on polished, marbled stone
It reaches out to all who care
It is too late to mourn
You did not know that I'd exist
You died and I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you
in flesh, in blood, in bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
entirely not our own.
Dear Ancestor, the place you filled
one hundred years ago
Spreads out among the ones you left
who would have loved you so.
I wonder if you lived and loved,
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot,
and come to visit you.