I should have asked them before they died.
 
There was a time when my Pappaw, ALBERT RICHARD MEADE (1910-1981) could recite 
his male ancestory all the way back to England. We children couldn't 
have cared less about who these people were.  How I wish I had listened!
I now sit fascinated; glued to my screen and my endless handwritten notes... 
excited about the slightest piece of information or the mere sighting 
of a name! And if I actually find a photo?  Absolute Bliss!! 

The information contained in this page is the product of years of off and on 
work and lots of all-nighters in front of the computer.  

Consider this project a constant work in progress.

Can't figure out which ancestors are MEAD and which are MEADE?  Join the club!
Apparently, it was MEADE until REV. MATTHEW changed it to MEAD.  Then, at 
least 
in my line, some of ROBERT MEAD's children changed it back to MEADE.  My MEADE 
name changes over with RHODES W. MEADE.  So, if you see the 'e' come and go 
throughout this page, I'm sorry.  It is VERY confusing!
And althought I don't have it listed here, the spelling of MEDE and MODE is 
also used!

Please remember that not all of this information is proven.  Use this page as 
a 
helper for your own research.  Don't be afraid to question my 
information!  I promise I won't be offended!  I believe that's how we pinpoint 
names and dates.


A Million 'Thank You's to: 
Ron Anderson, My sweet, patient Husband
Mildred Meade Adkins, who shares my love of this family tree
The Late Earl Akers and his Wonderful Family for keeping up his web site! 
Karen Ammon 
Susan Berg
Arthur Blair 
Dale & Christine Boyd 
Kim Boyd
Wayne Compton
Linda Cook
Charles Davis 
Kathy Hamilton
Susan Smallwood Herron, my Sweet Cousin from Alabama!
Patti Holland
Angie Meade Hughes
Linda Lou Blair Irick "Lindy Lou"
The Very Generous Tim Jackson in England 
Bob Kitchen
Jackie Little 
Gloria Marcum
the Mead "Guru" Mena Mead
Mike Mead
Tom Mead
the always knowing Vance Mead
the late Albert Richard "Alb" Meade, Pappaw
the late Nellie Compton Meade, Mammaw
Bobby Ray Meade
Richard Meade
Teresa & the late Avery Meade
Bill & Stephanie Meade
Louise Johnson Mullins
Minerva Calhoun Osborne
Elizabeth Park
Billie Burgess Patrick, who I believe has a connection to everyone!!
Cynthia Ann Blair Payne, "Cynthie Ann"
Charles Rice
Valda Shrimpton
Lizzie Compton Smallwood 
Mary South
Betty Sue Meade Stacy, my Mom, who has gone over & over names & memories for 
me.
The Late Jimmy Stacy, my Dad
Nell Stanley
Bob Stephens  

Want to connect with a 'cousin' or compare notes?  Please e-mail me! 
meadresearch@yahoo.com

http://www.myspace.com/charscelticmom

~*~Check here for African-American BOYD & ANDERSON family info, updated 
frequently.~*~  
http://www1.tribalpages.com/tribe/browse?userid=bettnell&rand=256907651


                            A BRIDGE ACROSS TIME

                      She calls to me from long ago;
              through sunlit skies; through drifts of snow.
     In clouds that dance upon the sea, I call to her, and she to me.

                  So real was she. She laughed; she cried.
                 She loved; she lost. She lived; she died.
                  She hoped and dreamed; so real was she. 
                      She lived a life that I may be.

                The blood through which my veins does flow
                    is the same as her's from long ago.
      So it will be that when I'm gone in an unborn child it will flow on.

                    I'll live my life and when It's done
                      I'll live again in those to come.
     For I'm a bridge from she to me; from those that were, to those to be.

           Written by Darlene Caryl-Stevens, Ddstevens@aol.com
      of Spokane, WA in August, 1998 about her gggrandmother, Ellen Ring


                               THE LAST LEAF
 
                           I saw him once before, 
                          As he passed by the door,
                                 And again
                        The pavement stones resound,
                       As he totters o'er the ground
                               With his cane.

                        They say that in his prime,
                       Ere the pruning-knife of Time
                               Cut him down,
                        Not a better man was found
                        By the Crier on his round
                             Through the town.

                       But now he walks the streets,
                         And looks at all he meets
                                 Sad and wan,
                      And he shakes his feeble head,
                       That it seems as if he said,
                              "They are gone."

                          The mossy marbles rest
                       On the lips that he has prest
                               In their bloom,
                      And the names he loved to hear
                     Have been carved for many a year
                                 On the tomb.

                           My grandmamma has said
                         Poor old lady, she is dead
                                  Long ago
                          That he had a Roman nose,
                        And his cheek was like a rose
                                  In the snow;

                          But now his nose is thin,
                         And it rests upon his chin
                                Like a staff,
                         And a crook is in his back,
                           And a melancholy crack
                                 In his laugh.

                              I know it is a sin
                             For me to sit and grin
                                  At him here;
                        But the old three-cornered hat,
                        And the breeches, and all that,
                                  Are so queer!

                         And if I should live to be
                         The last leaf upon the tree
                                 In the spring,
                          Let them smile, as I do now,
                           At the old forsaken bough
                                 Where I cling.
                                     ~Oliver Wendell Holmes