Family history's best learned in present

Can you trace your ancestry back to the old country, the throne, the garden? Not me; I've always said I was never able to track my family back any further than my older brother, and that's not too much of an exaggeration.

One Sunday in church, a young man asked the congregation to pray for his great-grandfather. I was impressed and envious. I've never had great-grandparents, you see; that is, none who lived past the day I was born.

In fact, my last grandparent died when I was about 13, and though I remember all four grandparents (in those days, most people had only four) to a degree, I wish they could have hung around a little longer to pass some of their knowledge and love to me.

That's assuming, of course, that I was smart enough a kid to have been listening. I might very well have ignored those old people in my family the way we, as a nation, neglect our elderly and let them take so much wisdom and so many experiences to the grave.

In my preteen years, when my grandparents were still alive, they were already advanced in years, much more so than I am in relation to my own grandchildren. That last grandparent, for instance, was about 92 when he died, meaning that he was already 79 when I was born. Forget 92; I'd be happy to reach 79.

That final grandfather was called Thomas, and 15 years after his death, I named my son after him. Grandpa was born in 1871, just a few years after the Civil War. His father, Hamilton ("Hamp"), was about 24 when that war began.

Hamp was a corporal in the 9th Georgia Infantry. I've heard he was a cook, but I don't know that for sure. I'd like to believe he was helping his own men survive rather than mowing down the enemy.

At the town cemetery where my parents and older brother are buried, there is a much older, much more elaborate headstone for Hamilton Moore. In addition to the requisite dates - born 1837, died 1923 - there is this poem chiseled into the stone:

Although he sleeps,

his memory doth live,

and cheering comfort

to his mourners give.

Contrasted to that is the epitaph for his wife, Martha, who is buried beside him:

Having finished life's duty

she now sweetly rests.

That pretty well spells out what we all know has always been the case and often still is: The men fight the wars, get the glory and have their names placed in the history books, while the women do their duty. I don't know whether this says anything about the rigors of his service and hers, but she died after only 50 years, and he lived to be 85.

At my hometown library last week, I was looking in the records for any mention of my ancestors. I met a woman who also was researching her roots, but she was doing a much better job of it. She had found her ancestors in England in the early 1500s.

I'd love to know where I came from, too, but I don't have the patience to dig through archives to cull my Moores from all the other Moores, especially when "Moore" ranks ninth in the list of most common surnames in the United States. Maybe someone else will do the legwork.

In the meantime, I'm available to my grandchildren if they want to know anything about the "good old days," and I hope to live long enough that my descendants won't have to grow up without a great-grandpa.

Reach Glynn Moore at (706) 823-3419 or glynn.moore@augustachronicle.com.