Part 5: Postmarked in Purgatory: The Mail That Might Never Arrive

 

Possible Post Office Locations in Downtown Indianapolis

This is the last in a series on my adventures obtaining family records for dual citizenship. You can read early posts here, here, here, and here.

We had tried to get family documents from Illinois and Indiana in person and used email to obtain records from Florida and Arizona. Unbelievably, the online records had already been mailed to me while I tried to obtain the in person ones. Why? Because some states are more efficient then others. Illinois & Indiana, not so much.

We decided to drive two hours south east to acquire my father's birth record in Mercer County, Ohio. The clerk was warm and welcoming which was such a change from our experiences elsewhere. A problem surfaced quickly; the record for my dad in their computer claimed he had been born in 1939. Umm, no, he would have been the youngest enlistee in World War II if that was the case. I had a copy of the birth and death certificate which I shared with the clerk. She couldn't print a certified copy because whoever had input the information into the computer had made a typo. She went to search for a hard copy and found it. It was dated 1939. I believe what happened is that my father went to the office to obtain a certified copy so he could get his Social Security card. The clerk handwrote a new one and when my father looked at it he likely informed the clerk she had added the wrong year for his birth. I suspect she gave him a corrected replacement but kept the error record in the files. So, whoever input the info wasn't at fault.

It took over an hour and three transferred phone calls to Columbus for someone with tech knowledge to inform the clerk how to issue the birth certificate with the correct date. Meanwhile, others were arriving for records and I was surprised to learn that another person was also seeking dual citizenship.

With record finally in hand we decided to make an attempt to drop off the death records request that Gary refused to accept earlier in the week. So, it was back home again in Indiana. Sigh.

There’s no walk-in service at the Indiana State Department of Health in Indianapolis, and I knew that. What the website didn’t say was that you also can’t drop anything off. Still, I figured it was worth a try.

Two and a half hours later, we pulled into the very last spot on the sixth floor of a parking garage. $35 an hour. But hey, it was next to the elevator. Life was looking good.

Until it wasn’t.

Disappearing Buildings and Imaginary Signs

We couldn’t find the building. The address led us to a large office labeled Bank of America but surprise! It was actually the Department of Health.

Only in Indiana could a government agency masquerade as a bank to “save taxpayers money.” And if I were to complain to a legislator? I can already hear the syrupy voice:
“Now ma’am, we did you a big, beautiful favor by saving that signage cost, see?” (They always say “see.”)

There were no address numbers on the building. We finally wandered into another bank across the street, where someone kindly told us where to go.

If I had known what was coming next, I would’ve turned around.

The Plexiglass Purge

Inside the “Bank of Not-America,” a lone woman sat behind a desk topped with plexiglass, an absurd formality, given that it was the only furniture in the entire room besides a circular couch off in the corner.

She did not smile.

“We can’t take that,” she said flatly after I told her I had completed requests for death certificates.

I asked why.

“We don’t offer customer service.”

Well, clearly, that must be the vital records motto throughout Indiana.

I explained I’d driven from the northeast corner of the state because Gary refused to issue the records and whenever I mailed requests, they disappeared into the void.

“We’re very backlogged.”

At that point, my husband, officially done, asked if he could sit down. She pointed silently to the one chair in what was once the vestibule.

I asked where the nearest post office was. My thought: if I mailed it from just a few blocks away, maybe they’d actually receive it. Silly me.

She offered to draw me a map. I handed her my notebook.

That’s when it got weird.

Enter: The Scowler

Out of nowhere, a man’s voice boomed behind me:
“What can I help you with?”

Startled, I turned to see a tall man with a very unfriendly expression and a gun. Yep, it was an officer of the law. I had no idea he was even in the room.

I answered, “There’s nothing you can help me with.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.

He started yelling, “Tone it down! Tone it down!”

