I'm a 15 year old 10th grader. Some of my Family Last Names are Leis, Placek, McCubbin, Schreck, Shepherd, Lay, Ward, Azeltine, Smith, and Walsh.

Genealogy, begins as an interest, becomes a hobby, continues as an avocation and in the last stages, is an incurable disease.
Author Unknown

Everything must have its end, or there is no Beginning. Death is not the opposite of Life, but the counterpart to Birth. Death is beautiful because it represents change.

"The life of the dead is placed on the memories of the living." Cicero

Dear Ancestor
Your tombstone stands among the rest

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 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.
~Walter Butler Palmer~

I'm a 15 year old 10th grader. Some of my Family Last Names are Leis, Placek, McCubbin, Schreck, Shepherd, Lay, Ward, Azeltine, Smith, and Walsh.

Genealogy, begins as an interest, becomes a hobby, continues as an avocation and in the last stages, is an incurable disease.
Author Unknown

Everything must have its end, or there is no Beginning. Death is not the opposite of Life, but the counterpart to Birth. Death is beautiful because it represents change.

"The life of the dead is placed on the memories of the living." Cicero

Dear Ancestor
Your tombstone stands among the rest

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 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.
~Walter Butler Palmer~