A Genealogist’s Christmas Eve
‘Twas the night before Christmas and inside my house
Little was stirring, except my computer mouse.
Our descendants were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of ancestors danced in their heads.
So I at my laptop, near trusty old printer
Put the finishing touches to the project of winter,
The gift I had promised for under the tree
A product of love, the family genealogy.
My table with clutter galore was aspread
with pedigree charts of the living and dead;
old yellowed photos, letters of yore,
wills and diaries chronicling days from before.
While others bought gifts at Wall-Mart or Sears,
I’d spent my time searching birth dates and years.
No need for ribbons or fancy gift wrappings,
This gift had a way of transcending the trappings.
While surveying the charts with one final proof,
I must have missed the sound on the roof.
For what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But the jolly old elf, replete in his gear.
Searching my face, old Santa could sense
My Christmas spirit was extremely intense.
He spied my research on the table spread out,
“A genealogist!” he exclaimed, “that removes any doubt.”
As I climbed up the stairs feeling quite in the pink,
I looked back at Santa and shared a sly wink.
For he and I know that the gift of oneself,
Beats anything bought from a department store shelf.