I wasn’t raising my voice. I hadn't even been speaking when began yelling. But suddenly I could see it all: me, tackled to the ground, handcuffed, arrested for attempting to find a post office to send for three death records that the department who issues them refused to take.

The woman at the desk piped up, “She’s a nice lady, she’s not a problem.”

He replied, “I’ll handle this.”

Handle what? Was he going to walk my envelopes to the post office for me? Hand-deliver them to the Department of Health? Please, don’t tease me.

He eventually got bored and retreated to the sofa, where another officer sat watching the show with amusement.

Yep, fun and games intimidating an old lady genealogist. Karma, baby. Let it be soon.

The Map of Madness

The woman finished her map and handed it to me proudly, saying, “I’m not much of an artist, but I think I did a good job.”

I looked at it: three horizontal lines, three vertical lines, a circle, and three X’s because she “wasn’t sure where the post office was.” Also, she misspelled Washington. It had taken her five full minutes to draw this.

I stared at the page, silently. She looked sad that I didn't appreciate her work.

I asked if it was walkable, thinking I could leave the car parked. “If you’re good at walking,” she said.

Not knowing what that meant, I asked how far it was.

“Maybe five or more blocks.”

Sure. We’d drive.

She said she should probably give me the address as well, there was another post office nearby, but she wouldn’t send me there because “it wasn’t very good.”

(Pretty sure that’s the one where all my mail has vanished into the ether.)

She had to call someone else to find the name and address of the post office she'd just drawn a map for.

I left, sad for the state of public service and even sadder that this was the outcome of my tax dollars.

The Last Gasp

It was now pouring rain.

I parked in what was probably an employee lot behind the post office and left my husband in the car in case it needed to be moved.

Inside: long line. No one at the desk. Classic.

Thirty minutes later, I sent off two envelope, each with certified requests for death certificates, destined for a building two blocks away.

Only in America can it take three days to deliver a letter that far.

It was scheduled to arrive on Saturday when no one is there to sign for it. Of course.

So maybe Monday. Maybe never.

And when it inevitably goes missing? I planned to take my receipt to my local post office, and they’ll tell me I have to go back to Indianapolis to get a refund.

---

At this point, I’m starting to think dual citizenship was absolutely the right decision. Even with all the hassles. Even with the yelling. Even with that map.

Next week, to begin a new year, I'll post a a look back at the favorite blog posts selected by readers for 2025. Stay Tuned.

Our Christmas Miracle

 

Photo by Lori Samuelson April 2023

Merry Christmas, dearest readers!

Christmas is a season of joy, wonder, and if you’re paying attention, quiet miracles. I have a holiday story to share that has just unfolded in my own family. Those of you who work in genealogy already understand that the strange, the coincidental, and the improbable often walk hand in hand with real life. Still, what I’m about to share feels like something more.

One of our adult children has always wanted to be a mother. For years, she prepared for a child she hoped would someday be hers, cross-stitching bibs, knitting booties, quilting blankets, and crafting tiny handmade treasures. She remained hopeful, positive, and forward-thinking throughout it all. As her mom, though, my heart often ached. No matter how old your child is, it’s painful to watch them work so hard for something that doesn’t seem to be coming.

I’ve written before about my Granny, my Croatian immigrant great-grandmother, who, in the late 1800s, made a pilgrimage from her small village of Dubranec to Marija Bistrica, a Roman Catholic shrine believed to be a site of miracles. When my husband and I visited the area years later, I was stunned by the distance she traveled. The terrain is mountainous, and for a woman of that era, the journey there and back would have been difficult and dangerous.

Yet Granny believed in miracles. She was hoping for a child who would live. According to my grandmother, Granny’s daughter, triplets had died. In truth, they were likely three separate pregnancies. English was their second language, and surviving records show two boys who died in different years. I suspect the third was a miscarriage.

While standing in that church during my visit, I lit a candle for my own child. It couldn’t hurt, right?

