Part 3: The Gary Gauntlet and the Bureaucratic Brick Wall

 

Gary, Lake County, Indiana Index to Death Records, 1908-1920, Joseph Koss, digital database; Ancestry.com: accessed 30 July 2025, image 10 of 14.

This is a continuing series on my genealogical adventures in obtaining family records for a dual citizenship application. You can read my previous blogs here and here.

By early afternoon, I decided to head straight for Crown Point, the county seat of Lake County, Indiana. According to the website, the building that housed marriage and divorce records was located directly across the street from the one with birth and death records. Efficient, right? I actually thought to myself, “Wow, Lake County has it together!”

Think again, Lori.

Crown Point Confusion

Our GPS led us to… a juvenile detention facility. No address numbers anywhere. Hoping for better luck, we crossed the street to a large, official-looking government building and went inside.

That’s where I was able to obtain one record: a marriage certificate. After six hours of effort, that felt like winning the lottery. The staff promised to research the divorce record and contact me if, yes if, they found it.

Next stop: the County Health Department, which, according to an officer, was “the white building next to the juvenile facility.” Turns out the reason we hadn’t seen it was because it was set so far back off the road it might as well have been hiding.

My husband noted, “Hey, we got the first free parking space right in front of the door. That’s a good sign!”

Narrator: It was not a good sign.

Enter: The Wall of Gary

The moment we walked in, we were greeted by multiple signs declaring that the health department did not have records for Gary.

Wait, what? This is the Lake County Health Department, and they don’t have records from one of the cities in the county?

I double-checked the website later, no mention of this. I asked the clerk at the window where I could get Gary records. She looked at me like I had just uttered profanity in Latin. “At Gary’s Health Department,” she snapped.

“And where is that?” I asked.

Without a word, she pointed to a sign with an address on it, turned, and walked away.

Wow.

The Ethnic Club and the Mystery Man

My original plan had been to stop at two more locations that day, a local ethnic organization where my family had once been active, and the Diocese to pick up church records. But it was nearly closing time, and now I had three stops to make, clearly, that wasn’t happening.

We decided to do as much as we could, spend the night and continue the next day.

We started with the ethnic club, since it was close by. A car was parked out front, but the building doors were locked. I had tried to reach out to them previously with no success. No website. No returned Facebook messages. At this point, I figured I'd just mail them a query and hope for the best.

As we were pulling away, a man opened the front door. I jumped out. He wasn’t affiliated with the group but rented office space there. Still, he was helpful, gave me two phone numbers and admitted that the organization wasn't exactly known for its communication skills. No kidding.

He also offered advice on dual citizenship. Turns out, he was trying to apply, too but his info was wrong. He’d tried to get his birth certificate through VitalChek. I’ve used them before. They happily took my money and never delivered a record. (Pro tip: if you use them, pay with a credit card that’ll support you when you dispute the charge.)

This man told me he had made 37 phone calls to try to track down his birth certificate because, brace yourself, Gary wouldn’t give it to him.

Why not?

“You’ll figure it out,” he said.

Oh boy. I could hardly wait.

A Warm Welcome in Gary

Next stop: the Diocese. They informed me the church records I needed had been transferred to another parish. I called. They had just closed, literally two minutes earlier.

So we decided to head straight to downtown Gary to try and retrieve the birth and death records I needed.

When we arrived, a shirtless man was being confronted by a police officer on the sidewalk. And in my head? Back Home Again in Indiana was playing. You can’t make this stuff up.

We parked quickly and headed inside the same building I had visited as a child to get my birth certificate before starting school. The elderly security guard greeted us warmly and directed us upstairs.

The First Hint of Hope

There were two employees at the counter, and one immediately asked what we needed. Miraculously, we received two birth certificates almost right away. After seven hours of driving, detours, and dead ends I finally had three documents in hand.

Then things went south. Fast.

The Death Certificate Debacle

I asked for three death certificates, dated 1919, 1966, and 1970. (See pic above) The woman behind the counter asked for the deceased individuals’ birth certificates.

I calmly explained: they were born in the 1800s, outside the U.S., and their countries didn’t issue birth certificates at that time.

Her response? “No birth certificate, no record.”

That is not Indiana law. That is a clerk making up her own rules and digging in.

I showed her original death records issued by that very office. She didn’t care. She asked for death certificates of their children which I provided. I also gave her birth and baptism records for one child.

