Today we go back to the root of who we are and have become. Ancestry and genealogy are hot hobbies and people want to know about their heritage. In keeping with that mind-set, we want to know, “Where do you come from?”
“HOW DO YOU VIEW your life? – POETIC BLOOMINGS MEMOIR PROJECT
Part 10: The Mother Land – Our ancestors all came from somewhere else. Tell us what you know about your ancestral homeland. Delve into your heritage. Relate a story passed down in the family about it. Are there traditions that are still observed? Write a poem about it.
MARIE ELENA’S BACKGROUND:
MAKING EXPLOSIVES
I’m exactly half Italian, and half Irish.
One would assume this fusion
would increase the predilection toward explosive behavior.
I blew that theory all to pieces.
Copyright © Marie Elena Good – 2012
WALT’S ORIGINS:
WHERE THE FALCON FLIES
Polonia, where the falcon flies
above your land in your hallowed skies,
I long to walk where my ancestors lived.
You have given me a name and you
have given me a heritage, it is where
the root of this poet is grounded.
Founded in freedom, your borders
had changed with regularity though wars
and confiscation, oh blessed nation
where the falcon flies. My heart swells
with Polish pride and my eyes fill with
your wonder. I am under your spell.
From Oświęcim and Igolomia and Poznań
to America, the connections elicit sighs
for you Polonia, where the falcon flies!
Copyright © Walter J. Wojtanik 2012
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
Hummm – this is tricky. I am from a ‘melted-pot’ of unknown ancestry, a bit of this, a bit of that, some sugar I am sure, hot pepper (yes) mixed with seasoning salt. Dash of wine to make it smooth. Meat, veggies and nuts, with added yeast to help the growth. Mixed and stored over time as more of these and those are added then plopped upon a board and kneaded to help it blend.
the pot keeps growing
as ‘this and that’ is added
to the family mix.
🙂
Wonderful – a keeper!
😉
My hubby calls it a FAMILY FRUITCAKE.
A keeper for sure!
Marie Elena
Yep… a “melted-pot” here too! Like your recipe 🙂 !
Looking forward to reading your ‘stew-recipe’ 🙂
🙂 🙂 !!
The most truth unforced and spilled freely…beautiful Marjory!! 🙂
😉
Mmmm — a tasty piece, Marjory! 🙂
Good morning (7:40 west coast time)
Viv, Hanrietta, Hannah and Pam – Thank you each – Yes, seems to be a good mix – if bit nutty at times…….. 🙂
… 🙂
This is such an endearingly eclectic mix, Marjory. Keep adding new ingredients! 🙂
Thanks – Yes, we seemed to be doing just that!
Lol! Love it Marjory. I think alot of us have the same ingredients!
Guess the best a lot of us can do is say we are American (or Canadian) (or British…) (OR……) 🙂 :0 We call go back to Noah’s ark.
Marie – you make me smile. Walt your rightful pride shines through.
Had not planned to post so early, but was typing as I thought about the prompt – and the truth came out! 🙂
I agree with Marjory, Walt and Marie.
Yes … that Polish pride is what caught my attention back in 2009. 😉
Marie Elena
As with Marjory:
?
Asked–Irish,
I say, by the names:
Yates, and Cullen.
Herron on one side, likely English.
My father’s mother,
said to be Dutch,
might have been Deutsch
(an unsafe
nationality for two world wars).
Her cows were Jersey,
and Hereford.
Hogs: Hampshire, Poland China. And
I remember
an old Dominicker hen. But small
mention of human origins.
Barbara! I love how you end this and how neat to bring in her animals…very cool! 🙂
Oh, Barbara — I’m with Hannah on this — love the ending! Funny how little we know sometimes of our own origins, and how much we try to guess from names and clues. Interesting, too, how at times, we get more information about the animals than we do of our own ancestors. 😐
Fantastically recorded
But, I about chocked on my morning coffee (With laughter) when I strolled down to the cows! How true – our histories can sometimes reflect more about animals than people.
Delightful read.
😀 Love it, Barbara!
Marie Elena
Interesting mix of Irish and Dutch/Deutsch ancestors. And I agree with Marjory – sometimes our animals reveal more about our histories than the people themselves do. I really loved those last lines! 🙂
Where do I come from ?
Old Tom, Young Tom,
Tom and his son Tom
of Norfolk* on my father’s side.
A nineteenth century Maloney,
refugee from potato famine in Ireland
on my mother’s side.