Last January, after modern medicine could not help her conceive, adoption became the next step. A consultation with a lawyer in May was discouraging. The message was blunt: if an adoption happened, and that was a very big if, it would likely take three to five years. Her age worked against her. International adoption was explored, but it was even more expensive and less promising. It all felt like a closed door.

Undaunted, she decided to become a foster mom. She was told she’d likely be placed with a teenager. Her response? That was fine. And if that young person someday became a parent, she would give them all the baby items she had lovingly made over the years. Generosity, it turns out, is another of her gifts.

She was approved as a foster mom the day before Thanksgiving and prepared a room for whoever might arrive. Then, last week, she received a call: would she be interested in a newborn? If so, she needed to attend an interview on 22 December. Of course she was interested but getting away from work was no small thing. In her profession, you don’t simply take the day off. With help from a few trusted colleagues, her schedule was carefully shifted so she could attend the meeting during her lunch hour.

She was told she would hear back the following day. Instead, four hours later, the phone rang. She was informed that she was a new mom.

The day she was selected came one day after my Granny’s birthdate. Go figure.

The next day, after paperwork, we met our newest family member. Our daughter named her after Granny, with a middle name that also carries deep family meaning another story for another time.

And yet, the coincidences continued.

I had never been inside this particular hospital before, but I knew it well. When we relocated from Florida, I had inexplicably chosen a hotel right next to it. Every time I needed to access the main highway, I turned into that hospital’s parking lot. Later, I realized it was the same hospital system my paternal grandfather had used when he lived in the city.

So there was a thread connecting my maternal and paternal lines but it didn’t end there.

When we entered the NICU, I noticed the baby’s whiteboard listed a very distinctive first name: the name of my husband’s maternal grandmother. I asked if that was the baby’s name. The nurse said no. One of the staff had simply thought of it, without knowing why, and wanted something to call her until an adoptive mom was chosen.

That name belonged to the woman who had, in many ways, raised my husband.

I don’t pretend to understand how all of this came together especially during a season known for wonder. I only know that we are profoundly grateful to have this strong little angel in our lives.

We are especially thankful for the biological mother, the DCS and NICU staff, and the community members who have stepped forward with support. If you’re so inclined, we would be grateful if you’d keep this little one in your prayers.

Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas.

Part 4: Helpful Hoosiers, Elusive Records, and One Good Clerk

 

AI Image

This is a continuing series on my recent adventures to acquire documents for dual-citizenship. You can read earlier posts here - here - and here.

We were up bright and early on Wednesday, ready to track down a divorce record at the Porter County, Indiana courthouse before they even opened.

Here’s another tip for researchers working in Indiana: be prepared to feel like a threat. Most facilities are swarming with armed officers who clearly believe they're guarding nuclear codes rather than 19th-century paperwork. And no, you can’t bring your cell phone in. Doesn’t matter if you need it to pay. Doesn’t matter if you’re old and holding a manila folder. It’s Wild West rules. Don’t bother asking for an exception. I warned you.

As expected, they couldn’t locate the record.

I thanked them for the stack they had mailed me two years ago, minus the final dissolution of marriage I actually needed certified. Last time, it took them three months to find anything, and they charged me $50.00, a dollar per page, even though they’d made five copies of the same ten pages. No, it wasn’t a juicy divorce. Just sloppy duplication.

This time, I showed them the exact document I needed. I was told I’d hear back once they found it.

Here we go again.

One Clerk, One Win

On to the Porter County Health Department, where I entered a bit too early for some folks’ comfort. While I stood silently at the counter, I overheard one clerk complaining about “letting people in before we open.” (Hi, yes. That would be me.)

Thankfully, another clerk came to the rescue. She was efficient, kind, and within five minutes, I had the certified record I needed.

I mentioned the nightmare from the day before in Gary, and she replied with a sigh: “I couldn’t even get my own birth certificate from them. I had to go through the state.” That's two locals that had that problem!

So maybe I was lucky after all.

