The Summer of My Genealogical Discontent Lesson 6 – Failing to join an organization

 

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I’ve had a passion for genealogy for as long as I can remember—I just didn’t know it had a name.

As a child, I was drawn to the family stories my grandmother told and captivated by her scrapbooks and photo albums filled with long-ago faces and forgotten events. The mystery of my paternal side, which no one ever discussed, only deepened my curiosity. As a teenager, I started searching for answers—but not knowing what I was doing, I didn’t get far. College and life pulled me away for a while.

When my first child was born, I eagerly opened the baby book—only to find I couldn’t complete the family tree. I knew my paternal grandparents, but beyond that? Nothing. My dad told me he’d give me a family book I hadn’t known existed—someday. But when that day came, and he passed, the book never made its way to me. My stepmother found it too much trouble to mail.

So I turned to the internet, which was just beginning to bloom, and took a beginner class at a local Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In hindsight, what I really needed back then was a mentor—someone to show me the ropes, answer my endless questions, and guide me along the path. I should have joined a local or national organization. But with a full-time job, kids to raise, elders to care for, a house to run—and no extra money to spare—I didn’t.

Instead, I used every scrap of free time to work on my tree. I shared my excitement with colleagues, though most didn’t understand why I’d spend vacation time at the Family History Library in Salt Lake. Still, when they had family mysteries, they came to me. I happily helped, and they were amazed at what I uncovered.

More requests came in. I never charged a cent—it never occurred to me to think of myself as a professional.

Then one day, a former boss told me, “You know, people would probably pay you to do this.” I was stunned—and, honestly, panicked. I thought he was letting me go and hinting I should start a business in the middle of a recession. He laughed and clarified: “You’re very good at this. You could turn it into something real.”

I set that thought aside. Life was already complicated.

But as the kids grew up and moved out, I finally had more time—and a little more money. I joined a local society and two national organizations. I attended conferences, subscribed to journals, and slowly built my confidence. I chose a name for my business: Genealogy At Heart, because I wanted to focus on what I loved—helping people uncover those sensitive family secrets. With my background in education and counseling, it was a natural fit.

What I didn’t know? That there were resources out there to help me from the start. I hadn’t heard of SCORE, a free business mentoring service. I didn’t know about the Association of Professional Genealogists, which offers tools, advice, and a sense of community. Had I joined an organization earlier—whether a local society or a national group—I would have had a much smoother beginning as a business owner.

Genealogy can feel like a solitary pursuit. We stay up late combing through records, take solo road trips to distant archives, and keep quiet at family gatherings to avoid the eye rolls. But it doesn’t have to be lonely. And it shouldn’t be.

Today, I’m actively involved in several genealogical organizations. They’ve helped me refine my research, consult with experts, and become a better genealogist—not just for clients, but for my own family, too. I no longer rely solely on myself, and I’ve learned that collaboration isn’t a luxury—it’s a strength.

Looking back, I can only imagine how much further I’d be if I’d learned this lesson sooner. But I’m glad I did.

The Summer of My Genealogical Discontent Lesson 5 - Software Shuffle

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Welcome to another installment in my continuing series on genealogical misadventures! Today’s topic: my long, bumpy road with technology.

I’ve always embraced tech—but it didn’t always embrace me back.

Back in college, I took a programming course in PLC. The professor told us to throw out the textbook and “go with our gut.” Let’s just say... my gut wasn’t fluent in code. I had signed up for the course because my then-boyfriend (now husband) raved about it. Mid semester, I switched to a new instructor—Dr. Birkin, a kind man with a charming British accent who actually used the textbook. I passed the class, but the experience left me scarred. We were still programming with punch cards back then, and one typo could bring the whole system down. I managed to do exactly that once—and earned a full hour of death stares from the engineering students.

So, when software for genealogy came along, I dove in eagerly—because at least I wasn’t programming it myself! But it turns out software has its own kind of drama.

My big misstep? Relying on just one platform.

At first, I uploaded everything—sources, photos, notes—into Ancestry.com. It was easy. It was convenient. It was also incredibly risky.

