1. Before You Ask AI a Question, Teach It Who You Are

      AI Image  

When someone tells me they've tried artificial intelligence and "it wasn't very good," my first question is simple:

"Did you customize it?"

Most people answer no.

That's a little like hiring a brand-new research assistant, handing them a box of family papers, and expecting them to instantly know your research methods, writing style, citation preferences, and standards of proof. Of course they won't.

Artificial intelligence works much the same way.

Think of It as Training a New Research Assistant

Every genealogist develops habits over time.

Perhaps you always cite your sources in Evidence Explained style. Maybe you write dates as "21 March 1850" instead of "March 21, 1850." You might insist that every statement be supported by evidence, or refuse to identify someone as a parent without a convincing proof argument.

None of that is obvious to an AI unless you tell it. The more it understands your expectations, the less time you'll spend correcting its work.

What Should You Tell It?

Each AI platform has a place where you can save instructions that will be used in future conversations. Although every platform calls it something slightly different, the idea is the same.

Consider including information such as:

• Your experience level in genealogy.

• Your preferred citation style.

• How you like dates written.

• Whether you want the AI to distinguish clearly between facts, assumptions, and hypotheses.

• Whether you prefer concise answers or detailed explanations.

• Your preferred writing tone.

• The kinds of records you most frequently research.

• Any formatting preferences you use consistently.

Think carefully before adding information. These instructions should describe how you want the AI to work with you, not every detail about your personal life.

My Own Instructions

Over time I've taught my AI assistant quite a bit about how I work.

It knows that I expect evidence-based genealogy rather than speculation. It knows I prefer military-style dates and Chicago citations because Evidence Explained is under copywrite. It understands that if a record doesn't support a conclusion, it shouldn't invent one. It also knows I write for an educated audience and prefer engaging narratives instead of dry reports.

As a result, much of what it produces already looks remarkably close to something I would write myself.

Is it perfect? No. I still verify every fact, examine every citation, and edit every piece of writing before anyone else sees it. That's exactly what responsible genealogists should do.

Your Instructions Will Change

Don't think of these settings as permanent.

As you discover new ways to work with AI, you'll probably update them.

I add new instructions whenever I notice I'm making the same correction repeatedly. If I find myself saying, "Please don't use em dashes," or "Always distinguish evidence from inference," that's usually a sign the instruction belongs in my saved settings.

Over time your AI becomes a better research partner because you've taken the time to teach it how you work.

One Important Reminder

Customizing your AI does not replace critical thinking.

AI can summarize records, organize timelines, suggest research strategies, draft narratives, and help identify conflicts in the evidence. It cannot determine whether a conclusion is genealogically sound.

That responsibility remains yours.

Think of AI as an exceptionally fast assistant, not an expert witness.

Teach it well, supervise it carefully, and you'll likely discover that it becomes one of the most useful tools in your genealogy toolbox.

In my next article, I'll show you exactly where to find these settings in ChatGPT, and I'll also compare the equivalent features in Gemini, Claude, and Perplexity so you can customize whichever AI assistant you use.

The Mystery of Mary Harbaugh

 

Jim Samuelson in front of Mary Harbaugh’s grave, Harbaugh Church Cemetery, Rouzerville, Franklin, PA Photo by Lori Samuelson 16 June 2026.

Every genealogist knows the thrill of finding a gravestone that has been hiding in plain sight and every genealogist knows the disappointment that sometimes follows.

Recently, while visiting Harbaugh family cemeteries in Pennsylvania and Maryland, I experienced both emotions on the same day.

The discovery began in Harbaugh Church Cemetery in Rouzerville, Franklin County, Pennsylvania.

I had visited the cemetery nearly ten years earlier while researching my husband's Harbaugh family. During that visit, I failed to notice a weathered stone marking the grave of a woman named Mary Harbaugh who died in 1843.

This time, however, my husband Jim spotted it. I should not have been surprised.

Over the years, Jim has developed an uncanny ability to notice things I overlook. Whether it is a partially hidden gravestone, a faded inscription, or a clue buried in plain sight, he often finds what I miss.

Standing in the cemetery, I was delighted by the discovery.

The stone was difficult to read, weathered by nearly two centuries of exposure to Pennsylvania winters and summer heat. Yet enough remained visible to identify the woman as Mary Harbaugh and to establish that she died in 1843.

Naturally, my mind immediately began searching for an identity.

Genealogists are problem-solvers by nature. When presented with an unknown individual, we instinctively begin fitting pieces together. Who was she? How did she fit into the family? Why was she buried here?

Almost immediately, I convinced myself I had the answer.

I recalled that my husband's third great-grandmother, Mary Garver, had died in 1843. She and her husband had lived in nearby Waynesboro. The dates seemed reasonable. The location appeared plausible.

For a brief moment, I thought the mystery was solved.

Then I looked more carefully. Genealogy has a way of humbling us. The Mary I had in mind was not Mary Harbaugh at all. She was Mary Garver Eyster.

Her gravestone still survives, not in Pennsylvania, but across the state line in the Harbaugh Family Cemetery near Sabillasville, Frederick County, Maryland.

The woman in Rouzerville was someone else entirely. Back to the drawing board.

At first, I was frustrated. After all, identifying an unknown individual is much more satisfying than admitting uncertainty. But the more I reflected on the experience, the more I realized it illustrates one of the most important lessons in genealogy.

A wrong answer is not better than no answer. In fact, one of the greatest dangers researchers face is the temptation to accept a convenient explanation simply because it appears to fit.

Dates align. Locations seem reasonable. Family names match.

Before long, a theory quietly transforms into a fact. Then the mistake gets copied. And copied again. And copied again. Eventually, nobody remembers where the conclusion came from. All they know is that everyone else believes it.

Fortunately, I caught myself before making that mistake.

The truth is simple. I do not know who Mary Harbaugh was.

Not yet.

She does not appear to have a memorial on Findagrave. No immediately obvious record identifies her. The weathered stone provides only a name, a death year, and a question. Yet that question may prove valuable.