Still no.

I tried to show her obituaries naming the parents and just for fun, me. Nope. She wasn’t having it.

Then she turned and walked away, loudly repeating, “Birth certificate, birth certificate, birth certificate” as if chanting it would magically make them appear.

We left empty-handed.

At this point, we checked into a hotel in nearby Porter County because I had one more shot at records the next day.

Spoiler: Things get weird. Again.

Registration Is Open for the 2026 NGS Family History Conference — And I’m Teaching a 3-Hour AI Workshop!

The National Genealogical Society has officially opened registration for the 2026 NGS Family History Conference, taking place May 26-30, 2026 in Fort Wayne, Indiana. If you’ve been thinking about attending a major genealogy conference next year, this is a wonderful opportunity. Fort Wayne is home to the world-renowned Allen County Public Library Genealogy Center, making it one of the best locations in the country for genealogical research and learning.

I’m excited to share that I’ll be teaching a three-hour beginner workshop on using AI as a genealogy research assistant.

This workshop is designed specifically for those who are:

• curious about AI but not sure where to start
• overwhelmed by new technology
• wondering what AI actually does for genealogists
• looking for tools that make research and writing easier
• eager to work smarter, not just harder on their projects

What We’ll Cover

During this interactive session, we’ll explore:

• How AI can help you plan and structure research
• Where it can (and cannot) interpret records
• How to create stronger logs, summaries, and timelines
• Ways to improve your historical writing and citations
• Best practices for accuracy, ethics, and reliability
• How to build your own repeatable AI workflows

My goal is to give you tools you can use immediately, whether you’re working on a family story, preparing a client report, or tackling a brick-wall ancestor.

Why AI Matters for Genealogists

AI doesn’t replace genealogical reasoning. Instead, it strengthens organization, speeds up repetitive tasks, and frees you to focus on the analysis and interpretation that only a human researcher can do. It’s an exciting time in our field, and I’m thrilled to help genealogists explore these tools in practical, down-to-earth ways.

Join Us in Fort Wayne!

If you’ve never attended an NGS conference before, you’re in for a treat. You’ll find:

• dozens of sessions across skill levels
• networking with researchers from across the country
• access to one of the world’s best genealogical libraries
• opportunities to learn new methods, tools, and approaches

You can register now through the NGS website:
👉 Register

I hope to see you in Fort Wayne next May and I can’t wait to share this workshop with you!

Dual Citizenship Part 2: Chicago Chaos

 

Cook County, Illinois Marriage Indexes, 1912-1942, Koss, Mary, digital image; Ancestry.com: accessed 30 July 2025, image 145 of 304.

After all the issues I’d already encountered (you can read about here), I foolishly believed things could only get better. So off to Chicago I went.

Stop 1: Cook County Clerk’s Office

I started at the County Clerk’s office, bracing myself, several colleagues had warned me about unhelpful staff. To my surprise, the clerk I got was wonderfully professional. One small mercy. Unfortunately, I didn’t walk away with any of the three records I was hoping for.

I had a certificate number for my grandparents' marriage record, but it wasn’t in the system. You can see it exists from the picture above. I was also looking for a birth certificate that was possibly never filed; after all, I had a church-issued “Birth and Baptism” certificate. Back then, churches often issued those in lieu of civil records, and that document had even been used by a family member to enroll in Social Security. Still, no luck.

I was also searching for a death certificate I’d requested by mail on 31 March, four months prior to my visit, with no response. After about an hour of searching, the clerk informed me that a specialist would need to take over the research and contact me once they found something.

Correction: if they find something.

Stop 2: The Elusive Archives

Tip for Cook County researchers:

• Ask security where to scan your parking garage ticket to get a discount.
• When you first arrive, skip the main office, go down the first hallway with a large sign and a barcode. Scan it to get an electronic number. My wait? Only 25 minutes.

While I waited for a maybe, I moved on to Plan B: the Archdiocese of Chicago.

From there, I drove several blocks to the address listed on the Archdiocese's website. Found a garage, $27 for 15 minutes (ouch), and entered the building.

Inside, I was informed (drumroll...) the archives are no longer located there. They knew the website was wrong. No apology, no signage, no indication they planned to correct it. Clearly, they don’t want people to use the archives.

The receptionist suggested I call the real archives before heading over I suppose they don't like visitors. I did and was told to mail my request instead of dropping it off. I explained I was already in town for one day and just wanted to drop off the application to ensure my information was correct.

