|“Making Hay” at the Moore Farm – Early 1900s
|Courtesy of Roger Moore
I have been working on my Moore history since 1980. I have researched Eli Moore’s Grandfather, who was Nathaniel Moore from Chester County Pennsylvania. He had 5 sons. His partly stone home built in 1727 is in Goshen Twp. and still occupied. Nathaniel’s son Emmor was Eli’s father. Emmor had 2 daughters and 10 sons. Eli was next to the youngest of his children. Emmor lived the last few years of his life in Trumbull County Ohio, where he is buried in the Bristolville Pioneer cemetery.
I have put together over 90 family history books, with 186 pages.
Since all of my ancestors were farmers I have compiled something I call My American Pioneer Farmer.
AMERICAN PIONEER FARMER
In the immensity of the beginnings, everything was overpoweringly big, the open spaces terrifying, the silences deafening, and the winds oppressive. How did it feel to sliver away virgin sod and your life as well – furrow by furrow, day by day.
He was a natural born pioneer. You can hear him shouting with exuberance about a farm he could call his own. There is seemingly no limit to his endurance, ambition and resolve. Early and late he breaks the prairie, herds his animals, saws and hammers about a great barn, toils in his fields.
And here are the great rows of towering ash, protecting the farmstead like unyielding bodyguards. Only God in his blue heaven knows what pioneer in utter faith stuck those rooted sticks in the ground and watered and prayed and watered and prayed – all for the next generation. Everywhere are the shadows and echoes of the past.
Somewhere today there are children playing in the long and dusty farm yards. They will some day marry and beget children, and those children will beget yet another generation. We will no longer be third generation English Americans or fourth generation Irish Americans or second generation German Americans, for the bloods in our veins will be so homogenized, we will be simply Americans, and that alone, The offspring of immigrant pioneers who toiled and suffered and died that their children might inherit the promise. And then, the story of men like them, drawing their life from the soil and nurturing their families on it, like the emigrant epic today, will become fuzzy and lost in the mists of time. We forget the stories and songs of our fathers and fatherlands, and we lose the sense of that struggle in this comfortable transient society.
We are the custodian of a dream and the inheritor of its promise. In the larger and truer sense, we are all keepers of the story, for the blood that flows in our veins belongs to immigrant forebears who sacrificed mightily to make a new life, in a brave new world. A German, immigrant once wrote:
For the first [Generation], Death
For the second, Need.
For the third, Bread.
Now, before dusk, I walk my fields, as my people have done, ages ago, and ponder the fine and delicate balance between rootbound and rootless. In the immutable cycle of the seasons, the days shorten. Cornstalks rattle in the breeze, dancing in the silhouettes. Under a vermilion sky, crows congregate in a far off, scraggly box elder. Their cries, like the distant, muffled sounds of the past itself, are lost to the wind. The prairie gathers itself for the evening once again and in the autumn of my discontent, I hear Eli’s hammer, and think of him.
Kenneth & Geraldine (Roush) Moore
by Roger Moore
|Headstone of Kenneth & Geraldine (Roush) Moore
|Oak Knoll Memorial Park, Three Miles North of Sterling. IL.
This writing covers the history of my parents, Kenneth and Geraldine (Roush) Moore, their descendants and their ancestors who came to America so many years ago, looking to make a new life for their families. The book is designed to accommodate additional pages of history and pictures as each branch of the family continues to grow. At this time there are 81 pages containing 230 pictures scattered throughout. I have capitalized most all written numbers and directions in this history, to make it easier to locate those important points while reading.
I have traced most of my ancestors back in time to when they came to America and have found the Country of their origin. I have recorded here their spouses name, the places where they lived since coming to America and the names of their children. The history written here about our first ancestors contain only a small amount of information, for most of their history has been lost over time. Pictures do not exist for some of our first ancestors, for they lived before cameras. I have though, for those early ancestors, included a picture of their headstone and the location of the cemetery where they are buried. The reason I have placed a record of them here is that, with time tombstones crumble and cemeteries are abandoned and as genealogists we have a responsibility to assure that future generations have access to that information about our ancestors, and to their life histories.
Placing a tombstone serves the very basic need that each of has to remember our loved ones and in turn, to be remembered by future generations. It serves as a statement for the present and future generations that the descendent had meaning to us, that we have meaning to future generations. It serves as a reminder that buried beneath the earth supporting that monument was a living, breathing person who made a contribution as an individual and who shared a position as a family member; an individual who was a member of a community; an individual who, in most cases, was a progenitor of future generations. Placing a stone is a way of saying we will not forget and that we do not want to be forgotten. Those names and dates etched in stone are supposed to last forever. As genealogists, we have walked through cemeteries searching for those lasting reminders of those long dead anscestors who have made a genetic contribution to the development of who we are as individuals. All of us have experienced the disappointment of not being able to locate that final resting place. Then too, we have suffered the overwhelming sadness of finding that special monument only to discover that the inscriptions have faded beyond legibility, or that time has crumbled the permanence of that stone to fragments, or that vandals have wrecked the innocence of efforts to remember a special person. The conclusion is that, tombstones do not last and as genealogists we have alternatives such as Family Histories, as a way of preserving memories.