Who was she? A wife? A daughter? A widow? A sister? Why was she buried in Harbaugh Church Cemetery? What relationship did she have to the surrounding families?

Somewhere, the answer may still exist. Perhaps a church register survives. Perhaps a probate record remains hidden in an archive. Perhaps a distant cousin will recognize her story. Or perhaps the answer will emerge from a completely unexpected source years from now.

That possibility is one of the reasons I love genealogy.

Not every cemetery visit produces a breakthrough. Not every mystery is solved before we leave the gate.

Sometimes we return home carrying more questions than answers. And that is perfectly acceptable.

Good genealogy is not measured by how many mysteries we solve. It is measured by how honestly we evaluate the evidence.

For now, Mary Harbaugh remains a mystery.

Her weathered stone stands quietly among the graves in Rouzerville, waiting for someone to tell her story. Perhaps one day that someone will be me.

Until then, I am content to leave her where she belongs. Not in the category of "solved." But in the much more honest category of "still researching."

Thus ends my cemetery series for the summer. Next week I've got some important info to share with you on making your AI experience more effective and efficient. 

When My Genealogist Brain Met a Hacked Website

 

AI Image

Yesterday, I received one of the strangest genealogy emails I have received in a long time.

It came from an AI genealogy blog I have followed for years. The post was titled “Coronavirus disease 2019.”

That was pretty much what it was about. COVID-19 symptoms. Transmission. Testing. Vaccines. Prevention. Treatment.

I stopped reading.

What in the world did this have to do with genealogy? Or artificial intelligence? More importantly, this did not sound remotely like the person whose work I knew.

It was late, so I decided I wasn't dealing with it. This morning, I looked at the email again. It was still weird.

Then My Imagination Got Involved

Unfortunately, I had recently read a news article about AI agents behaving in unexpected ways during testing. Claude was mentioned. OpenAI was mentioned. There was even discussion about whether some AI behavior constituted “cheating,” although I wasn't entirely convinced that was the right word. Perhaps the AIs were simply working very hard to solve the problems humans had given them.

So there I sat with two completely unrelated pieces of information:

1. AI agents had reportedly done some unexpected things.
2. An AI genealogy website had suddenly sent me an inexplicable article about COVID-19.

My genealogist brain immediately performed the following calculation:

1 + 1 = 100,000.

Had some rogue AI agent taken over the genealogy website? Had the machines finally escaped? Were my devices now infected because I had read an article about a virus?

Okay, probably not. But something wasn't right.

Stop. What Do I Actually Know?

This is where being a genealogist finally overcame my imagination.

I had a hypothesis. I did not have evidence.

The article itself wasn't necessarily the problem. The problem was its provenance and context. It simply didn't belong where I found it.

I knew the person behind the site and was familiar with his work. This didn't sound like him. It wasn't the type of material he normally published. There was no apparent genealogy connection. There was no obvious AI connection.

There was another complication. The author had moved his work to a new website months earlier. The old WordPress site was no longer supposed to be his active publishing platform.

Now I was genuinely curious. I decided to contact him.

That turned into another small adventure. The WordPress notification had come from a no-reply address. I couldn't immediately locate the email address I had used to correspond with him several years ago. Then I discovered that the contact-email link on the old website wasn't working.

Eventually, I located a current email address elsewhere. I sent him a simple message. I did not mention rogue AI. I did not tell him I thought someone had taken over his website. I simply explained what I had received, told him it seemed completely unlike his usual material, mentioned the broken contact link, and asked whether he had intentionally posted it.

Then I waited.

The Answer Arrived

He responded. I had been right to be concerned. His old WordPress site had been hacked.

The hacker had gotten in through an outdated version of WordPress. The COVID article was not his. He removed the false post, rebuilt and secured the site, and told me he would repair the broken contact link.

He was startled by what had happened, too.

So no, as far as we know, a rogue AI did not take over a genealogy website. My imagination had gotten considerably ahead of my evidence. But someone really had taken over the website. I was wrong about the culprit. I wasn't wrong about the anomaly.

Why Did I Notice?

This is the part of the story that I think matters to genealogists.

There was nothing about the appearance of the email that immediately screamed “fake.” It came through the expected WordPress system. It pointed to the expected website. The website was real. What was wrong was the content in context.

I knew the creator. I knew the type of material he produced. I knew what his website was about. The new information didn't fit what I already knew about the source.

Genealogists encounter this problem constantly.

A document may be authentic while information contained within it is wrong. A record may appear in exactly the repository where we expect to find it while referring to a different person. A perfectly reasonable fact may become unreasonable when placed alongside everything else we know.

Provenance matters. Context matters. Knowing your source matters.

And perhaps most importantly, recognizing an anomaly does not give us permission to invent its explanation. My “rogue AI” hypothesis was entertaining. It was also unsupported.

So I did what genealogists are supposed to do. I went looking for better evidence. In this case, I went directly to the person who could answer the question.

There's Another Lesson Here

The incident also made me think about something genealogists don't discuss nearly enough: what happens to our old websites after we move on?

The owner of this site had already moved his material to a new platform. The old WordPress site was no longer needed as his primary home.

But the old software was still there. That distinction matters.

An abandoned website isn't necessarily an abandoned file. A WordPress installation is software running on a server. If it remains online, it still needs security updates and maintenance even if nobody has written a new post in months.

If you move your genealogy website somewhere else, finish the move.

If the old site no longer serves a purpose, take it offline. If it needs to remain available, keep the software updated and secured. If you want visitors redirected to your new home, consider replacing the old installation with a simple static page rather than leaving an unnecessary content-management system running indefinitely.

And if you still actively use WordPress, keep WordPress itself, your themes, and your plugins updated. Remove what you no longer use. Maintain backups. Protect administrator accounts.

I will be checking my own WordPress installation today. I already back up my site and duplicate my posts on another blogging platform because I have long believed in redundancy.

Or, as I prefer to put it:

Paranoia doesn't destroy ya.