Back to the car. $27 parking bill for 15 minutes. No discount from the diocese, either. So much for grace.

Stop 3: A Parking Lot Blessing?

I spotted another lot across from what I hoped was the correct archives this time only $11 for 15 minutes. Progress! As I crossed the street, I realized the building was none other than Old St. Pat’s, where my husband’s great-great-grandmother, Mary “Molly” O’Brien Cook, had secretly brought her sons to be baptized. (Read my blog about dear Molly)

That felt like a good sign. (Also made for a great photo op.)

Inside, however, I was told the archivist wasn’t available, was going on a two-week vacation, and I shouldn’t check back until late August. The secretary reviewed my paperwork, made a few copies, took my check, and that was that.

The wrinkle? I wasn’t 100% sure which church my grandparents had married in, either St. Salomea, which is now closed, or St. Benedict’s, the family’s parish at the time of my great grandparents' last child’s birth. Here’s a fun fact: if you don’t know the exact church, the Archdiocese will not help you. No guessing allowed.

I gambled on St. Salomea and asked how to access St. Benedict’s records. “They’re still open,” the secretary told me, handing me their address. I asked if she’d mind calling ahead to make sure someone would be there. She wouldn’t. Just handed me the address and not even a good-bye. Wouldn't give me the phone number, either.

So, onward to Blue Island.

Stop 4: St. Benedict’s—Sort Of

About 30 minutes later, I arrived to find the church closed and the office now located somewhere else entirely. Apparently, the Archdiocese archives hadn’t gotten the memo.

My GPS couldn’t find the new location, so we tried another app and eventually found the building, locked. After ringing the bell twice, a woman finally came to the door. Without opening it, she told us everyone was in a meeting and to come back later.

I explained that I’d been sent by the Archdiocese and simply wanted to leave a message. After a pause, she let us in and asked for the couple’s names and marriage date. I handed her a copy of the Cook County index listing with the certificate number.

She disappeared into a back room, reemerged a few minutes later, and informed me: “No one by that name was married on that date.”

Sigh. The saga continues next week...

Part 1: The Dream, the Deadline, and the Diocesan Detour

Have you ever stopped to wonder what happens to all the records you’ve created over your lifetime, the birth, baptism, school, marriage, employment, and so on? Truthfully, I hadn’t either. Not until last summer, when I embarked on a new family adventure: dual citizenship.

A Quick Note Before We Begin

I'm currently partnering with a new startup, citizenship.eu, which helps U.S. citizens navigate the process of applying for dual citizenship. When I shared this with my family, my adult kids immediately asked, “Wait, why aren’t we doing that?” Umm… good question. So we all jumped in, and as the keeper of the records, I became the designated gatherer.

That’s when I discovered something infuriating: even though I already had most of the records we needed, the consulate won’t accept them. All documents must be CERTIFIED. In other words, I had to go out and get them all. Again.

We made the decision on a Tuesday in late July. I emailed the consulate that night and received instructions the next morning. Efficient start, right? I immediately submitted requests for records from places too far to visit in person (Arizona and Florida), and then started prepping for the in-person trek. I affixed stickies to each document listing the archive’s name, phone number, address, and hours of operation. My plan:

• Tuesday – Chicago
• Wednesday – Indiana
• Thursday – Ohio
  Two weeks, tops. I’d be done and have the documents. Right?

Ah, sweet optimism. Within days, that dream timeline was toast and by the end of the second week, I would’ve been thrilled to finish in three months. Four months later, I'm still waiting for one! Why the delay?

Let’s just say I discovered firsthand that archival recordkeeping in the United States is a certified disaster.

And So It Begins...

My first unexpected hurdle? Tracking down my own church wedding record.

We were married at our university chapel, which has since closed, so I called the diocese to ask where the records had gone. They gave me the name of a parish to contact. I left a message. A few hours later, I got a call back: Wrong church. I was told to try another.

Funny twist, the new secretary and I realized we had a strange connection: our husbands had once taught at neighboring schools and knew each other. Small world. I sent off another email. No response. I called the next day and was told it went to spam. Okay... but if they knew that, why hadn’t they, you know, read it and responded?