A mixture of pragmatism,
common sense and superstition,
fighting spirit, humour
and musicality the result.
*Norfolk, England, not Norfolk Virginia
I love how you open this, Viv…and continue to bring us a distinct view of you! Well done!
Oh yes — I like this, Viv! Your pragmatism, common sense and humor come through quite clearly — and musically — in this piece! 😉
Oh yes, Viv – this sound “So You.”, that is 98% good. With about 2% mischief. 🙂
I loved the final verse, summing up what might have been gleaned from your background, regardless of cultural ancestry! Great poem, Viv.
Hear, hear!
Marie Elena
Viv, my family also shares that delightful mix of pragmatism and superstition. I loved your poem!
Love that you had to clarify the Norfolk for us!
Meg and Walt, enjoyed both. This is a difficult one.
Thanks Hen!
meg
🙂 !!
This first one was my immediate response and the one that follows begged to be written too. Great prompt…love what you’ve done with it poetical peeps and gracious hosts!! BIG Sunday smiles to all!
Horsehair Brushes and Turpentine
Pull the tincture of cobalt blue wide across the horizon,
handle the angle afresh, umber thickened timber
branches extend, a welcome to the woods.
Yes, feel the still reflective pool
add a dab of deep navy for contemplation,
tint the edges of all with titanium white;
the brightest thoughts, wishes and desires.
I come from a land of etchings and spilt paint,
generations of women who’ve answered willingly;
rising to the call for creativity in their hearts.
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2012
Variegated…
Splash of English a dab of German,
flecks of Norwegian show mostly in my bones;
blonde and blue-eyed while the rest contrast,
(my immediate family have brown hair and dark eyes).
Give the brush a hint of Native American
explains my sister’s olive complexion,
(and a tan I’d always be envious of).
Pull the palette knife swiftly, if you will, in the ink of Irish,
fashion in a crisscross action the bright plaid of the Scottish
and while you’re at it gather in the liquid dense tips of bristle
all the colors of the rainbow and give that masterpiece a generous spattering.
Yes, there, now it is perfected…roots grouped richly in umber loam,
the collective tree of life reaching tall and broad on this crisp canvas of blue.
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2012
Ahhh — Both pieces are beautiful, Hannah! I love how nature and art are as much a part of you as any/all genealogical elements. Perfectly painted! 🙂
Thank you, Pamela!!
Gorgeous!!!
Thanks a bunch, Hen!!
You’re very welcome, friend! 🙂 !
Both just beautiful – you have such a wonderful, discriptive use of our language and how you understand the world and yourself. Well done.
Wow…thank you Marjory!!
Hannah, I love the comparison of the artistry of your ancestry with the artistry of the brush in both poems. And I adore,
“I come from a land of etchings and spilt paint,
generations of women who’ve answered willingly;
rising to the call for creativity in their hearts.”
Wonderful!
Thank you so much for this generous comment, Linda!
Oh my goodness. Hannah your beauty just radiates with every syllable you pen. Wow.
Marie Elena
I’m so humbled, Marie, thank you so much for such kind, kind words…touches my heart. ❤
Beautiful arrangement of all the layers.
Hannah, both your poems are lovely, but the first one is my favorite, as it is filled with exquisite metaphors. I love the way you integrated your visual, artistic talent with your heritage. Wonderful job!
This is gorgeous, Hannah. Beautifully observed, and painted – in colour and words!
[…] Poetic Bloomings […]
Oh dear, still running way behind, so I am taking the easy way out for now: posting a poem fro 2010, and hoping that I can ease back into a writing routine again soon. For now, here’s Mór, (Hungary). 😉
Mór, Hungary
Hungarian is Greek to me
and what little German I recall
is either silly or profane,
still, I would like to visit Mór
Scavenge the local town hall,
or library, for old documents
recording family deaths,
marriages and births
or a cemetery, perhaps,
where I might put flowers
on graves of great grandparents,
great uncles and aunts
There’s family there I’ve never met,
I’ll bet, distant relatives twice,
and thrice, removed, second cousins,
and thirds, and maybe more
Only a note in Ellis Island records
I will likely never get there
at least, not in this lifetime,
still, I would like to know Mór
Clever!
Yes, and well written.
Love the beauty and the totally appropriate pun:
“still, I would like to know Mór”.
Witty, clever, and touching, Pamela.