One Last Thought

This entire episode began because something simply didn't feel right.

That feeling wasn't evidence. But it was a reason to investigate. There's an important difference.

Genealogists develop instincts after years of working with records. We notice names that don't quite fit, dates that seem slightly wrong, sources appearing where we wouldn't expect them, and stories that are almost—but not quite—consistent with everything else we know.

Those instincts are valuable. They are not conclusions. Use the instinct to formulate the question. Then find the evidence to answer it.

Yesterday I received an inexplicable COVID-19 article from a genealogy website. For a brief moment, my imagination supplied a rogue AI. Reality supplied an ordinary hacker exploiting outdated software.

The hacker was less exciting. The lesson was considerably more useful.

And thankfully, my computer did not catch COVID.

The Empty Spaces in the Family Plot

Antietam Church Cemetery, Waynesboro, Franklin, Pennsylvania showing the Harbaugh family burials with spaces for graves missing stones; photo by Lori Samuelson 22 June 2026.

Some discoveries are made by finding something. Others are made by noticing what is missing.

During a recent cemetery-hunting trip through Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Ohio, I visited numerous burial grounds connected to my husband's Harbaugh family and my own Duer ancestors. Some visits led to new discoveries. Others answered long-standing questions.

One stop left me with neither.

Instead, it left me staring at several empty spaces in a family burial plot and wondering whether the answers had been there all along.

For years, I have searched for the final resting places of Elias Harbaugh and his wife, Mary Magdaline Weaver Harbaugh.

Elias presents a challenge because his probate file no longer exists in Franklin County, Pennsylvania. Based on surviving records, he likely died about 1874. Mary appears to have died around March 1877, her death inferred from a deed recorded by her grandson, George Henry, in 1885.

Like many genealogists, I have spent years piecing together fragments of evidence to reconstruct their lives. What I hoped this trip would provide was something more tangible. A tombstone. A burial record. Some confirmation of where they were laid to rest.

For a long time, I have suspected that Elias and Mary were buried in Antietam Church Cemetery in Waynesboro, Franklin County, Pennsylvania.

The theory is not without support. Their only child who remained in Pennsylvania, Frederick Alexander Harbaugh, was buried there in 1894. The cemetery contains several members of Frederick's family, suggesting that the Harbaughs used this churchyard for multiple generations.

Ten years ago, I spoke with the church minister regarding burial records. Unfortunately, the surviving records do not extend back to the 1870s. If documentation once existed identifying Elias and Mary's graves, it has not survived.

Still, I hoped the cemetery itself might provide clues. Cemeteries often tell stories that records cannot.

Families were frequently buried together. Parents, children, spouses, and siblings often occupied adjoining plots. Even when records disappear, burial patterns sometimes survive.

Walking among the Harbaugh stones, I was struck by how weathered many of the markers had become. Time has not been kind to them. Some inscriptions are difficult to read. Others have deteriorated significantly since photographs were taken years ago.

Yet something else caught my attention. Several empty spaces appeared within the family row. Not random gaps. Places that seemed as though stones might once have stood there.

I found myself studying the spaces as carefully as the surviving markers.

Could Elias and Mary have been buried there? Had stones once marked their graves? Were the markers lost to weather, damage, or neglect?

There was no way to know for certain.

My husband, Jim, has an uncanny ability to spot things that others miss. I hoped he might discover a sunken marker, a fragment of stone, or some overlooked clue hidden among the grass.

We searched carefully. Nothing appeared. No broken fragments. No buried marker. No evidence beyond the empty spaces themselves.

We left without answers. Yet I could not stop thinking about what those gaps represented.

Genealogists are trained to focus on evidence we can see and document. We seek records, photographs, inscriptions, and artifacts. We want proof.

But absence can sometimes be evidence, too. An empty place in a family plot may tell a story. A missing probate file may tell a story. A burial record that should exist but doesn't may tell a story.

None of these pieces alone prove that Elias and Mary rest in Antietam Church Cemetery. Together, however, they create a pattern that is difficult for me to ignore. Sometimes all that remains is a possibility.

I left Antietam Church Cemetery without finding Elias and Mary. Perhaps resting quietly among their family members, their identities lost but their presence still remembered.

Genealogy is often portrayed as a series of discoveries and breakthroughs.

In reality, much of our work involves living with uncertainty.

Not every mystery is solved. Not every ancestor leaves a marker. Not every story reaches a neat conclusion.

For now, Elias and Mary remain missing.

But every time I look at the photograph of that family row, my eyes are drawn not to the stones that remain.

They are drawn to the empty spaces and to the possibility that sometimes what is missing can tell us as much as what survives.

When the Tombstones Disappear

 

Genealogists spend much of their time searching for things that have been lost.

Missing records. Forgotten stories. Unmarked graves. Destroyed courthouses. Faded photographs.

We become accustomed to loss because loss is woven into the very fabric of family history research. Yet nothing prepared me for returning to a cemetery and discovering that the evidence I had once photographed had disappeared.

Ten years ago, I visited Green Hill Cemetery in Waynesboro, Pennsylvania, in search of several members of my husband's Harbaugh family.

Their tombstones had not originally stood there.

The family had first been buried in Old Union Cemetery adjacent to a church. In 1923, after the property changed ownership, the graves were disinterred and reinterred at Green Hill Cemetery. According to cemetery staff, efforts had been made to notify descendants through notices published in local newspapers. Whether family members living elsewhere ever learned of the move is unknown.

By the time I visited in 2016, the stones had already endured one relocation.

They were worn; no longer standing they were placed flat on the earth. I photographed each one carefully.

At the time, I viewed the images as routine documentation. Like many genealogists, I had become accustomed to photographing tombstones whenever I encountered them. The task felt important, but not urgent.

After all, the stones had already survived for more than a century. Surely they would remain there for future visitors. Or so I thought.

This summer, while returning from a genealogy conference, I decided to revisit Green Hill Cemetery. I wanted to see the stones again.

