I seem to have become the family historian along with a cousin of mine. We are continuing the story that our cousin LaVerne, a retired history teacher left us to tell. We put all of her research and notes up on Ancestry so our family will be able to trace our roots and get to know who some of our ancestors are. In searching, Squeak, who made the memorial for my great-great-grandmother and 2X great grandfather had this poem on her bio and I liked it. It so speaks the truth; I am stumped by who some of the pictures are in my mother's belongings and my father's baby book.

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.

I seem to have become the family historian along with a cousin of mine. We are continuing the story that our cousin LaVerne, a retired history teacher left us to tell. We put all of her research and notes up on Ancestry so our family will be able to trace our roots and get to know who some of our ancestors are. In searching, Squeak, who made the memorial for my great-great-grandmother and 2X great grandfather had this poem on her bio and I liked it. It so speaks the truth; I am stumped by who some of the pictures are in my mother's belongings and my father's baby book.

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.