And again I say, Hear, Hear!! EXCELLENT, PSC!
Marie Elena
So much history to behold…this is a gem, Pamela!! Great write!
Pamela, there are so many old family tales, so much undiscovered history in these little towns, with their old records and their cemeteries. A very touching piece!
Love it – and looking for MOR from you, soon. Nice to see you here, Pamela…
Marie, you really DID blow that theory all to pieces! And Walt, your Polish pride shines through. Nice work, poets! 🙂
Haha! Thanks, my friend! 🙂
Marie Elena
I’m a mix of German and Irish (I know, I know), but wrote about this:
Luck of the Irish
Emerald eyes, the isle
where you kiss the Blarney Stone,
flattery the pattering
of eyelashes, shy-
a rosy blush on ivory skin.
You dance jigs with leprechauns
through miles of clovered fields,
hoping good luck might cover up
ill-tempered streaks
that appear in briny air
faster than the changing tides
a slap of water, frothy suds
drown, one’s own confessional
a cure-all, redheaded dolls
who frown upon the word NO,
so up the ante on the charm.
Fun and deligtful to read…
I especially like the ‘picture’ that comes to mind
“…dance jigs with leprechauns…”
Laurie, what a charming and humorous (so Irish) description of the Irish. Very much enjoyed!
Bravo, Laurie! Charming, indeed!
I didn’t get the blue eyes, nor rosy blush on ivory skin. My Irish grandmother had ivory skin, blue eyes, and nearly coal black hair. What a combination!
Marie Elena
Oh, Laurie…your opening stanza is just awesome…great poem!!
Dynamic and delightful, like the leprechauns’ gigs! 🙂
I’m still grinning over your slant rhymes: “flattery the pattering
of eyelashes,”
WHAT IS IN A NAME?
I was born Bahen, a name unique.
I was told it was Irish, but even Ireland
said it could not be so.
I still claimed to be Irish.
I was 55 before I discovered
that it had been changed at Ellis Island
from Behan, definitely Irish.
Someone could not spell.
A research project in grade school
showed my real heritage:
Irish-German-French-
Scotch-English-Canadian.
More concisely, I am American.
We Americans are a mix
of all the wonderful cultures
this planet has produced over its lifetime.
The strength and richness of America
comes from this diverse mixture.
Though it has not always been smooth
we are who we are because of it.
Now my last name is Polish,
and my children can add
Polish, Slovak and Russian
to their American heritage.
I hope that the wealth of our ancestry
continues to add diversity,
for the more we include
the richer our family becomes.
Yes… after all these years… the only Sure thing is: American, born and raised!
“American” is a wonderful heritage.
Beautiful job, Linda! Love the last line especially. Wonderful!
Marie Elena
More concisely, I am American.
We Americans are a mix
of all the wonderful cultures
this planet has produced over its lifetime.
Love this!! So true…Great writing, Linda!!!
Such a rich heritage, Linda! I love the last stanza!
I’m posting a recent poem for now. As someone who’s been functioning as the family historian for almost 15 years, I know there are more stories lurking in my files that can be turned into poetry.
Those Mountain Women
I come from a line
Of strong mountain women,
Rugged as the terrain they called home.
Great-Granny and her life steeped in grief,
Burying babies and a husband taken by typhoid,
Looking so tiny and frail
But tough enough to carry on.
And then Grandma,
Difficult times made more desperate
When abandoned to raise six children alone.
They wasted no energy on complaints and blame;
Understanding the immensity of their burdens,
They persevered,
Driven by necessity and fierce love.
As years have passed,
More generations of daughters
Have scattered across the country,
Feet planted on the rolling prairie,
In the blazing Texas heat,
Under endless Colorado skies,
With burdens of their own to bear
But with the same fierce love of family,
A part of their hearts
Still rooted back in West Virginia,
Still channeling the strength
Of those mountain women.
What a charmingly different look at heritage, Mary. I felt your connection to the women in your past, present and future in this stunning poem.
Thanks so much, Linda!
I cannot improve on how Linda presents it. Ditto every word, Mary. Excellent read!
Marie Elena
Excellent!! And I love these word bumps “steeped in grief,” and “tough enough,” “Under endless,’ such great sound pairing.
The content is potent, all together a great write, Mary!
Yes! Thumbs up on this great crit!
Marie Elena
:)!
Thanks Hannah and Marie!
