Book Review: Your Stripped Bare Guide to Citing & Using History Sources by Elizabeth Shown Mills

 

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They say you can’t judge a book by its cover but in the case of Elizabeth Shown Mills’s latest, Your Stripped Bare Guide to Citing & Using History Sources (2025), the cover is so charming it almost makes me want to sit down and write a source citation. And that’s saying something, coming from someone who usually dreads the task and full disclosure, often cheats by letting AI do it for her.

You might wonder, after decades of writing about citations, what more could ESM possibly have to say? I own all four editions of her past works, Evidence Explained, along with two editions of Professional Genealogy. Those texts are monumental, hefty, encyclopedic guides designed to help family historians create (and yes, crafting a citation is an art) a source reference for every conceivable research situation. But therein lies the problem; they are so thorough they can overwhelm beginners. Too often, they end up gathering dust and making the bookshelf sag, which is a shame because they hold the keys to accurate, credible, and most importantly, findable research.

I’ll admit, I’ve grown a bit lazy since AI became part of my workflow. For my personal research, I often settle for a quick and dirty Chicago-style citation generated by a chatbot. I’ve noticed some of my editors have relaxed their standards, too. Why? Because tracking down the exact template in Evidence Explained can be a time consuming hunt.

Enter Your Stripped Bare Guide. This is the book I didn’t know I’d been waiting for, clear, concise, and portable. At just 138 pages, it’s a featherweight compared to its predecessors, but it’s packed with practical, ready-to-use information. I liken it to The Elements of Style, a distilled, timeless resource that belongs within arm’s reach of every researcher’s desk.

And timeless it is. Consider how much genealogy has changed since 2007, when the first Evidence Explained was published. Back then, FamilySearch was still shipping microfilm via snail mail to local Family History Centers. AI existed only in movie scripts. Blogging was in its infancy. The very first iPhone had just been released. Now, so much is online (though not everything) and our research methods continue to evolve. I had wondered, when ESM retired, who would carry the citation torch into this ever changing landscape. No worries now! Stripped Bare teaches the core principles so we can confidently adapt to whatever new technology comes next.

Pro tip: read the foreword first, it’s a soothing antidote to any citation anxiety. The opening chapter lays out universal guidelines for any source, followed by “Fundamentals of Documentation,” filled with tips and practical recommendations.

One passage made me laugh out loud; ESM notes that the purpose of citations isn’t to help others find our sources. Gasp! I could picture one of my high school English teachers having an apoplexy. After all, isn’t that what we were always taught? Even now, I carry that belief with me. Stripped Bare challenges that notion, and while some “old school” researchers may bristle, I found it refreshing.

I also appreciated the section on citing derivatives. About a decade ago, I found myself in a spirited (and unresolved) debate with another professional genealogist who insisted I was wrong to cite both the original and the derivative. ESM explains my position far more elegantly than I did, which may be why we never reached agreement.

Here’s what I love most, Stripped Bare offers just 14 templates. Yes, that’s the same number found in Evidence Explained, and many of the examples are familiar, but what’s gone is the 555 page sprawl of trying to illustrate every possible source on earth. That level of detail served its purpose once, but it’s no longer necessary for most researchers.

Some might think this is simply a repackaged version of the first three chapters of Evidence Explained. It isn’t. While there’s necessary overlap, after all, the fundamentals don’t change, the material is rewritten in a fresh, approachable way. Most importantly, it keeps evidence analysis front and center, reminding us that citation is not just about formatting, but about thinking critically about our sources.

For intermediate researchers and beyond, I highly recommend Your Stripped Bare Guide to Citing & Using History Sources. It’s available in paperback and eBook from Genealogical.com—and it just might make you want to write your next citation.

The Summer of My Genealogical Discontent, Lesson 8: What I’ve Learned (and Unlearned)

 And just like that, we’ve reached the end of my Summer of Genealogical Discontent—a season spent digging not into records, but into my own past as a researcher. I set out to share the biggest mistakes I made in my early years of genealogy—not to dwell on regret, but to show how growth happens in real time, and to offer encouragement to those just starting out (or maybe starting over).

Let’s take a look back at what I’ve learned—and unlearned—along the way:

Lesson 1: Trust, But Verify
Like many beginners, I started out believing online family trees were gospel. I trusted matches, clicked too quickly, and added generations without verifying. The result? A line that led all the way back to the Norse god Thor. It took me years (and a lot of embarrassment) to clean it up—but it taught me a lesson I never forgot: don't trust a tree you didn’t plant yourself.

Lesson 2: Cousin Trust… or Not
It turns out, family stories can be just as misleading as unsourced online trees. I ignored obvious errors in a cousin’s genealogy book because I wanted to believe the family “knew.” But when someone challenged the name of my second great-grandmother—despite multiple official records proving it—I realized again that evidence must always come first.