Because here’s the thing: if Ancestry ever disappears (and nothing digital is forever), so does everything I’ve painstakingly added. Paranoia, in genealogy, can be a healthy survival strategy. And that means backing up your work in multiple places.

When Family Tree Maker (FTM) was integrated with Ancestry in its early years, I jumped onboard. But then the sync stopped working. Ancestry blamed FTM. FTM blamed Ancestry. I spent a year caught in the crossfire, and finally gave up. So did Ancestry—they ditched FTM and partnered with RootsMagic instead.

I gave RootsMagic a try. I liked it—until it came time to update my records. One. At. A. Time. It was tedious, and I let it slide. Eventually, that program stopped cooperating too.

I also dabbled with Legacy Family Tree. I appreciated its features, but the downside? It doesn’t sync with Ancestry. My sources were preserved—but not my photos or documents. Still, it remains part of my backup plan.

Then, about three years ago, Family Tree Maker came back around with an offer. After a helpful chat with their support team, I gave them another shot. The sync worked again—thankfully—just as RootsMagic had failed me.

So, what have I learned from this revolving door of software?

Stay current. Stay flexible. And never trust your entire tree to a single platform.

Test new tools. Keep your programs updated. And most importantly, store your research in more than one place—cloud, external drive, software, even printed backups. Because when one system crashes (and eventually, it will), you’ll have something to fall back on.

If you think you’re immune to tech mishaps, I’ll leave you with this: the only thing more painful than lost records… is knowing you had them, once.

The Summer of My Genealogical Discontent, Lesson 4 - Confidence

 

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This is a continuing in my series on mistakes I made as a beginning genealogist. If you missed the earlier lessons, you can read about my trust issues with online trees, family lore, and source saving habits here, here, and here.

Let’s talk about confidence—or more accurately, the lack of it.

My first family tree was on paper. In 1983, my husband bought a TI-84 computer and a family tree cartridge. It allowed basic data entry but had one glaring flaw: no printer. And with no real internet access at the time, there was no way to share the tree beyond showing someone the screen.

By 1995, I’d discovered FamilySearch.org and quickly entered my 50 or so known family members into their online tree. Then came RootsWeb, and I uploaded my FamilySearch .paf file there. The tech was improving—and so were my skills—but confidence? That was still lagging behind.

I loved experimenting with new tools, but reliable records online were scarce, local training was hit-or-miss, and no one was talking about things like the Genealogical Proof Standard. Source citations? Not really a thing yet. DNA testing for genealogy didn’t exist. And AI—well, that sounded like science fiction.

In hindsight, I’m grateful the tools rolled out gradually. It allowed my learning to grow alongside the technology, making the whole experience feel manageable, even exciting.

Still, I was the new kid on the block. At local library presentations, I was often the youngest person in the room.

I wish I could say the older attendees embraced my enthusiasm, but... not so much. I was mostly ignored, and at times, subtly reminded that I lacked their decades of experience—which, let’s be honest, wasn’t inaccurate.

By the early 2000s, Ancestry.com had entered the scene, and I converted my old .paf file into a .gedcom and uploaded it. And almost immediately, I ran into resistance.

A DAR woman messaged me—clipped, curt, and in all caps—insisting I had made an error and must correct it IMMEDIATELY.

Embarrassed, I complied. I removed the ancestor in question and replied that my tree had been "corrected."

But about a year later, I revisited that line after new records came online—probate records, in fact. And guess what? My original hunch had been right. So I added the ancestor back.

Not long after, the same woman messaged again, demanding I remove the name. This time, I had proof—and I told her so.

No response. Until a year later, when she messaged me once more, threatening to report me to Ancestry for ignoring her third “polite request.”

This time, I stood my ground. I reminded her that I had previously provided documentation and warned that if she contacted me again, I would be reporting her for harassment.

She didn’t write back.

Now, I’m no longer the youngest in the room. I’m one of the “old genealogists”—and I try hard not to repeat the mistakes made by those who once made me feel small. That’s part of why I’ve written this series: to let beginners know that we’ve all been there.