What a wonderful heritage of strong women to be a part of, 🙂
Linda, your poem touched me deeply – my family is also full of tiny-but-tough women who persevered through all their problems. Your elegant descriptions truly do them justice. An impressive read! 🙂
Mary, upon rereading this thread, I realized that I had addressed you as “Linda” in my prior comment. I am enormously sorry for my gaffe – my attention must have slipped while writing. The rest of the comment, however, still stands 😀
No worries, Andra, it happens to me quite often! Thanks for your kind comments.
“Bones”
Do you see this nose? A thin lumped map—
legacy from the Viking era enmeshed of Norseman
and warrior tribes.
Three quarters of my bones descend from men who
wore homespun wool tunics, who sailed aloft in
longships, from Fredensborg county in the kingdom
of Denmark with patriarchal surnames ending in “strom,”
along the coast and inland from Sunne, Värmland County,
Sweden, these are the sons of Magnus, sons of Peter,
sons of the fair and strong.
Do you see these shoulders? Inherited from Great Grandma
Anna, the Norwegian washer-woman who carried the
weight of her new world upon those hefty muscled girders
of hers.(My brothers always said I should have been a
quarterback. These shoulders used to throw a mean spiral.)
Do you see these phalanges from finger-tip to finger-tip?
These hold the final quarter with dexterity that descend
from the story that peaks our kin, out of the Nebraskan soddies—
where one room housed the hopeful, one skillet held the
chicken that ran loose from its head. Here a twin was born,
a twin of a twin, from a gaggle of kids to work the prairie,
a grandfather who would one day marry an English woman
of noble blood,
descending from Knighted Sirs named Thomas and Daniel,
who sailed an ocean and begat and begat and begat
from pilgrim New England to surname Custis to
surname Dandridge to Martha’s second husband:
Mr. G. Washington, to General Lee—those men upon
horses, who carried a sword for men not yet born.
These bones of mine, these mapped bones so dry, this thin
lumped nose, these girded shoulders, these hands carry a
wealth of America mixed with Nordic pride.
Oh-so-well researched, written, and presented! WOW!!
Marie Elena
Beautiful history leading to today.
Thanks, Marjory.
Thanks MEG.
Jlynn, your poem weaves a complex tapestry of your family’s history, of the secrets held in “these mapped bones so dry”. Love it!
Thanks, Andra.
My favourite of the lot. You carry the bones imagery so cleverly, and make the bones live. Just beautiful.
Thanks, Andrew.
A wonderful journey. 😀
Thanks, Misk. A double thanks to you for your expert translation work.
Where Do You Come From?
One set of grandparents sailed
to American, speaking Russian
and Yiddish. The other set left
from Romania, demure doll-like
woman, and a tall, loud, laughing
man, who was familiar with
local social clubs and Turkish
coffee.
I never met the Romanians,
but did become close
to my Russian grandparents,
even though communication
was always iffy. She baked,
I ate, and it all worked out.
Blue eyes come from my Romanian
grandfather, love of food and makeup
from my Russian grandmother,
thick hair from all.
Sounds like a wonderful heritage. I especially like….
“….though communication
was always iffy. She baked,
I ate, and it all worked out….” 🙂
Yes, and “demure, doll-like woman” capture me as well. Your piece made me smile, Sara!
Marie Elena
Wow, I actually broke into a smile as I read your poem – you and I have something in common: a set of Romanian grandparents! The Turkish coffee you mentioned is very popular in Romania. Your poem is a lovely glimpse of the not-so-distant past! 🙂
… and I see you made Andra smile as well! 🙂
meg
Beautifully observed – especially like the “she baked, I ate, and it all worked out.” I have a grandmother like that…
Thanks, Andrew!
Where Did I Come From
“And now that she’s yours – your history becomes her history – that’s all you need to remember.”
(advice given to my parents when they were given “non-identifying” info upon my adoption in the early fifties – and it turns out, this was the rule, not the exception)
I was a lucky child, one of the chosen ones
Other people had to have their babies
But I was chosen … the implication hits
Eventually – if I was somewhere waiting
To be chosen, how did I get there?
And didn’t it mean I had to be un-chosen
That is to say — left, abandoned—first?
Questions that were not to be asked then …
Years later I would seek out my birth mother
Not trying to uncover a heritage
But a medical history – something else deemed
Unimportant back in the day …
Reeling from confirming a legacy of lunacy
Wondering whether this was what I’d sought
Or was I hoping to negate the truth
I ignored most of the other information
For months, maybe even as long as a year.