Perhaps I would notice details I had overlooked a decade earlier. Perhaps advances in photography would allow me to capture inscriptions more clearly. Perhaps I would simply enjoy reconnecting with ancestors whose stories I had spent years researching.

Instead, I found an absence.

The hillside where the stones had once stood had been altered. The markers were gone. Completely gone. For several moments I simply stared at the space where I expected them to be. Had I remembered the location incorrectly? Had the stones been moved again? Had they been damaged? Had they been placed in storage?

I had no answers.

The cemetery office was closed, leaving me with questions and a growing sense of unease.

What troubled me most was not simply that the stones were missing. It was the realization that physical evidence we often assume will remain forever can disappear without warning.

Genealogists sometimes treat cemeteries as permanent repositories of history. In reality, they are vulnerable places. Weather damages monuments. Trees fall. Floods occur. Maintenance priorities change. Ownership changes. Records are misplaced. Occasionally, markers simply vanish.

The experience reminded me of the countless records I have searched for over the years that no longer exist. Probate files that disappeared from courthouse shelves. Church registers lost to fire. Family Bibles discarded during estate sales. Letters thrown away by descendants who did not recognize their value.

Every generation inherits responsibility for preserving the evidence left behind by those who came before. Sometimes we fulfill that responsibility. Sometimes we fail.

Fortunately, I had photographed the stones during my earlier visit. What once seemed like routine documentation now feels considerably more important.

Those photographs preserve information that may no longer be accessible in the cemetery itself. That realization changed the way I think about every cemetery visit.

Take the photographs.

Record the inscriptions.

Capture the surrounding landscape.

Document the location.

Don't assume someone else already has.

Don't assume the information will still be there next year.

Most importantly, don't assume that stone is permanent simply because it has already survived for generations.

Family history exists in a delicate balance between remembrance and forgetting. As genealogists, we often focus on discovering the past. Perhaps an equally important task is preserving it.

The missing stones at Green Hill Cemetery reminded me that our ancestors' stories are not guaranteed to survive. Their preservation depends upon ordinary people who care enough to record them before they disappear.

Sometimes we search for evidence. Sometimes we become its last caretakers. And sometimes, without realizing it, the photograph we take today may become tomorrow's only surviving record.

Don't Let America Lose Its Archives

 

Ironically, photo of NARA Chicago from the National Archives.

On 23 June 2026, the National Archives and Records Administration (NARA) announced plans to close two of its regional archive, Chicago and San Francisco, within the next three years. According to the announcement, the transfer of records could begin as early as August 2026.

For many Americans, this may sound like another government reorganization.

It is not.

It is a decision that could fundamentally change access to some of our nation's most important historical records.

As genealogists, we understand something many people do not: once access to records is reduced, it is rarely restored.

More Than Buildings

Regional archives are not warehouses filled with dusty boxes.

They are active research centers where historians, attorneys, journalists, veterans, students, tribal researchers, authors, and genealogists access the original federal records that document our nation's history.

The Chicago and San Francisco facilities preserve millions of records that are unique to their regions. Many have never been digitized. Many exist nowhere else.

These collections include federal court records, naturalizations, military records, customs records, Native American records, immigration files, maps, photographs, engineering drawings, and countless other documents that researchers rely upon every day.

Without these facilities, access becomes more difficult, more expensive, and potentially unavailable for extended periods while records are relocated.

"Everything Is Online"

It isn't. That may be the biggest misconception surrounding these proposed closures.

Despite remarkable progress in digitization, only a small percentage of NARA's holdings are available online. Billions of pages remain accessible only by visiting an archive or requesting assistance from knowledgeable archivists.

Even when records have been scanned, researchers frequently need to examine the original document. Marginal notes, seals, handwriting, attached correspondence, paper characteristics, and filing context often provide clues that digital images cannot fully capture.

As every experienced genealogist knows, the answer to a decades-old mystery is sometimes found in a note scribbled in the margin or in the document tucked behind the one you expected to find.

This Became Personal

This issue struck particularly close to home for me.

As many of my readers know, I am currently pursuing Croatian dual citizenship based on my family heritage. One of the requirements for my application involved obtaining federal records from the National Archives at Chicago.

Those records are not simply interesting historical documents.

They are legal evidence.

Without them, my citizenship application could not move forward.

That experience reminded me that regional archives do far more than preserve history.

Every day they help individuals prove history.

Veterans rely upon them to document military service.

Families use them to establish citizenship.

Attorneys obtain records for legal proceedings.

Tribal communities document their heritage.

Historians uncover stories that have remained hidden for generations.

These are working institutions that continue to serve the public every day.

Questions That Deserve Answers

NARA has announced the closures. What researchers still do not know is equally important.

Where, exactly, will every collection be transferred?

Will related collections remain together?

How long will records be unavailable during the move?

Will enough archivists accompany the collections?

Will the receiving facilities have sufficient space and staffing?

Will public access remain at its current level?

These are not minor administrative details. They determine whether researchers can continue their work or whether projects that have taken years to build suddenly come to a halt.

Once Access Is Lost...

History teaches us that reduced access is seldom temporary.

Archives close. Staffing is reduced. Reading rooms become more difficult to use.

Travel costs increase. Fewer people can conduct research.

Eventually, stories remain undiscovered, not because the records disappeared, but because reaching them became too difficult.

History is not lost only when records are destroyed.

It is also lost when people can no longer access them.

Every Box Represents Someone's Story

Every archival box contains more than paper. It contains a soldier's pension application. An immigrant's naturalization papers. A widow's claim. A Native American land file. A ship manifest. A federal court case. A map that explains why a community developed where it did. A single document that may answer a question a family has been asking for generations.

Collectively, these records tell America's story, not just the stories of presidents and generals, but of ordinary people whose lives built this nation.

Now Is the Time to Act

Once these facilities close, reopening them is unlikely.

If you believe America's documentary heritage should remain accessible to future generations, now is the time to speak.

Sign the petition TODAY and share it with your FAN Club!

Contact your members of Congress.

Support the efforts of Save OUR National Archives (SONA).

