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.