Next email I received was that there was NO record. I was told someone else would need to look at it in a few days. Five days later, I received an email: “We found the entry, but we can’t read the handwriting, so we can’t create a new certificate.” Lucky for them, I had a scan of the original. I sent it digitally. Five days after that, a new certificate arrived in the mail except it was typed up with the wrong church.

Cue another email.

The Sacrament Shuffle

Next came one of our children’s baptismal certificates. But the other child, I was told the church refused to issue it because sacraments had been received “out of order.” Excuse me?

Turns out they had confirmation on record but not communion, so the secretary, apparently moonlighting as a canon law expert, decided she couldn’t issue the certificate. One quick email from me with the communion record attached, and that should’ve been settled. But the principle of the thing? Maddening. I later learned that many parishes separate the sacraments - one book for baptism and confirmation and a separate book for communion. I suspect that the church where the communion has occurred either didn't send the info to the church that held the baptism record or the receiving church didn't record it back in the day. I have now insured it's fixed for eternity.

NARA: Fast Processing, Slow Arrival

I also contacted NARA Chicago to request emigration records. To their credit, they processed and charged my card lightning-fast. The problem? Nothing arrived. Ten days went by. I emailed them to ask if the records had been sent. My mail delivery is spotty at best, which is one reason I had planned to collect as much in person as possible. They had mailed them and resent. You can see how the postal service delivered the second set - cut open on both ends.

NARA Chicago, it turns out, doesn’t have ship manifests or census records and though those are free online, the consulate requires certified copies. That means hiring someone in D.C. to get them in person.

So far, no luck. My go-to researchers hadn’t responded probably because it’s not in their usual wheelhouse. The NARA-DC website is quirky and I was unable to request them online. I thought I might need to make the trip myself because of course I will if I have to! Stay tuned because next week as the saga continues with more twist and turns.

Wrong Boat, Right Story: Cracking a Pilgrim Family Myth

 

Not all pilgrim stories wear black hats or buckle shoes. Some travel quietly through time in meeting minutes, migration maps, and a stray penciled “(Pilgrim)” on a lineage list. No dramatic claims, no grand family lore, just a quiet truth waiting patiently until the right record whispers at the right moment.

This Thanksgiving, I’m grateful not only for the bold ancestors who stood at the prow of history, but also for the gentle ones who crossed oceans in faith and humility, leaving their legacies in ink and example rather than brass and ceremony.

For years, my husband’s Williams family cherished a tale that they were descended from a Pilgrim. The “proof” sat in a letter written in the 1960s by the family matriarch, Gertrude Honaker, who wrote that Balsora Dorval had belonged to both the DAR and a Mayflower-related society.[1]

There was only one hitch: no such membership could be found. Not with the DAR, not with the General Society of Mayflower Descendants, not in early Pilgrim lineage rolls.[2] A genealogical dead-end dressed in patriotic stationery.

Balsora, the daughter of John Hicks Williams and Catherine Jarvis was born 23 April 1821, on Long Island, New York, the eldest of ten.[3] She followed her family to Lansinghburgh, Rensselaer, New York and married Edward Dorval in 1845.[4] The couple eventually made their way to Chicago and then Toulon, Stark, Illinois.[5] She died in Toulon on 22 December 1907 and is buried there.[6] She lived a solid, steady American life. But as for those lineage memberships? Silence.

Balsora Williams Dorval c. 1860

Still, I never let go of the thread. Family stories rarely spring from nothing; the facts just sometimes take the scenic route.

Then, while drafting sketches for my current genealogy project, Echoes of Brittania, I stumbled across a saved reference: The Lineages of Members of the National Society of Sons and Daughters of the Pilgrims, Vol. II. There, under membership no. 8308 for Della Ruthe Skates of Parma, Ohio, was a lineage tracing back to:

Dr. John Rodman II (Pilgrim)
(ca. 1653 – 10 Jul 1731)
m. Mary Scammon (ca. 1663 – 24 Feb 1748)

It cited Jones, Rodman Family Genealogy; History of Hocking Valley, Ohio.

And suddenly, the light came on.

Dr. Rodman wasn’t a Mayflower Pilgrim. He was a Quaker physician imprisoned in New Ross, County Wexford, Ireland for refusing to remove his hat in church.[7] He was banished to Barbadoes where he and wife Elizabeth, parentage unknown, raised their family. Two of their sons, John and Thomas, like their father was a physician; the brothers decided to relocate to Newport Rhode Island where John married second, Mary Scammon in 1682.[8] So the actual line runs: Dr. John Rodman -Thomas Rodman - Elizabeth Rodman m. Benjamin Hicks - Margaret Hicks m. Wilson Williams leading at last to the Williams family and to Balsora’s line.