Encourage your local genealogical or historical society to make its voice heard.

Share this issue with others who value history, transparency, and public access.

The National Archives do not belong to historians. They do not belong to genealogists. They belong to all Americans.

The records entrusted to NARA preserve our collective memory. Let's not make it harder for future generations to discover who they are or where they came from.

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Sources

National Archives and Records Administration. "National Archives Announces Plans for Regional Archives Realignment." News release, 23 June 2026.

Save OUR National Archives (SONA). "Save Our National Archives." Accessed 4 August 2026.

Organization of American Historians. "Saving America's Story." Accessed 4 August 2026.

Association of Professional Genealogists. Advocacy statement regarding proposed National Archives regional facility closures, 2026.

Searching for Christian Harbaugh

 

Graceham Moravian Church, 8231 Rocky Ridge Road, Graceham, MD; photo by Lori Samuelson 16 June 2026.

Genealogists spend a great deal of time looking for people who do not want to be found. Sometimes they changed their names. Sometimes records were destroyed. Sometimes a clerk simply failed to record an event. And sometimes, despite our best efforts, we arrive at a place only to discover that what we seek remains elusive.

That was my experience this summer while searching for the grave of my husband's Revolutionary War ancestor, Christian Harbaugh.

Christian was the son of Ludwig Harbaugh, whose beautifully preserved tombstone still stands in St. John's United Church of Christ Cemetery in Sabillasville, Maryland. Visiting Ludwig's grave had been a rewarding experience. The cemetery was well maintained, easy to locate, and offered a tangible connection to a family that arrived in America during the colonial era.

Christian's story, however, took a different path.

Unlike his father and grandfather, who were associated with the Mennonite faith, Christian became affiliated with the Moravians. That decision immediately caught my attention when I first began researching him years ago. Religious affiliation often shaped where our ancestors lived, whom they married, and where they were buried.

The decision to leave one faith community for another was not always a simple matter in eighteenth-century America.

As I planned my cemetery visits this summer, I hoped to locate Christian's grave in Graceham Cemetery near Sabillasville, Maryland. Online memorials indicated that his stone existed. A photograph of the marker had even been posted.

How difficult could it be? As it turns out, very difficult. Our first challenge was locating the cemetery itself.

The GPS could not identify Graceham Cemetery. Coordinates listed online were not particularly helpful. Several attempts produced confusing results, and we found ourselves repeatedly circling roads in the area without success.

Rather than continue the search blindly, I decided to try a different approach.

Since Christian had belonged to the Moravian Church, perhaps locating the church would lead us to the cemetery. The strategy seemed sound.

Our GPS quickly located Graceham Moravian Church, a beautiful historic congregation nestled among the rolling hills of Frederick County. Standing in front of the church, I could not help but wonder whether Christian himself had once walked those grounds.

Perhaps he had attended services there. Perhaps family events had been celebrated there. Perhaps he had stood in that very location looking out across the same countryside.

The church connected me to Christian's life in a way that no document ever could.

But the cemetery remained missing.

We searched nearby roads. We checked maps. We compared information from multiple sources.

Nothing.

Eventually, I had to admit defeat.

The grave I had hoped to visit would remain undiscovered, at least for now.

Driving away, I found myself reflecting on something that genealogy has taught me repeatedly over the years.

We tend to think of research as successful only when we find what we seek.

That is not always true. Sometimes we eliminate possibilities. Sometimes we identify errors. Sometimes we gain a better understanding of an ancestor's community, beliefs, and daily life. And sometimes we simply learn what does not work.

All of those outcomes have value.

Although I never located Christian's grave, the trip was not wasted. I walked the grounds of the church that shaped his religious life. I gained a deeper appreciation for the choices he made. I better understood the community in which he lived. Most importantly, I left with new questions.

Why did Christian leave the Mennonite faith of his father? What drew him to the Moravians? How did that decision affect his family and descendants?

The missing grave remains a mystery. Yet some mysteries are worth keeping. They remind us that genealogy is not merely about collecting names, dates, and places. It is about understanding lives.

Christian Harbaugh's tombstone may have escaped me this summer, but his story did not. Perhaps that is the more important discovery.

Sometimes the journey itself becomes the destination.

Book Review: Three New Scottish Reference Works from David Dobson

Available at Genealogical.com

David Dobson has built a well-earned reputation over many years for locating and compiling records relating to Scottish families, migration, military service, and settlement throughout the Atlantic world. Three of his latest publications continue that tradition, each serving as a specialized reference tool for genealogists researching Scottish ancestors.

The first volume, Scottish Seafarers at Home and Abroad, 1550–1850, is exactly what its title suggests. Rather than a narrative history, it is an alphabetical compilation of individuals connected with Scotland's maritime community over a three-century period. Entries are intentionally brief, typically providing a name, occupation or relationship to a vessel, a date, and a citation directing researchers to the original source. A concise introduction explains the scope of the work, while a bibliography and key to the source abbreviations assist the researcher in locating the original material.

Scottish Soldiers and Prisoners of War, 1638–1652 follows the same format. Researchers interested in Scotland during the turbulent years of the Wars of the Three Kingdoms will find an alphabetically arranged listing of individuals identified in military and related records. As with the seafarers volume, the real strength of the book lies in bringing together names from numerous historical sources into a single, easy-to-use reference.

The largest of the three books is Directory of Scots in the Carolinas, 1670–1830. Spanning over 600 pages, this volume consolidates material from several of Dobson's earlier publications into one comprehensive reference. In addition to combining previously published directories, it incorporates material from his work on Scottish trade with colonial South Carolina, making this an especially convenient resource for anyone researching Scottish migration and settlement in the Carolinas.

These are not books intended to be read from cover to cover. Instead, they function as finding aids, reference works designed to help researchers quickly determine whether an individual appears in a particular historical record before consulting the original source. For genealogists with Scottish ancestry, that can translate into a considerable savings of research time.