A Church with a Lock and a Secretary with a Key

We drove back to Lake County to revisit the church that had been closed the day before. Again, the door was locked and the secretary spoke to us through it. When I explained what I needed, she let us in and quickly found the baptism and marriage books.

She couldn’t locate the names but from across the desk, upside down, I spotted them and pointed them out. She allowed me to take a photo of the entries, but only after covering up the rest of the page. I didn’t bother mentioning that many dioceses have digitized records entirely, so full-page images are already online.

She couldn’t issue the certificates, though as there was no priest available, and wouldn’t be one “for a while.” The plan was to mail them when a priest showed up.

Which, given how things were going, might be never.

Cemetery Software and the Mystery of the Missing Priest

Next, we made a quick stop at the cemetery, where I hadn’t planned to clean any graves, but found myself wiping down markers anyway. I was there to get an updated cemetery record for the family plot. The version I had was from 2001, and a new family member had since been buried.

They had upgraded to new cemetery software. Unfortunately, no one knew how to print a basic update using it.

So one employee simply handwrote the new information and told me to submit it alongside the old printout. (Ah, technology!)

Déjà Vu with a Twist

While there, I got a call from Porter County. They told me to check my email to confirm they’d found the divorce record.

Cue near-heart attack.

I checked: no email. Nothing in spam. I called back, no voicemail. I called again. The clerk laughed and said, “Oh, I didn’t send it yet.”

I told her we were already on our way.

One Archivist’s Righteous Indignation

And then the Chicago Archdiocese archivist called.

She wanted me to know firmly that my grandparents had not married at St. Salomea’s and that she would not be refunding my money.

I hadn’t asked for a refund.

She was clearly annoyed that I had requested a church record despite already having a civil marriage certificate number. I explained that the county couldn’t find the record.

Her response? “They should find it.” Right - shoulda - woulda - coulda!

As if that’s something I can make happen.

She then turned her attention to the birth/baptism record copies I had submitted for reissuance. Because mine were in English and the parish books were in Latin, she couldn’t issue a new version.

I told her Latin was fine.

Next excuse: the form she uses doesn’t include the word “birth,” and my copy did. She couldn’t reissue it for that reason, either.

I simply said, “That’s okay. I’ll explain that policies have changed over time.”

She grumbled something about being unsure when she’d get around to it. I told her to mail it. We were already heading home.

Tally So Far?

Two days. Fourteen stops. Five records. Not great. 

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

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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.

When AI Lost the Plot

 How a quiet English lineage turned into a political scandal and what it taught me about truth, technology, and trust.

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I use AI almost daily and have written and presented on it for nearly two years. But a recent experience left me completely baffled and more than a little uneasy.

I’ve been working on my final family genealogy book, this one tracing our Great Britain ancestry. My previous four books came together easily earlier this year because my notes were meticulous, my colleagues had verified my findings, and I’d been blogging about those ancestors for ten years.

Our British roots, though, are a different beast. Between my husband’s lines and mine, there are only five but they reach deep into medieval soil. Scholars can’t always agree on the pedigrees, and the repeated use of the same names has led to confusion and overlap. Sorting it all out requires patience, precision, and a love of historical detective work.

Last spring, when winter refused to obey the calendar, I drafted the outline and introduction for my new book, Echoes of Britannia. Then the season’s speaking engagements and client projects took over, and I set the manuscript aside with plans to finish it this fall.

When I returned to it in September, progress came slowly. My writing rhythm faltered, and I found myself staring at the same sentence for far too long. Grammarly could fix the punctuation, but it couldn’t fix writer’s block. My AI research assistant, Geni, usually helps bridge the gaps between genealogical sketches but apparently, he was blocked too.

We were working on the Venables of Kinderton, a noble but quiet family from Cheshire. They lived out their days peacefully, kept out of court battles, and occasionally donated a stained-glass window to a nearby abbey. In other words, wholesome and uneventful.

Until AI got involved.