No one gets everything right. Not at the beginning, not even later. But we get better. We grow through doing, through missteps, through asking questions, and through helping each other.

Confidence in genealogy doesn’t come from having all the answers—it comes from being willing to keep learning. And I hope I never stop.

The Summer of My Genealogical Discontent, Lesson 3, To Save or Not to Save!

Duer, Thomas. Affidavit of Thomas Duer, witness to Ruth Pigot’s will, 12 December 1793. Image 74875259, Fold3. Accessed 18 July 2025. https://www.fold3.com/image/74875259/doc2‑affidavit‑of‑thomas‑duer‑witness‑to‑ruth‑pigots‑will‑sussex‑co‑nj‑12‑1793jpg

This post continues my series on the missteps I made early in my genealogy journey—shared here so you don’t have to repeat them. If you missed my rants about trusting online trees or even trusting your own family, you can catch up here and here.

Today’s lesson is about a bad habit I picked up early on: not saving my source information.

I somehow convinced myself that if I ever needed to revisit a record, I could just find it again.
Umm… no. Just, NO.

I gave a hint about when this habit started back in Lesson 1. Let’s rewind to the “olden days” of genealogy—pre-2017. Back then, FamilySearch.org offered a microfilm lending program. You could request films from their Salt Lake City library, and they’d mail them to your nearest affiliate FamilySearch Center. Not everything was digitized. Actually, very little was.

When I began taking genealogy seriously—beyond hobby level—this was the norm. You went to your local center, filled out a request, waited for the film to arrive (by actual snail mail), then returned during limited hours to view it. If someone else was hogging the one microfilm reader attached to the printer, too bad. You either came back later or stared at the record and hoped you’d remember what it said.

There were no smartphones early on. No screenshots. Sometimes you could print, but not always. So I often didn’t save the record at all.

One example still haunts me.

Back in the early 2000s, I found a will dated 1793. Two of my ancestors—my fourth and fifth great-grandfathers, John and Thomas Duer—had signed it as witnesses for a neighbor. No relationships were noted, of course (because why would records make things easy?). But it was the only document placing both men in the same New Jersey township at the same time.

Years later, when I submitted my DAR application through this line, I used DNA to bolster the case. I wanted to revisit that old will—see if my now-trained eyes could spot something I missed. But I had never saved it. And it still wasn’t viewable from home.

So I made the trek—45 minutes each way—to the nearest affiliate library. I found the film, loaded it, and saved the image to a thumb drive.

Or so I thought.

Back home, I plugged in the drive. Nothing. Nada. Empty.

Cue the stages of genealogical grief: disbelief, denial, rage, regret.

I drove all the way back and did it all over again. This time, I emailed the document to myself, saved it in two places, and mentally kicked myself for not doing it right the first time.

Since then, I’ve changed my approach completely: if I find a record, I save it. Period. Hard drive, cloud storage, email backup—whatever it takes.

And you know what? It’s not paranoia. It’s preparation.

With so many records being pulled offline or locked behind new restrictions, saving your sources isn’t just smart—it’s essential. I’m even considering publishing a companion volume to my family history books, filled with clips of the actual documents I’ve cited: baptisms, marriages, deaths, censuses, probates, land deeds, gravestones, voting rolls, tax lists—you name it.

Because proof matters.

Sure, I’ve included citations in my books. But is that enough anymore? Many of the records I reference are no longer accessible. And barring a legislative miracle, they won’t be available again in my lifetime.
Today, that will is available on Fold3 but who knows if it will remain there. So here’s the takeaway: don’t assume you can find it later. Save it. Label it. Back it up.

Because someday, you’ll need it again—and you’ll be glad you did.

The Summer of My Genealogical Discontent, Lesson 2: Cousin Trust, or Not!

 

Caroline Kable Leininger

Last week, I blogged about my rookie mistake of trusting online family trees without question. If you missed it, you can catch up here.

This week’s lesson hits even closer to home—literally. Because as much as we want to believe our families always tell it straight, I’ve learned the hard way that even relatives can get the story wrong.