I particularly appreciate having specialized reference works such as these gathered in one place. Many of the original records cited are scattered among numerous repositories and publications in the U.S. and abroad. By compiling them into searchable surname directories, Dobson has made it much easier for researchers to identify promising leads that might otherwise remain undiscovered.

If your Scottish research involves maritime occupations, seventeenth-century military service, or early settlement in the Carolinas, these volumes deserve consideration. While experienced genealogists will still want to examine the original records cited for complete context and analysis, these compilations provide an excellent starting point for identifying those records.

As always, no single reference work contains every answer. However, resources like these can often provide the clue that points us toward the next record and in genealogy, that next record is often where the real story begins.

Books are available from Genealogical.com:

Scottish Seafarers at Home and Abroad, 1550–1850

Scottish Soldiers and Prisoners of War, 1638–1652

Directory of Scots in the Carolinas, 1670–1830

What the Neighbors Can Tell You

 

St. John's United Church of Christ Cemetery, Sabillasville, Frederick, Maryland. Christina Weller Harbaugh in between two other stones. Photo by Lori Samuelson, 16 Jun 2026.

Most people visit a cemetery looking for a single gravestone. I used to do the same. Locate the ancestor. Take a photograph. Record the inscription. Move on.

Over the years, however, I have learned that some of the most valuable clues in a cemetery are not found on the stone you came to see. They are found on the stones nearby.

I was reminded of that lesson during a recent visit to St. John's United Church of Christ Cemetery in Sabillasville, Frederick County, Maryland.

My destination was the grave of Ludwig Harbaugh, a son of Johann Yost Harbaugh and one of my husband's colonial-era ancestors.

Finding Ludwig's grave was gratifying. Unlike many of the weathered and damaged stones I had encountered elsewhere during my trip, his marker was well maintained. The cemetery itself was beautifully cared for, with neatly trimmed grass and a peaceful setting that reflected the community's commitment to preserving its history.

As I photographed the stone, I noticed something interesting. Ludwig's wife, Christina Weller Harbaugh, was not buried immediately beside him.

Instead, she rested two stones away. At first, that seemed unusual.

Modern cemeteries often group family members together in dedicated plots. We become accustomed to seeing husbands, wives, parents, and children arranged neatly beside one another.

Yet eighteenth and early nineteenth-century burial practices were not always organized that way.

Looking more closely at the surrounding stones, I began to notice a pattern. The burials appeared to follow the order of death rather than family relationships.

Individuals were placed where space was available at the time of burial. Family members might be near one another, but not necessarily side by side.

This observation led me to think about how often genealogists focus too narrowly when visiting cemeteries.

We locate the ancestor we seek and ignore everything else.

In doing so, we may miss important clues.

Who is buried nearby? Are there recurring surnames? Do burial dates suggest epidemics, migration patterns, or community events? Do neighboring stones reveal church customs or social connections?

A cemetery is more than a collection of individual memorials. It is a map of a community.

The arrangement of graves can reveal relationships that are never explicitly recorded in documents. Friends, neighbors, church members, and extended family often shared burial grounds long before they appeared together in census records or probate files.

The landscape itself becomes a historical record.

As I walked among the stones that day, I thought about the generations who had gathered there for funerals, weddings, worship services, and community events. The people buried around Ludwig and Christina were not strangers. They had likely known one another for decades.

They worshipped together. Worked together. Raised families together. And eventually were buried together.

Genealogy often encourages us to focus on individuals. Cemeteries remind us that our ancestors lived within communities.

The next time you visit a cemetery, take a few minutes after locating your ancestor's grave. Look to the left. Look to the right. Walk a little farther down the row. The stone you didn't come to see may tell you as much as the one you did.

Sometimes the neighbors have stories to tell, too.

The Cemetery That Wasn't

 

Presbyterian Church Cemetery of Kreutz Creek, York, PA, Photo by Lori Samuelson 16 June 2026 

One of the most dangerous phrases in genealogy is: "Everyone knows that's where he is buried." Whenever I hear those words, I become cautious.

Family traditions are valuable. Published genealogies can be helpful. Online memorials often provide important clues. Yet none of them are substitutes for evidence.

I was reminded of this lesson during a recent trip to Pennsylvania while searching for the burial location of my husband's sixth great-grandfather, Johann Yost Herbach, later known in America as Johann Yost Harbaugh.

Yost emigrated from the Palatinate region of Germany during the eighteenth century. Along with his wife and children, he arrived in Philadelphia around 1734 before eventually settling in what is now York County, Pennsylvania.

For generations, descendants have believed that Yost was buried near Kreutz Creek. That part appears correct. The question was exactly where.

Like many researchers, I began by reviewing information available online. Findagrave included a memorial for Yost and identified Old Kreutz Creek Cemetery as his burial location. The memorial contained photographs and historical information, including a plaque describing the family's origins.

At first glance, the information seemed convincing. Then I looked closer. One inscription claimed that members of the family had come from Switzerland. The problem was that they did not. Baptismal records clearly place the family in the Palatinate, specifically in the area around Otterberg. The error may seem minor, but it reminded me how easily inaccurate information can become accepted when it is repeated often enough.

That discovery prompted a larger question. If one part of the story was incorrect, what about the burial location itself?

Rather than relying solely on modern sources, I returned to one of the earliest accounts available. In the mid-nineteenth century, Reverend Henry Harbaugh, a great-grandson of Yost and one of the family's first historians, wrote about visiting the burial ground. He described a cemetery beside the Kreutz Creek church where tradition held that Yost and his wife had been buried. He noted the absence of a marked grave but described a nearby tombstone belonging to one of Yost's daughters and a row of uninscribed fieldstones that likely marked other family burials.

The description was detailed and it did not match the cemetery identified online. The more I investigated, the more apparent it became that multiple cemeteries and church properties had become intertwined over the years.

Church congregations moved. Buildings were replaced. Property ownership changed.

What had once been a straightforward family tradition had become increasingly complicated through the passage of nearly three centuries.

Armed with the earlier description, my husband and I set out to locate the original church cemetery.