When you’re trying to get un-mental
That takes up almost all your time
Validating you have inherited genes
That give you a predilection for insanity,
One you are most likely going to pass on
Can be somewhat all-consuming, plunging you
Further down the rabbit-hole then ever
You thought possible, given that you figured
You had bottomed out long ago …
By the time I rallied and became convinced
That having my mental health status authenticated
Could only be helpful, after all – the more information
I had, the more likely my health could be improved
As could my children’s, should the need ever arise –
Knowing my roots was anti-climatic to say the least
Still, my birth mother, bless her heart, was gently
Persistent – sending me “pedigree charts” – a term
I at first found offensive until I realized her brother
My birth-uncle, had done some actual genealogical
Research and this was a valid term for the findings
As I began to feel better mentally, my curiosity
Piqued – going from no roots to a family tree
Became fascinating and I started to trace the branches…
I had to hand to Children’s Aid in Ontario
They had made some effort, it seemed, to match
Me to parents with very similar ethnic backgrounds
No wonder people used to say, “Oh – I would have
known you were John’s daughter anywhere!”
We may not have shared DNA or blood
But we both had ancestors in Scotland and it seems
Mom and I each had come from a long line of Brits
Not exactly the same British folks but still …
Close enough that we shared blond hair, blue eyes
and ruddy complexions – even an affinity for plaid…
So it turns out I do hail from the British Isles
My love of the pipes maybe does run through my blood
I am anxious to visit where my actual ancestors
Lay beneath sod and see if I feel anything familial
About the place and the people there
I recently learned I lost an uncle at Dieppe
And have been studying that history a little more now
My birth mother originally tried to provide me with
Information about my birth father and from time to time
I toy with the idea of searching for him even though
He would have to be quite old by now – when first I met
Her, I asked where she thought I might start looking for him…
Since her thoughtful suggestions were, “prison” or “a cemetery”
I didn’t feel too encouraged to look … that could be, as the kids
are fond of saying “TMI”.
Seingraham, our biological legacy is less important than what we make of it. Your poem is a touching trip through your search for your roots.
Oh beautiful soul … a wonderful, powerful read. Your geneology may be sketchy in some respects, but you are most definitely leaving a rich love heritage to your children and grandchildren. And they will know some medical background that you had to seek out. Bless your heart!
Marie Elena
Sharon, this is crazy good – quite a wild ride uncovering the “legacy of lunacy”! Much admiration for the work you have done, and for the way you tell it.
Augh – I think you have the best of the information. – deep love to pass on.
The story of my heritage is simple, as most of my ancestors are Romanian (the rest were ethnic Germans living in Romania). I was born in Romania, immigrated to the US with my family, then came back after some time. I believe my personal heritage is a mix of the people and experiences encountered in both of these countries – my roots are neither here, nor there. Bearing that in mind, here is my poem:
Braided Strands
I am a rope bridge straddling the Atlantic
my palms cocooned within Michigan’s water,
my Black Sea heels pivotally implanted.
Two inverse lands made me their curious daughter,
their colors wound around my fragile guardrails,
my hybrid blood besprinkled with saltwater.
These braided rope-strands hold my Ole’mamma’s tales,
my father’s idiosyncratic manner,
my Schwabisch Ole’pappa’s talent for details,
the segments of my first-grade daily planner,
my first friend’s zany, enthusiastic grin,
my first achievements on a paper banner,
the tilt Grandmother impressed upon my chin,
the lank reveries to which my kin are prone,
the veil around my mother’s cameo pin,
firm bonds with a language mirroring my own,
a sum of inciting scholarly demands,
the way north-eastern rain infiltrates each bone.
Straddling inverse shores, my oddly-braided strands
course along imprints of these assorted hands.
© Andra-Teodora Negroiu, 2012
Andra, this is so BEAUTIFULLY penned. A poetic painting of lovely, revealing allegory. A WOW.
What a pleasure to count your voice among us!
Marie Elena
Thank you for your kind words, Marie Elena. I am happy that my allegory touched a chord and I hope to be a part of this blog for a long time to come.
As do we, Andra!
Marie Elena
This is lovely, Andra. It stands alone as a poem; your”braided strands” connecting with the larger world & still remaining personally yourself.