I know, I know. I've heard it too: "Grandma doesn’t lie."

And I’m not saying she—or Grandpa, Aunt Betty, Cousin Lou, or Mom and Dad—is lying. What I am saying is this: just because a family member says it, doesn’t make it so. Memories fade, names blur, and stories get tangled over time. That’s why we verify.

This one was tough for me. I wanted to trust my family. So I ignored what I knew wasn’t accurate for far too long.

I've blogged before about how my father once promised to pass along a genealogical book compiled by a cousin—but after he passed, my stepmother refused to give it to me.

In frustration, I posted a plea for help on a now-defunct genealogy site, accusing my "wicked stepmother" of holding my family's history hostage. To my surprise, a kind woman who had married into the family saw the post and reached out. She had the author's email and offered to contact him on my behalf.

He graciously responded—and sent me a digitized copy of his long out-of-print book. I was ecstatic. So much so that I used his work (which included no sources) as the basis for my paternal line… without question. I didn’t verify a single detail.

As I gained more experience—took classes, read how-to books, and worked with actual records—I knew better. I learned to look for reliable sources, analyze the evidence, and always, always cite my findings so I could trace them back.

But I ignored all of that when it came to the cousin’s book.

Why? Because I believed it had been compiled from other knowledgeable family members. Surely they knew the names, dates, and places.

Except… they didn’t.

Even the entries for my own parents were riddled with errors. My grandfather’s middle name? It was Edwin, not Edward. My mother’s maiden name? Koss, not Kass. My stepmother’s name—wrong in both maiden and first-married forms. I chalked it up to typos or bad handwriting. And when a second edition came out claiming to correct the first, I thought, “Great! All fixed.”

Except they weren’t.

I knew that. But I didn’t want to deal with it. We so badly want to believe our families have it right.

I’m not even sure when the spell broke—when I realized that my sources were stronger than vague memories or passed-down errors. Eventually, I started revising the tree, swapping family folklore for actual evidence.

Then in May, a distant relative messaged me to let me know I’d gotten the name of our second great-grandmother wrong.

Oh really?

You see, I have baptism records, census records from 1870, 1880, and 1900, a marriage certificate, two more censuses (1920 and 1930), a death certificate, an obituary, and a tombstone photo that all name her as Caroline.

But according to my cousin, her name was Catherine, because that’s what some unnamed family member once said.

I’ll be honest—my reply was a little snarky. I just couldn’t wrap my head around someone dismissing a lifetime of documentation because of one undocumented “memory.”

Caroline, by the way, had a nervous breakdown, according to her obituary, and died shortly after. I’ve never been able to determine why—there were no family deaths or financial troubles around that time. Maybe it was a medical issue misdiagnosed as mental illness. Maybe early-onset Alzheimer's, which runs in the family. I asked the cousin if they had more details, but… no.

So I told them, “Maybe she had a nervous breakdown because no one in the family could remember her actual name.”

I haven’t heard from them since. And that’s just fine by me.

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Moral of the Story: Always, always, always check your sources. If the evidence points clearly to a conclusion—even if it contradicts a cherished family tale—you owe it to your research (and your ancestors) to accept the truth.

Next week, I’ll confess to another blunder from my early genealogy days—a really dumb trusting practice I’ve since abandoned for good.

The Summer of My Discontent: How I Survived My Genealogy Growing Pains…and What I Wish I’d Known Sooner

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The Summer of My Discontent, Lesson 1: Trust, But Verify

Every genealogist has a learning curve. Mine just happened to feel like a full-blown heatwave. And since we’re in the middle of one right now, I thought it was the perfect time to reflect on my early genealogy practices—many of which were, well, a little light on rigor.

In those early days, I stumbled (frequently), chased the wrong ancestors, trusted shaky online trees, and fell for records that weren’t what they seemed. I call this season of trial and error The Summer of My Discontent—a nod to my distant cousin Shakespeare and my own scorching missteps.