What we found was not dramatic. As expected, there was no tombstone bearing Yost's name. No hidden marker emerged from the grass. No long-lost family record appeared. Instead, we found something much more valuable.

Context.

The old cemetery matched the historical description remarkably well. Weathered stones stood quietly among the grass. Time had erased most inscriptions. A foundation remained where an earlier church structure may once have stood.

For a moment, I imagined Reverend Harbaugh standing in that same location nearly 170 years earlier, trying to identify the resting place of his ancestor.

His challenge had become mine and both of us had reached the same conclusion. The evidence pointed here. Not because a website said so. Not because family tradition demanded it. But because the historical record led us there.

Genealogy often rewards persistence, but it also rewards skepticism.

We should never reject family stories simply because they are stories.

Neither should we accept them without question.

Every claim deserves examination. Every source deserves evaluation. Every conclusion should remain open to revision when better evidence emerges.

That is not a weakness in genealogy. It is one of its greatest strengths.

As I left the cemetery that day, I found myself thinking about Yost and the generations of descendants who followed him.

His original gravestone, if one ever existed, has long since disappeared.

Yet the story of his life survives. Not because of a monument. Not because of a plaque. But because researchers across generations continued asking questions.

Sometimes the most important discoveries are not about finding something new. Sometimes they are about recognizing that what everyone believes may not be entirely true. And sometimes the cemetery you've been looking for isn't the cemetery at all.

Acadian Genealogical Research by Judy Nimer Muhn - A Review

 

Every genealogist has encountered it, that moment when you're handed a family line from a place you know little about and wonder, "Where do I even begin?" Judy Nimer Muhn's Acadian Genealogical Research attempts to answer that question in just four pages. And it succeeds.

This isn't a book. It isn't intended to be a scholarly treatment of Acadian history or an exhaustive research guide. Instead, it belongs to what I would call the "orientation guide" category. Think of it as a roadmap handed to someone before they begin a journey rather than the journey itself.

That distinction matters.

The publication opens with a concise historical overview beginning with the first French settlement attempts in 1604, explains the growth of Acadia, and introduces readers to the Mi'kmaq relationship, Acadian settlement patterns, and the political instability that ultimately led to the Grand Dérangement. None of these sections is lengthy, but each provides enough historical context that a beginning researcher understands why records exist where they do.

One of the strongest features is its organization.

Rather than overwhelming readers with dozens of repositories, the guide follows the chronology of Acadian research. It first explains the history, then discusses records before deportation, then records created during and after deportation, followed by Quebec resources, provincial archives, online compilations, organizations, and additional repositories. That progression mirrors how experienced genealogists naturally approach an unfamiliar locality.

The author also deserves credit for avoiding one of the most common mistakes found in beginner guides, simply producing a list of websites. Here, nearly every repository is accompanied by a sentence or two explaining why it matters. That context helps researchers decide where to spend their time instead of blindly clicking links.

I especially appreciated the emphasis on records that many researchers overlook, including parish registers, provincial archives, historical maps, and family organizations. For someone beginning Acadian research, this is considerably more useful than another generic discussion about online family trees.

Visually, the publication is attractive and easy to follow. The use of colored headings breaks the material into logical sections, making it simple to scan for a particular topic. For educators, librarians, or genealogy societies, it would make an excellent handout for an introductory Acadian workshop.

Overall, Acadian Genealogical Research accomplishes exactly what it sets out to do. It is concise, organized, historically grounded, and filled with practical starting points. In an era when many beginners are tempted to rely solely on online trees or AI-generated summaries, a well-curated roadmap like this reminds us that successful genealogy still begins with understanding the records and where to find them.

The guide can be purchased from Genealogical.com.

The Patriot's Son: How a Tombstone Changed an Ancestor's Birth Year

 

Some genealogy discoveries happen in archives. Others happen in courthouses. And occasionally, they happen because a tombstone has weathered just enough for a hidden detail to become visible.

This is the story of how a ten-year search ended with a surprise that changed what I thought I knew about my fourth great-grandfather, Thomas Duer.

Last week, I shared my visit to the grave of my Revolutionary War patriot ancestor, John Duer, in Mahoning County, Ohio. While standing beside his restored monument, I reflected on the journey that brought him from colonial New Jersey to the Ohio frontier.

What I did not realize at the time was that another member of the family was about to provide an even more important clue.

Thomas Duer, John's son, died in Trumbull County, Ohio, in 1829. Proving the relationship between father and son was not straightforward. In fact, it took me nearly ten years to assemble enough evidence to satisfy the standards required by the Daughters of the American Revolution.

The challenge was that Thomas predeceased his father.

When John Duer's will was written, Thomas was already deceased and therefore not named as an heir. Neither were Thomas's children. At first glance, that omission appears troubling. However, records suggest that John had already divided portions of his property with Thomas years earlier when the family settled in Ohio. Tax lists, census records, church associations, and witness statements repeatedly placed the two men together.

Eventually, documentary evidence, combined with DNA results, confirmed the relationship.

Yet one mystery remained. Where exactly was Thomas buried?

Years ago, I contacted a local historical society and was assured that his grave still existed in the old Pricetown Cemetery. The former society president told me she knew exactly where it was because she had once tripped over the fallen stone during a cemetery cleanup project.

She explained that volunteers later repositioned the marker but could not recall its original location.

The story always bothered me. If the stone had been moved, how could anyone know where Thomas was actually buried?

Then another unusual event occurred.

While attending a genealogy lecture in Florida several years later, I noted on the sign-in sheet that I was researching families from Trumbull County, Ohio. Before the lecture began, I was called to the registration desk where a complete stranger introduced himself.

He had grown up in Trumbull County and wanted to know which families I was researching.

When I mentioned the Duers, he offered to visit the cemetery on his next trip north and photograph the grave. True to his word, he later sent me a photograph and refused any compensation for his time and effort.

The image was invaluable or so I thought.

The directions he provided to the cemetery turned out to be completely wrong.