Thank you for your comment, Marian! I wanted to express the way the strands connect me to the rest of the world, but also how each strand carries a bit of the people I love inside it. I think we are all shaped by the little day-to-day actions of our friends and family, particularly during childhood – that is, in my opinion, one way to look at our heritage.
I love your opening stanza! I could get tangled up in that for hours.
This is marvellous Andra – a masterpiece with such intricate brushstrokes and colours … I can barely articulate the beauty – brava!
Thank you, Jlynn and Sharon! I believe that the details and little brushstrokes are just important the idea itself when writing a poem. I am very happy to hear that you liked them! 🙂
Beartifully written. 🙂
Must stop commenting for now (chores are calling) – hope to be back later.
Thank you for your comment, Marjory! I am glad you liked his poem. 🙂
Polyglot
What language shall I speak for you
tonight? Ignore the laughing scar
the tell-tale marks on cuff and hem
the hair pushed back, the darting pulse
And let me sing a lullaby
of waving corn, of bullet trains,
of mountains high in India
of all the pieces of my life
kept hidden in the cloth-bound book
you pulled from my cagoule today,
words running from the rain, planets
yearning to find a home – with you.
An amazing write, Andrew! I have to admit I had to look up “cagoule.” I read this several times, and will read it several more. Oh, to write as you do…
Marie Elena
Andrew, this is marvelous! Sometimes the history we want to tell others, the inside details “kept hidden in the cloth-bound book” are more revealing than the reality-bound stories, with their all-too-tangible laughing scars and tell-tale marks.
This is brilliant Andrew, truly – you tell your life so poetically, so much more beautifully than I could imagine … really fine work.
A Swede One Night
Grandma
met a Swede one night,
and indeed as the saying goes,
one thing leads to another,
which was my father, one
of twelve children from many
one thing leads to another,
but as Dad always said,
the past is best left
where you leave it –
Every family has two sides.
Very intriguing, Misk! Sounds like a movie plot.
Marie Elena
Misk, I like this lighthearted perspective upon your past, particularly the line about the past being best left where you leave it. It took me a long time to learn that important lesson … 🙂
To save the cost of carving,
the stone reduced
his grandmother’s first
and middle name,
Cornella Caledonia,
to C. C., assigned to
oblivion by the time
those told by those who
her knew her are gone.
The traditions he prized
were closer to home,
this county, the acres
within walking distance
most often, at times
as far as the mules
could pull the cart.
By the time I knew
I needed to sit and talk
at length with him,
exploring my own past,
my own forebears,
he drifted off to sleep
between the questions,
waking with a start,
picking up a tale
where he’d left off.
About his own roots,
he had to ask my father,
his son, “Where did they come
from, Ellis? Was it Ireland
or I-o-way?” Gently,
without mocking, my father
answered, “Ireland, Daddy.”
Suddenly I understood
his relentless drive to grow
not just all crops but especially
potatoes, even when his eyes
failed him so that he often
plowed right over the plants,
he grew them, enough,
more than enough, for us,
for the whole county,
I’d venture, storing them
in the cool crawlspace
beneath his house, using
them as an excuse to drop by
my first home, a grocery sack
loaded with potatoes, still
dusty with Zip City soil.
“They may be a little
shivelled up,” he always said.
“Just rub off the sprouts.”
It all adds up, in the hard times
his own blood spoke to him
of hunger, famine, blight.
Never let go to waste food
that forestall starvation.
I imagined I heard the fiddles,
the lonesome hornpipes play.
* I know it should have shriveled, but Papa Coats never worked the r into the word. He was the most gentle, generous of men.
The roots of your Family love shines in this poem.
What an endearing, revealing piece. Papa Coats sounds wonderful, Nancy. Wonderful and loved.
Marie Elena
Such an endearing portrayal of Papa Coats – the traditions he prized, his relentless drives andthe hard times that affected him and, in a way, made him who he was.
Not my own ancestry, but a classroom experience that still makes me laugh. True story:
Older than the usual guest presenters,
he also had a heavy accent,
bushy eyebrows, a hint of humor
buried deep. Entering the class
of high school juniors
in a chicken farming rural school,
he was asked, “Where are you from?”
and gladly told them his home country,
ignoring the edge of sarcasm
from the boys who asked. Instead,
he asked them too, “Where do you
come from?” and listened
as they told him the specific community,
Wittenburg, Stony Points, Taylorsville,
until one hard case, arms crossed
defiantly across his chest, responded,
“I come from my mama.”