My writing style isn’t the typical “Josiah begot Daniel who begot Uriah who begot…” genealogy. My family would fall asleep halfway through the second begot. They don’t like numbering systems either, even though they’re math people, not history people. Me? I’d rather run laps in PE than solve for X.

That’s why AI has been such a useful partner. Geni understands that I’m a storyteller who insists on historical truth, even when it’s messy. I like to think I’ve created a new genre: bedtime family stories with pictures for visual learners.

But one day, Geni froze mid-thought. After several failed attempts, I switched to another AI tool, Claude. I don’t use it often, but it greeted me warmly by name, which felt encouraging. I gave it a straightforward task:

“From the provided information, maintain all footnotes while making the narrative more engaging. Keep the tone conversational for readers with limited historical background.”

What came back stunned me.

The Venables, my mild, landholding, church-donating family, had been transformed into a political thriller. Claude had rewritten the story to liken them to a well-known modern politician, naming names and all. Suddenly, the Venables were misogynistic felons clawing for power.

I was horrified. I hit “thumbs down” and deleted it instantly.

A week later, I still couldn’t shake it. How could a neutral story about medieval gentry morph into a contemporary political allegory? Who gave the machine permission to do that?

My only conclusion: some AIs are now reflecting the political biases of the data they’re trained on. If their training includes modern news, it stands to reason that bias slips in and it shows.

That realization made me pause. AI is supposed to help us see patterns, not project agendas. As genealogists, we work hard to separate fact from family legend. Shouldn’t we expect the same integrity from our digital tools?

I chose not to share the story on Facebook. The last thing our country needs is another spark thrown into the bonfire of division. But I also felt this moment needed to be shared, not as outrage, but as a reminder.

We live in an era where algorithms, headlines, and echo chambers can reshape our understanding of truth. It’s up to us, researchers, writers, and everyday citizens , to hold fast to kindness, empathy, respect, honesty, and responsibility. These aren’t partisan ideals; they’re the foundation of human decency.

And as for those Venables? I’ve decided to let them rest a while. I’ll return to them soon, with fresh eyes and a renewed respect for their quiet simplicity.

Because sometimes, living a peaceful life that harms no one isn’t boring at all, it’s the truest kind of legacy.

Upcoming AI Event

Join me on Tuesday, November 4, at 2:30 pm EST when I present a beginning class on AI & Ancestry for Allen County Public Library. You can register here for free.

When the Universe Writes Back: A Halloween Follow-Up

 

As promised, my synchronicity streak isn’t done with me yet.

Bible Entry for Calvin DeWolf in Thompson Family Bible

Back in March, I mailed a request to the Cook County, Illinois Vital Records office seeking the death certificate of my husband’s second great-uncle, John Calvin DeWolf. He’s an intriguing figure. A cryptic entry in his mother’s Bible notes simply that he was “found dead in the woods in LaGrange.” That line alone opens a dozen genealogical rabbit holes:

Dead how?
Accident?
Sudden illness?
Suicide?
Foul play?

Why was he in the woods at all?
Where was he buried afterward?
Why has no obituary surfaced?

Online databases are silent. Newspaper searches cough politely and excuse themselves.

So I sent in my request… and then, nothing. Months passed. My check went uncashed. My mailman and I eyed each other suspiciously. I eventually chalked it up to a postal mishap.

Fast-forward to late July, when I traveled to Chicago to obtain several vital records in person for my family’s dual-citizenship pursuit. While there, I re-requested John Calvin’s death certificate. I handed over the form. I paid the fee. The clerk assured me they’d be in touch.

Every other record from that day has since dutifully arrived in my mailbox.

Except John’s.

And then last Tuesday, while writing the chapter on John Calvin’s parents for my upcoming book Echoes of Britannia, I footnoted the matter:

“Death certificate requested; not yet received. Someday, perhaps, the record will surface.”

I sighed, closed the my Word doc, and moved on.

