Genealogists never die, they just lose their roots. A hay stack full of needles. It's the threads I need. Where you confuse the dead and irritate the living. I think my family tree is a few branches short of full bloom.
Life is lived forwards, but understood backwards.
My ancestors are hiding in a witness protection program. What I'm doing, when I don't know what I'm doing. Take nothing but ancestors, leave nothing but records. Poem Many, many years ago When I was twenty three, I got married to a widow, Pretty as could be. This widow had a grown-up daughter With flowing hair of red.