Without flinching, the gentleman replied,
“Ah yes, another very large place.”
Oh my!! 😀 So glad you shared it, Nancy!
Marie Elena
I almost choked on my lemonade when reading those last two lines. The man’s reply was brilliant, given the condescending attitude of those boys.
Overflowing
Our family melting pot
Overflows with ancestors
From all over the world
Generations
remaining unknown
Sometimes a country, Germany
Perhaps Wurtenburg
Our Grandmother
Shocked and alone
Her husband –to- be
dead from fever
Strangers from Moravia
taking her in
like one of their own.
She married grandfather
A traveling man,
Once again, alas,
Nights filled with tears
The Irish and Scots had found
Better hills in old Kentucky
Squirrel stew and cornbread, too
Plucking their guitars and banjoes
Their songs still sung today.
The Quakers from England’s
Southern shore barely escaped
Their cruel laws
Only to settle on Delaware’s shore
Where once again they tried
To pray away laws still more cruel
Struggles still carried on today
And probably tomorrow, too.
Such a mood created here, Marian. You always paint a picture and mood with your words. The difficult times weigh heavy. Well done.
Marie Elena
Although the story of your family is laced with difficult times and some nights filled with tears, there is also strength to be found in these things. The songs and struggles that continue to be sung and respectively carried on over time indirectly bind generations together.
Stories Before Me
My parents taught hard work and honesty
and though Mom attended church,
none of us five girls were made to go
But I always held if I knew God existed
I wouldn’t be content at keeping my distance.
I wanted to be intimate with Him,
and when I was fourteen I learned
that was possible in Jesus.
So I dedicated my life to Him
in complete devotion.
Getting to know Him was new to me
and a great adventure. Imagine my surprise
when my genealogist sister discovered
we came from a long line of pastors,
including Samuel Maycock who was appointed
to be the pastor of the first church at Jamestown.
The Maycocks, when living on an acreage outside the fort,
hid their infant daughter Sarah
during the Jamestown massacre of 1622.
Samuel and his wife were murdered,
but Sarah went on to marry George Pace
whose father Richard had warned Jamestown
and saved those living within the fort.
Another ancestor, Captain Drury Pace
was a chaplain in the revolutionary war.
Some of my ancestors, Scotch Irish,
came over to the U.S.A in the 1600s
and settled the area in Pennsylvania
where I grew up. My sister has an original deed,
dated 1796. That land is now part of the
State Game Lands.
My great grandfather married
and was widowed on their ninth child.
On a trip, he met and married another,
failing to tell her he already had nine kids.
It’s reported that he simply said, “Here’s your family,”
as he introduced them upon arriving home,
my Grandfather Bill being one of them.
So my grandfather Shannon was born in the area
but my grandmother was from Kentucky.
She shared a grandmother with Billy Ray Cyrus
about seven generations back.
The Scotch Irish was a wild bunch
taking the new land by storm,
with “the Bible, a gun and a bottle of whiskey.”
I dropped the gun and whiskey,
but cling to the Bible.
Wow … what an interesting heritage! I just read the part about about your great grandfather to my husband. We are both sitting here just shaking our heads. 😉
I love your final sentence.
Marie Elena
Good job Con. It is alot of fun and challenge to find out these “names” that we call our ancesters. Grandpa Matthew must have been a real gem. Aunt Nancy said she he brought his new wife Mary home, all she was was about nine sets of eyes peeking out at her. And the thing about it was…she stayed!! LOL.
Nine children – wow! Your great-grandmother must have been a very brave woman. I admire the fact that your family kept their faith intact through all these generations.
Greetings my fellow poets! I’m staging a comeback! Haven’t tended the garden in quite some time. Be back soon…
Benjamin
YAY, YAY, YAY!!!
Your Local Bloomin’ Gardners
Great examples Marie and Walt. I’d love to stay and read, but have no time right now. Still packing. Took the time this morning to put together this little one for the prompt. It sort of says it all.
Recipe for Self
Grind emerald into moss
Taken from the little people,
Add leaves from tartan greens,
Mix with “Saxon via Hastings”
For the perfect blend of flavors;
On the side take Native civilization
With a thing for alphabets and toss;
Add dressing with sea’s tang
For the journey to the table,
And enjoy the resulting dish.
Claudsy, I love your winsome metaphors. Such a beautiful little poem! 🙂
“Winsome metaphors” says it all. Love it, Clauds! SOOO “you!”