Two days later, yes, exactly two, an envelope from the Cook County Vital Records office appeared in my mailbox. My heart did a little leap. Could this be it?

Not quite.

Inside was a Certificate of No Finding.

According to Cook County, they have no death record at all for John Calvin DeWolf.

So where did he die?
Was it reported?
Was it covered up?
Was it recorded elsewhere?

His half sister who owned the Bible at the time of his death and likely made the entry clearly believed he was found in LaGrange. The Bible entry says so. But the county has nothing.

The mystery deepens.

And the timing? After seven silent months, the response was generated on the very day I finally wrote about him.

Coincidence? Maybe. But these synchronicities love to show up when I start telling a story.

Of course, I’m not done with John. Next stop: IRAD, for coroner’s records, inquests, and investigations. Somebody, somewhere, documented what happened.

Because records hide.
But they rarely disappear forever.

Earlier this month, the same thing happened with my mom's Cook County, Illinois birth record. I had requested it in person in Chicago in late July. They couldn't find it which was no surprise to me as my mom and grandmom had both said the birth was only registered with the Roman Catholic Church, an accepted practice in 1918. On the anniversary of my mom's death earlier this month, I finally received a response from Cook County. It was a record of no record. Thanks, mom! Sometimes are family tell us the truth and we can confirm it over 100 years later.

At times, family history feels less like research and more like a conversation across time. We chase records, but every now and then, the records seem to chase us back. These little moments remind me that discoveries don’t always happen in archives. Sometimes they appear in unexpected envelopes or on memorial pages when we least expect them.

They’re often hidden in plain sight, waiting for the right moment to surface.

If you enjoy reflections like this, I’ve begun sending a short once-a-month note to curious-minded family historians. You can join me by messaging me at genealogyatheart.com. It’s a quiet circle, and you’re welcome there. I've also begun a FaceBook and LinkedIN page so we can interact frequently. Hope you'll join me there as well!

Happy Halloween, dear readers.
May the ancestors keep whispering and may you always listen.

Happy Halloween: The Synchronicity That Saved My Blog

 

My readers tell me, year after year, that my Halloween synchronicity series is their favorite tradition. Which is why, by August, I was in a quiet panic. The kids were back in school, stores were already pushing candy corn, and for the first time in my genealogical career… nothing weird had happened to me.

Nada. Zilch.

I considered scrapping the whole thing and writing a single line, “Sorry, folks, nothing to report this year” and calling it good. But that felt wrong. These uncanny little moments can’t be summoned on command, but I still held out hope that one would arrive just in time.

It did. On August 14th.

I was volunteering at the Association of Professional Genealogists table during the Jewish Genealogical Conference in Fort Wayne. Since I’d signed up for the whole week, I was allowed to attend a few sessions during breaks. I’m not Jewish, though occasionally my DNA results tease me with a percentage or two that disappears the next time I test, but I found every talk fascinating.

Meanwhile, in my own research life, I was deep in the throes of acquiring certified vital records for my family’s dual citizenship application. Two notarized forms were already on their way to Croatia to obtain my grandmother’s birth record. That left one gaping hole: my grandparents’ 1917 marriage record from Cook County, Illinois.

I had the index entry from Ancestry.com, names, date, location, marriage license number, but when I visited the Cook County Clerk’s office two weeks earlier, they couldn’t find the record. I paid for the search anyway, but they gave me no timeline of when they could do deep research.

At the conference, I mentioned my predicament to a fellow genealogist, who knew someone with database access. The news came back: my grandparents’ marriage record hadn’t been digitized. Neither had the record for the couple immediately after them.

Lost? Misfiled? Never returned? Theories abounded. One person even suggested they’d never married. (“It was staged,” she said of their wedding photo. To which I thought: Really? That would be an awfully elaborate prank for this couple.)

