This site is in honor of my grandparents Ed and Eva Upton.
Through them I learned the real meaning of FAMILY.
have tried to trace my family history, both the Upton side and the Powers side. Although I do not have much on the Powers
side, I am going to keep searching. The Upton side consists of the ancestors of my Grandfather and the Underwood side is that
of my Grandmother.
The following poem is dedicated to them..............
A Trip To The Attic
The stairway to the attic
Was full of spiderwebs and dust.
The door squeeked as it opened wide,
brown with rust.
No one had been inside this room
In almost twenty years.
So with broom in hand, we swept our
Recalling childhood fears.
You see, the attic had been a scary place
For boogymen to hide.
we knew they'd get us
If we ever stepped inside.
But now, our fears have long since gone.
Curiousity took its
We wondered what treasures we would find
Stored there in that hallowed space.
We could never have imagined,
In all our wildest dreams,
The history held within these walls,
Tucked away beneath these beams.
Grandad's dusty uniform
That he wore in World War I.
Below it, sat a cradle
Grandad made for his first born
Over in the corner, there,
We saw Grandma's wooden trunk.
Hidden away and sitting beneath
boxes and junk.
We carefully opened up the lid.
And much to our surprise,
We found a wealth of family history
Tucked away, neatly inside.
There was Grandma's old lace wedding gown,
Though yellow now with age.
found her photo album.
And carefully turned each page.
In a box was Grandad's pocket watch,
And Grandma's wedding
The license when they married,
The deed to their piece of land,
A lock of hair from Mama's head
she turned one year old,
A piece of paper that told about
Some cows that Grandad sold.
There were boxes and
Of all sizes and shapes.
There were letters and cards.
There were records and tapes.
It seemed we
Perhaps even days,
Searching thru treasures
Our grandparents had saved.
Now, I'll never forget
Our trip up those stairs.
Or that dusty old room
And the history it bares.
The following poem I did not write.
I happened upon it while searching for
STRANGERS IN A BOX
Come, look with me inside this drawer
In this box I' ve often seen,
At the pictures, black
faces proud, still, serene.
I wish I knew the people
These strangers in the box,
and all their memories
are lost among my socks.
I wonder what their lives were like
How did they spend their
What about their special times?
I'll never know their ways.
If only someone had taken time
who, what, where or when,
These faces of my heritage
would come to life again.
Could this become the fate
Of pictures we take today?
The faces and memories
Someday to be passed away?
Make time to save your stories
Seize the opportunity when it knocks,
Or someday you and yours could be
The strangers in the box.
Please sign my guest book and let me know how you enjoyed your visit.