This series is an honest look back at the mistakes that taught me the most. I’ll share the traps I fell into, how I dug myself out, and, most importantly, how you can avoid getting burned on your own journey. Whether you’re just starting or already a little singed, I hope you’ll find humor, relief, and a few practical takeaways here.

Let’s turn discontent into discovery.

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Lesson One: Don’t Trust, Verify

One of my earliest mistakes? Trusting other people’s research without verifying it.

That’s a bold statement, I know. Does that mean we should never trust anyone’s work? Absolutely not. But we should check it out—verify the source, analyze the findings, and make sure the evidence stands up. Only then can we safely incorporate it.

Back then, I assumed everyone else knew more than I did—so they had to be right. Spoiler: they weren’t. That realization hit me around 2:00 a.m. one Saturday morning in 1996 after I’d wasted eight hours chasing someone else's fantasy line. Lesson learned.

I had just taken my first genealogy class in 1995, held at the local LDS church and led by a familiar face—our neighborhood pizza shop owner from Third Base Pizza (because after third base, you’re home). No, I’m not making that up.

Online research was in its infancy (remember those AOL CD giveaways at Kmart?), and the course focused on using the internet to record research. FamilySearch.org was ahead of the curve. Their online presence was growing, and the church encouraged us to use their software—Personal Ancestral File, or .paf. One enthusiastic presenter claimed he’d found 10,000 relatives using it. I had maybe 50 entered into a TI-84 computer program stored on cassette. I was in awe.

One winter Friday, with the kids in bed, I decided to do some "research." By that, I meant: browse other people’s trees and copy their information into mine. I called it my Insta-Tree—click, match, done.

Unfortunately, no one had emphasized the importance of verifying these matches. So around 10:00 p.m., using dial-up (because no one would call that late anyway), I stumbled upon a promising lead on my husband’s Samuelson line. The tree stretched back way in time. I was thrilled. He kissed me goodnight, and I promised I’d head to bed once I reached the end of the line.

At 2:00 a.m., I reached it.

His distant ancestor, according to the tree, was none other than Thor—yes, the Norse god of thunder, complete with hammer and wife Sif. I stared in disbelief. Maybe it was just a man named Thor? Nope. The tree listed Asgard as his residence. I nearly cried.

Why would someone post that? Maybe they truly believed it. Maybe they were trolling gullible researchers like me. Either way, I realized it would take longer to undo the damage than it did to blindly click "add."

I’m not proud of this—but I left it in my tree until January 2025. For nearly 30 years. Why? It was on my to-do list but never a priority. Plus, it served as a reminder not to trust unverified work. I finally removed it when I wrote my Swedish ancestor book and committed to scrubbing my online tree of anything unproven. I’ve since done the same for my Croatia, France, Germany, and Switzerland branches, and I’ll continue when I begin my Great Britain book this fall.

That night, exhausted, I crawled into bed. My husband stirred and asked if I’d found anything interesting. “Yeah,” I said, “you descend from the god Thor.” He grunted, rolled over, and said, “Nice.”

“No,” I thought. “Not nice at all.”

The next morning, he remembered I’d said something “interesting,” but not what it was. When I reminded him, he laughed—and still insists to this day that he’s a direct descendant of Thor. Second lesson learned: do not share your research with family until you know it’s correct. Because they will only remember the stuff you wish they’d forget.

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Next week, I’ll share Lesson Two from my genealogy learning curve. Spoiler: it involves trusting a family member's stories. Stay tuned.

When Personal Secrets Shape Public Policy: A Genealogist’s View on Indiana’s Record Restrictions

 

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Today, 1 July 2025, is a day of infamy in Indiana as the state legislature quietly enacted legislation restricting public access to birth and stillbirth records for 99 years—effectively sealing documents that genealogists, historians, and adoptees have long relied on to understand family histories and personal origins.

The bill’s sponsor? State Representative Gregory W. Porter.

On the surface, this might appear to be just another privacy-minded law. But scratch just a bit beneath—and a troubling pattern begins to emerge. Rep. Porter not only introduced the bill that passed, but he also authored an earlier version in January 2024 that died in committee. That persistence—combined with his background as he purportedly claims to be a Christian—might suggest strong moral conviction. But public records raise a different, more complicated possibility.