No one had a solid lead. And I needed that record, not just to prove the marriage, but to identify the church where it took place. Chicago city directories for the period were scarce. The Chicago History Museum couldn’t help. The Archdiocese would search closed-church records for $50 a pop, but that was a quick road to the poorhouse.

Then came my first odd nudge of the week. While exercising, I heard my grandmother’s voice in my head: Look at the back of the pictures. Sure enough, on the reverse of what looked like an engagement photo, there it was “Chicago Heights."

I brought the photo to Sherlock Kohn, a fellow conference-goer and photo expert, who confirmed the clothing was period-correct. She suggested the Chicago History Museum for studio leads. I kept chasing, but the record stayed stubbornly hidden.

A second genealogist offered another tip: years ago, FamilySearch had donated pallets of old microfilm to the Allen County Public Library (ACPL). Maybe, just maybe, my record was buried there. I tracked down Adam, one of ACPL’s librarians, and he gamely searched the microfilm. Blank images.

At this point, you’re probably thinking, Lori, just search FamilySearch online. Oh, I had using the index with every permutation of the last name and around the date the marriage occurred, and nothing.

So I decided: I’d comb through every 1917 marriage image by hand. First, though, I made a side trip to birth records for my mom, two hours later, I had confirmed my mother’s birth was indeed only recorded by the church, just as she and my grandmother had said. (Cook County, Illinois later confirmed this - I got the "certificate" of no registered birth on the date my mom had died 24 years ago. Weird, huh?!

By then it was late. I was tired, discouraged, and dreading the thought of cold-calling every Catholic church in South Chicago. Still, before leaving, I opened the 1917 marriage film on FamilySearch, locked to home users, but accessible at ACPL. I scrolled to the end of one reel. No luck.

Then my computer glitched. As a non-resident, my ACPL guest account was on a timer. It flashed “10 minutes remaining” and kicked me out of FamilySearch. When I logged back in, I had 7 minutes left.

The next reel contained 1,278 images. No way I could check them all. So I did the only thing left, I scrolled, stopped, and clicked at random.

And there it was.

My eyes fell immediately on “Mary Koss.” Without even scanning the rest, I gasped loud enough to turn heads in the reading room. “Sounds like you found something,” a man seated across from me said. A woman down the row called, “We aren’t finding anything, do tell!”

I was near tears.

Adam hurried over. I showed him the record, and he smartly told me to write down the film and image number. Then he handled the printing as the machine wouldn't cooperate (with help from a kind patron who wanted to donate her library account to me) while another researcher kept my computer from timing out so I could email it to myself.

Out of 1,278 possible images, I had landed on the one I needed, completely blind. Missed in indexing, out of sync in databases, invisible to every search I’d tried. And yet, here it was.

Thank you, Grandma!

And here's a link of another uncanny find I didn't have - ENJOY!

And to you, dear readers: Happy Halloween. May the coming year bring you your own uncanny genealogical coincidences - just when you need them most.

When the Cloud Collapsed, Genealogy Continues

 

Guess we now know which Genealogy software companies use Amazon! MyHeritage.com and Findmypast.com are up and running. (2 PM Eastern)

I hope this is a wake up call to all of you who haven't SYNCHED or DOWNLOADED your trees elsewhere!

All of the software companies are working. I'm able to access all of my info because I've saved it other than Ancestry.com and FamilySearch.org.

When the cloud service is restored you may want to read my blog articles on how you can prepare for the next time. Here's the how to for FREE - Legacy Family Tree does not synch but you can upload a downloaded .gedcom from Ancestry. This means you won't have pictures of the census or any other media but you will have the information about your ancestors. This older blog article talks about a previous version of Family Tree Maker, I've updated to the latest and greatest which fixed the problem I encountered and provided the work around. I don't use FTM's vault, a cloud service, but you might want to consider it given what's happened today with Ancestry. I no longer use RootsMagic since version 8 as later updates would not allow me to synch with Ancestry. They do have a free version for smaller trees you could download. I do appreciate that their tech folks recommended I try downloading my tree with the free version to see if the problem was corrected; it wasn't but they are aware of it and working on it. Click here for the free version.