When I think of Pilgrims, I think of the Mayflower voyage in 1620. I don’t picture a Quaker doctor arriving sixty-two years later by way of the Caribbean! But clearly, my definition and the definition beloved by late-1800s genealogists and patriotic club founders aren’t the same. Their scope was a bit more generous. That generosity was remembered by their great grand nieces.

So this Thanksgiving, as we’re passing around the sweet potatoes, I can finally share that I’ve solved the Pilgrim family mystery. Different ship, different year, different take on the meaning of “pilgrim.”

And here’s the delicious part: in all this, I had to laugh, because my research long ago found that the family does descend from an early Plymouth settler Robert Hicks, who arrived on the Fortune in 1621, just one year after the Mayflower.[9] Somehow, that piece drifted out of family memory while the Barbados Quaker got promoted to “Pilgrim.” It must have been the hat!

From Bards to Bard

Photo by a kind docent at Shakespeare's Home, Stratford on Avon, August 2024.

 

We had just left the library, me, exhilarated from chasing an elusive 14th-century ancestor through a nest of old parish records; him, simply relieved to stand upright again after half an hour on the bottom shelves. He’d spent the morning handing me books like a dutiful squire and now looked as though he deserved a knighthood or, at the very least, a sturdy chair. Fortunately, Shakespeare’s schoolroom promised benches and history. Two things I never resist, and one he can usually nap through.

Inside, the air smelled of beeswax and old oak, the kind of room where you half expect to hear the scratch of quills and the snap of a tutor’s patience. A man dressed in full Elizabethan regalia was lecturing with theatrical gusto about young William’s schooling. My husband settled in contentedly, no doubt counting this as his rest stop on the Tudor trail.

Then came the story of how Shakespeare’s sister once disguised herself as a boy to attend lessons beside him, the first recorded case, our costumed instructor declared, of gender-bending for the sake of education. My husband leaned over, voice low and amused, “That would be your line.”

Of course I replied , I always reply. “Yes, it would.”

The tutor froze mid-sentence, eyes narrowing like an owl’s. “Would you care to share with the class, madam?”

Reader, I was forty years too old to be scolded and four hundred years too late to be sitting in Shakespeare’s classroom yet there I was, reprimanded under the same beams that once heard Hamlet’s first drafts forming in the back of a boy’s mind. My husband, naturally, looked saintly.

As the lecture continued, I couldn’t help smiling. The old Welsh bards would have understood words have a life of their own, and some of us were simply born to answer them, even in other people’s classrooms.

After my recent AI experience that I blogged about last week, it's more important than ever to remember the power of words.

Remembering, not Celebrating, Veteran's Day

AI Image

I’ll be honest, Veterans Day is not my favorite holiday. It feels inappropriate to say “Happy Veterans Day” the same way we say Happy Thanksgiving, Happy New Year, or Happy Valentine's Day. What’s happy about it? The veteran made it through a horrible time, likely suffered PTSD, and then once a year gets a parade?

Although I am anti-war, I understand why war occurs because grown men, historically, have struggled to use their words to solve disagreements. Yet I still pause today to think about the countless past conflicts that drew ordinary, decent people into sacrifices no one should ever have to make.

This year, an article from AMAC captured that tension beautifully. “Remembering the World War I Generation This Veterans Day” reminds us that time has nearly erased the memory of those who served in the Great War, young men and women who endured unimaginable hardship, then quietly returned home to rebuild their lives.

Ironically, responses to that post weren’t about remembrance at all, but about which politician dodged which draft. That, in itself, says everything about why wars persist. We’re still fighting instead of mourning who’s lost.

Their generation is gone, but their stories are not. Some of those stories live on in the letters, journals, and memories families still hold. I was honored that my book, Thanks to the Yanks: World War I Letters from an Indiana Farm Boy to His Sweetheart, was featured in that piece. It follows one soldier’s journey from the Indiana fields to the battlefields of France and back again offering a glimpse into the humanity behind the headlines.

So today, I don’t celebrate. I remember. I think about the courage it takes not just to fight, but to return, to heal, and to live. And I’m grateful for every preserved letter and faded photograph that helps us remember those who did.