Marie Elena
Thank you so much, Andra. I’m so glad you enjoyed it.
I feel ike I know you even better, now.
That’s so kind. Thank you, Kelly. Some days I’m not even sure I know myself, but when we can surprise ourselves, we know there’s more to look for. I’m glad you liked my poem.
OKLAHOMA AND MISSISSIPPI
Oklahoma and Mississippi
rooted down in the rubber city
a match made in heaven
eventually found their home in northeastern Ohio
where Indian Okmulgee creek
and Mississippi hot chocolate meet
they were grafted from different trees
they joined in oneness and those roots sunk deep
that’s why we still call it home
yielding precious fruit, so, so sweet
just add a hint of Irish
and you’ve got the motherland
Nice poem, Benjamin! I particularly like sense of unity created by the lines “their roots sunk deep / that’s why we still call it home”.
How good it is to have you return to us, Benjamin! You’ve penned the perfect poem for a comeback. Welcome home!
Marie Elena
Never Forget
I have stood on the battlefields where blood was shed and seen the ghosts of the walking dead. I let their pain and history seep into my soul, haunted by the mysteries buried on a knoll. I need to go back and feel the earth, a place that is just a fraction of my birth but the connection runs so very deep, I can ‘never forget’ their restless sleep. So while the bagpipes play up on the knoll, I weep for each departed soul … wrapping the music around my frame an invisible kilt that goes by one name – Scotland.
thistle tea cup
drinking in the blood and tears
one page at a time
(Note: I am primarily German and Norwegian but from one Great-Grandfather comes my wee bit of Scottish and that thread has been more alluring to me than my more prominent heritage. I am from the Clan Graham and the clan motto is ‘Never Forget’. The ‘Thistle’ is a national emblem of Scotland.)
Michelle, so much of history is made on these battlefields … The place I come from, Romania, also has a history marked by many such battles and has evolved through time into a sort of melting pot of Latin, Hungarian, Germanic, Slavic and Turkish influences (among others :)).
Haunting, historical haibun. I particularly find the haiku portion intriguing and brilliant. Excellent write, Michelle!
Marie Elena
Bella Famiglia
(Beautiful Family)
My family tree roots are stunted
as the “old-timers” have all passed on.
There used to be letters from
relatives in the homeland.
They have disappeared along
with the stories and the
fuzzy details.
It was said our surname was
chopped off upon arrival at
the lovely lady’s island.
(but, who knows for sure?),
many with my maiden name
can be found in phonebooks
across this land.
My first name begins with a letter
that doesn’t even exist in the
Italian alphabet. I continue to
defend my heritage to the naysayers
who contend my hair is the wrong
color and my skin to pale. (ever
been to Northern Italy?)
Just try to beat me in a game of “Morra”
or taste a better Wedding Soup.
True, my children are twenty-five
percent more Italian than I am.
Maybe that’s why they can eat
pizza for breakfast, lunch
and dinner…Bellissimo!
© Kelly (Conti) Donadio 2012
BELLISSIMO for certain, Kelly! So endearing!!
Marie Elena
Kelly – che bellla poesia! I hadn’t heard about Morra before reading this – I think I’m going to try it out with my family.
* bella – sorry for the misspelling.
Playing a little catch up
Shore Not Certain
When it comes to a homeland
I have no security
Norway only an eighth
Throw in some German
Irish, English, and
If you believe my great grandma
From Texas
A little Cherokee too
If I was a puppy
You’d find me at the pound
Aww… such sad, sweet last two lines…
[…] this installment, we are asked to delve into our heritage and ancestral homeland. I will admit that it is a heritage […]
[…] Written for Poetic Bloomings Prompt #75 (Memoir Project – Part #10): The Mother Land […]
From Whence I Came
Strange, but when in my developing years
Talk of my ancestors rare struck my ears
Little was muttered from whence I came
As if there might be shame in my name
Perhaps no one cared
Perhaps no one dared
Perhaps my lack of question’s to blame
As of late there’s a spark of curiosity
‘Bout those that came and went before me
So far I’ve discovered links to the Irish
A mixture of Welsh, topped off with Scottish
As I dig in the file
All points British Isle
With little from anywhere else on the list
Since coming to America all is quite plain
Just about all generations lived in Maine
I and my brother escaped the North cold
Traveled the world, breaking the mold
The South is home for me
The South is where I’ll be
With my wife and family until I grow old