Your genealogy research does not have to stop when a part of the internet breaks. Go make a cup of tea, write up what you've been working on, and make a plan for the future so you don't get caught without access to your information. Here's links to an older blog about writing up your research using AI. If you aren't comfortable with AI, here's an alternative. Remember, once upon a time there was no "online" for us to use to help us with genealogy.

The Hidden Discoveries of Writing Your Research

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As genealogists, we spend hours pulling records, analyzing handwriting, and piecing together family connections. Most of that work happens in the collecting stage, we hunt down wills, census pages, land deeds, and church registers. But it isn’t until we write that we begin to see what those records are really telling us.

Writing forces a shift in how our brains work. Collecting records is like gathering puzzle pieces. Writing is when you finally flip the pieces right-side up and begin to see the picture. Patterns emerge that you hadn’t noticed before. Gaps in the timeline become obvious. A stray witness on a deed suddenly matters because you’re weaving the story instead of cataloging the fragments.

I saw this firsthand with my ancestor Daniel Hollingshead. I had collected a mountain of records: tax documents from Cheshire, court cases, marriage records from Barbados, and family land deeds in New Jersey. It wasn’t until I began to write his story that the threads pulled tight. Suddenly, the narrative was clear:

• A grandfather’s failure as a tax collector plunges the family into crisis.
• An uncle flees to Barbados after funds are stolen.
• A young Daniel joins the military, is posted to Barbados, and marries into sugar wealth.
• He returns to New Jersey with enslaved people, rising socially but carrying moral shadows with him.

The facts were always there in the records. But the story, the irony, the Atlantic World connections, the moral reckoning , only emerged when I tried to explain it in writing.

That’s the hidden power of writing: it doesn’t just preserve what you’ve learned, it teaches you something new. Writing sharpens your research questions, reveals new avenues to explore, and brings ancestors to life in ways a database never can.

So the next time you feel stuck in the research grind, try writing a short biography or family sketch. Even a rough draft will show you what you’ve missed. You might be surprised at what discoveries are hiding , not in the archives, but in your own words.

Saving Google Photos

 

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Are you tired of Google telling you that you need to purchase more storage? Are they threatening to shut down your email? One way to lessen the storage is to remove your photos from Google Photos. You can do this in batches which makes the task quicker. Here’s a quick how to. The photos below were taken on Sunday, August 7, 2016. I want to save all of them so I click the checkbox next to the date. If you don't want to save all, click the checkboxes next the pictures you want to save:

• Click the 3 dots and select download

• The download will pop up and click it.

• Now, drop and drag to your Desktop. There you can rename – I add the date.

• I create a folder by year (Right click your mouse, click “New” “Folder” and name the folder by year.
• When done with saving the photos for that year, I drop the folder into Dropbox.
• If you have a lot of pics, you can easily extract them at one time. Simply click the “Extract All” icon:

• Make sure you have created a folder to place them in or they will be all over your desktop!

• Just select the folder from Browse and click “Extract.”

Next you’ll want to delete the Google Photos you’ve saved.

1. Simply click the dates again and the checkmarks will return.
2. Click the 3 dots and select delete.
3. The deleted photos will remain for 60 days in Google Photos Trash; if you need to clear up space immediately, on the side bar, under Collections, scroll down (it’s hidden) to Trash:

• 4. Clicking on Trash will bring up all the photos you deleted. To lessen your storage numbers, click empty trash and they will all permanently disappear – make sure you are ready to get rid of them as you will not be able to retrieve them after emptying trash.

I’ll be honest, my storage numbers did not significantly drop after deleting large amounts of photos but they have stopped harassing me to buy more space! I also have a lot of emails saved which I plan to move out of Gmail. Will give you the process in an upcoming blog.

As an added safeguard, back up your Dropbox to a stand alone hard drive!