In May 2011, the obituary of George Warfield listed Gregory Porter as his son, while also naming stepsons and multiple relatives. In July 2024, S. Carmen Porter’s obituary—Porter’s mother—listed him again, alongside her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Together, these notices don’t just provide names. They hint at relationships that genealogists might recognize as misaligned: inconsistencies in surnames, generational overlaps, and unclear biological links. It's the kind of thing we encounter every day in family research—and often, the kind of thing that becomes clearer when public records are available.

But under HB1148, those very records are sealed.

Here’s the ethical problem: it appears that the person most eager to restrict access to historical birth records may have personal motivations for doing so. He may have been shielding sensitive information not just about constituents—but about himself. That matters, especially when legislative actions have statewide consequences. It's hard not to wonder whether this was about protecting Hoosiers—or protecting his legacy.

As genealogists, we don’t dig into family histories to shame people. We do it to understand them. But when lawmakers close off records that belong to all of us for reasons that appear to benefit only some of us, it’s our job to say: this is not acceptable.

Privacy has its place. But so does accountability. Here are the Indiana legislators who voted Yea for HB1148:

Sen. Alexander, Scott [R]

Sen. Alting, Ronnie J. [R]

Sen. Baldwin, Scott A. [R]

Sen. Bassler, Eric S. [R]

Sen. Becker, Vaneta G. [R]

Sen. Bohacek, Mike [R]

Sen. Bray, Rodric D. [R]

Sen. Brown, Elizabeth "Liz" M. [R]

Sen. Buchanan, Brian [R]

Sen. Buck, James "Jim" R. [R]

Sen. Busch, Justin [R]

Sen. Byrne, Gary [R]

Sen. Carrasco, Cynthia "Cyndi" E. [R]

Sen. Charbonneau, Ed [R]

Sen. Clark, Brett [R]

Sen. Crider, Michael "Mike" R. [R]

Sen. Deery, Spencer R. [R]

Sen. Dernulc, Daniel "Dan" E. [R]

Sen. Donato, Stacey [R]

Sen. Ford, J.D. [D]

Sen. Garten, Chris [R]

Sen. Gaskill, Mike [R]

Sen. Glick, Susan "Sue" C. [R]

Sen. Goode, Greg [R]

Sen. Holdman, Travis [R]

Sen. Hunley, Andrea [D]

Sen. Jackson, La Keisha [D]

Sen. Johnson, Tyler [R]

Sen. Koch, Eric Allan [R]

Sen. Leising, Jean [R]

Sen. Maxwell, Randy [R]

Sen. Mishler, Ryan D. [R]

Sen. Niemeyer, Rick [R]

Sen. Niezgodski, David L. [D]

Sen. Pol Jr., Rodney [D]

Sen. Qaddoura, Fady [D]

Sen. Raatz, Jeff [R]

Sen. Rogers, Linda [R]

Sen. Schmitt, Daryl [R]

Sen. Taylor, Greg [D]

Sen. Tomes, James "Jim" [R]

Sen. Walker, Greg [R]

Sen. Walker, Kyle [R]

Sen. Young, R. Michael "Michael" [R]

Sen. Zay, Andy [R]

Makes you wonder what they're hiding.

When a lawmakers choose to restrict the historical record—one that belongs to all of us—we have to ask why. And when the answer lies in public obituaries and genealogical inconsistencies easily found by anyone willing to look, the motive becomes hard to ignore. What's their next plan? Banning newspaper obituaries, online and published memorials, Findagrave/Billiongraves?

This isn’t about shaming a man for his family’s past. It’s about refusing to let personal discomfort dictate public erasure. Genealogists tell the truth even when it's messy. We believe every family—every person—deserves to know where they came from. We know the damage that sealed records cause, especially to adoptees, descendants of enslaved people, and those separated by law, war, or poverty.

I’m not writing this because I want to expose one man’s secrets. I’m writing it because he’s trying to bury ours.

And I won’t let him.