Lesson 3: To Save or Not to Save?
I didn’t always save my records. I thought I’d find them again. That thinking cost me time, energy, and two long drives to a FamilySearch affiliate library when a key will I’d once seen was no longer accessible online. Now I save everything—and back it up—because in genealogy, proof is everything.

Lesson 4: Confidence
I lacked confidence early on and let others in the genealogy community make me feel like an outsider. When a DAR member berated me for an “error” (in all caps), I removed the ancestor from my tree. But I was right, and I had the documents to prove it. Over time, I learned to trust my research—and to stand firm when I had the facts.

Lesson 5: The Software Shuffle
Tech has been both a blessing and a burden. I’ve tried nearly every genealogy software platform and been burned more than once by syncing issues, glitches, and disappearing records. The lesson? Diversify your tools. Keep your files backed up and your data portable. Nothing lasts forever, including your favorite software.

Lesson 6: Failing to Join an Organization
For too long, I went it alone. I didn’t know where to turn, didn’t have the money, and assumed no one would care about my obsession with dead people. I was wrong. Once I joined societies and attended conferences, my skills grew exponentially. Genealogy may start as a solo act, but it thrives in community.

Lesson 7: Listening to the Pros (or Not)
When I finally decided to “go pro,” I followed advice that didn’t align with who I was or who I wanted to serve. I was told I had to charge more, take specific courses, and follow a certain path. But that path didn’t fit me—or my clients. Eventually, I stopped listening to people who wanted me to become a different kind of genealogist and started building a business that reflected my values. And I’ve never looked back.

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Genealogy has always been about more than names and dates for me. It’s about honesty. Resilience. Perspective. It’s about owning the full story—including the mistakes—and realizing that every misstep is part of the journey.

As I wrap up this summer series, I’m looking forward to shifting gears a bit. I recently attended a genealogy conference in an area I have no experience. September brings another conference, more lessons, and no doubt, more stories.

Because in genealogy—and in life—there’s always another chapter. Next week I'll blog a book review - stay tuned!

The Summer of My Genealogical Discontent Lesson 7 – Listening to the Pros (or Not)

 

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Today’s blog might seem to contradict last week’s post about how I regretted not joining genealogical organizations earlier. But hear me out—this is a different kind of lesson.

When I decided to take the leap and become a professional genealogist, I did what many of us do: I turned to the experts. Longtime professionals told me there were a few non-negotiables—complete certain online courses, pursue credentialing, and charge fees that, quite frankly, I knew my clients couldn’t afford.

I listened. I believed them. And honestly? It didn’t sit well with me from the start.

The first issue was the recommended online course. I was on a waitlist, which ended up being a blessing in disguise. I was working a job that had me traveling constantly across the country—there was no realistic way I could log in consistently at the scheduled times. I would’ve failed before I even started.

I also applied for credentials, and… well, that was a wake-up call. (You can read about that experience here.) My clients didn’t care about my professional journey. They didn’t ask about credentials. They didn’t want to know about my course plans or associations. They wanted answers. Period. That experience made me reevaluate what I actually needed to build a meaningful and sustainable business. As an educator, I value credentials to insure that somene is competent in their field and I planned to one day revisit genealogical credentializing (more to come soon!) but that step didn't impact my growing business.

Then came the topic of fees.

I understood the argument from those already well-established in the field. They were charging high rates and worried that my lower fees might undercut the “market.” I get it. I was the Big Lots to their Macy’s.

But charging what they charged didn’t feel right to me. I knew the people I wanted to help—those searching for answers, sometimes quietly and painfully—couldn’t afford boutique pricing. And that mattered more to me.

To this day, I still undercharge. And you know what? I’m okay with that. I’m at peace with that decision. And all those pros who once told me what I had to do? They’ve since retired from genealogy. Their path wasn’t mine.

Maybe they meant well. Or maybe they wanted to keep genealogy as a kind of exclusive club. But that’s not how I see it.

I believe everyone deserves access to their family history—for medical reasons, for breaking cycles, for healing, for honoring those who came before us. I believe in empowering people to understand their story.

That’s why I’ve learned to be who I am, not what others think I should be. It’s my business. I run it my way.

In last week’s post, I mentioned how I wished I’d had a mentor early on. Let me clarify that—I wish I’d had someone who listened to me. Someone who supported who I was and what I valued. Not someone trying to mold me into something else.

If you’re thinking about going pro, here’s my advice: Find someone you connect with. Someone whose values align with yours. Years ago, I turned down the chance to mentor someone in another state. This was pre-Zoom, and I wasn’t sure phone mentoring would be effective. I suggested she find someone local instead. I never heard from her again, and I still wonder if she gave up on genealogy altogether. That thought saddens me.

So if you have the passion and the desire to go pro—don’t let anyone stand in your way. Especially not someone telling you there's only one right path. Because in genealogy, just like in life, the best path is the one that feels right to you.

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.