When my husband and I finally attempted to visit the site ourselves this summer, we found ourselves driving in circles through rural Ohio. Roads did not intersect where we expected them to. Landmarks were missing. Several times we questioned whether we were even looking in the correct place.

Eventually, we abandoned the directions and relied instead on the cemetery's coordinates.

That decision finally brought us to the cemetery.

The moment I located Thomas's stone, something immediately seemed odd.

It was not where I had been told it would be.

The marker stood upright in the middle of a row rather than at the end. Nearby were fragments of other broken stones. Another marker of similar size and construction lay face down nearby. Looking carefully at the evidence, I began to suspect that the stone had probably been repositioned close to where it originally fell rather than being moved to an entirely different location.

That was interesting but it was not the real surprise.

The real surprise came when I compared the old photograph with what I was seeing in person.

Time had changed the stone.

Years of weathering and soil erosion had exposed portions of the inscription that were not clearly visible before. Looking closely, I could now read details that had previously been hidden.

There it was.

"Died Jul 29th."

And beneath that:

"Aged 51 years."

I almost collapsed.

For years, online information had reported Thomas's death month as November. Probate records confirmed only that he died during 1829. No reliable source had ever provided his exact age.

Suddenly, I had both.

The new information shifted his estimated birth year from approximately 1775 to about 1778 or 1779.

Three or four years may not sound significant.

Genealogists know better.

A change of that size can affect which records belong to an individual, alter assumptions about military eligibility, reshape migration timelines, and even redirect research into earlier generations.

The most astonishing part was that this information had been sitting there all along.

The tombstone had not changed.

The inscription had not changed.

Only our ability to see it had changed.

Genealogy often teaches patience. We learn to wait for records to become available, for DNA matches to appear, and for new collections to be digitized.

But sometimes patience works in another way.

Sometimes the evidence is already in front of us, waiting for conditions to reveal it.

As I stood in that small Ohio cemetery, I was reminded once again why visiting ancestral sites remains so important.

Photographs are invaluable.

Online memorials are helpful.

But nothing replaces standing where your ancestor rests and seeing the evidence for yourself.

Two hundred years after Thomas Duer's death, he still had one more story to tell.

All I had to do was show up and look.

What Patriot John Duer's Tombstone Revealed

 

Engraving on the bottom of John Duer’s original stone, Covenanters Cemetery, North Jackson, Mahoning, Ohio; photo by Lori Samuelson 21 June 2026.

As America prepares to commemorate the 250th anniversary of its founding, many genealogists are taking a fresh look at the men and women in their family trees who witnessed the nation's earliest years. Last month, I had the opportunity to visit the grave of one of those individuals, my patriot ancestor, John Duer.

What I expected to find was a tombstone.

What I discovered was a reminder that even after years of research, our ancestors may still have stories left to tell.

John Duer was born in New Jersey during the colonial period and served in the Sussex County militia during the Revolutionary War. Like many veterans of that era, he later joined the westward movement that transformed the young nation. By the early 1800s, he had relocated his family to northeastern Ohio, then part of America's frontier.

For years I had wanted to visit his grave in Covenanter Cemetery near North Jackson, Mahoning County, Ohio. Since my husband and I were returning home from a genealogy conference in Pennsylvania, we decided to make the trip.

The journey did not begin as planned.

Following directions found online, we entered the cemetery address into our GPS and promptly arrived at the local police station.

Certain that a mistake had been made, I was relieved to find an officer leaving the building. When I asked where Covenanter Cemetery was located, he looked surprised. He admitted he was not a history enthusiast and knew little about local cemeteries, but he did remember reading a recent newspaper article about a small historic burial ground nearby. He provided directions and wished us luck.

As it turned out, luck was exactly what we needed.

The cemetery sits atop a hill surrounded by mature trees, overlooking the countryside. A recently installed wrought-iron gate marks the entrance. Someone had clearly invested considerable effort in preserving the site. The grounds were meticulously maintained, flowers had been planted, and an American flag fluttered beside the grave of my ancestor.

I stood quietly for a moment, reflecting on the path that had brought John Duer there.

When he arrived in Ohio, this area was still developing from wilderness into settlement. Roads were primitive. Communities were small and isolated. Yet families like his came seeking opportunity and land, helping to build the nation that emerged after independence.

Then my husband noticed something I had overlooked.

Near the bottom of John's original tombstone was an inscription that was difficult to read. Looking closely, we realized it appeared to identify the militia unit in which he served.

This immediately caught my attention.

Although records had long established that John served during the Revolutionary War, I had never found documentation identifying a specific militia number. If the inscription can be fully deciphered, it may provide an entirely new avenue for research.

There was another surprise waiting.

Resting behind John's monument was a separate stone engraved with the name "L. F. Gager Warren." At first I wondered whether it might identify the mason who had carved the original marker. Curious, I carefully examined the stone and even tilted it slightly in hopes of finding additional information.

Unfortunately, the only occupants revealed by my efforts were two annoyed daddy longlegs who clearly preferred not to have their afternoon nap interrupted.

No additional inscription appeared, and the mystery remains unsolved. It appears that the broken stone was likely found elsewhere in the cemetery and used to prop up John's stone as research from a distance cousin, Vicki Urban, uncovered that L. F. Gager was a Connecticut born stone mason who had relocated to Warren, Ohio but that was long after John had died.

Yet that is often how genealogy works.

We set out expecting answers and instead discover new questions.

As I walked through the small cemetery, I realized that the trip had already accomplished far more than I had anticipated. I had not uncovered a dramatic new record or solved a long-standing mystery. Instead, I had gained something equally valuable: context.

Standing beside John's grave transformed him from a name on a pedigree chart into a real person who had lived through extraordinary times. He witnessed the birth of a nation, helped settle a frontier, and left behind descendants who still remember his story more than two centuries later.

The visit also reinforced a lesson I have learned repeatedly throughout my years of research: never assume you already know everything there is to know about an ancestor.

Sometimes the most valuable clues are hiding in plain sight.

A partially weathered inscription.

A forgotten marker.

A cemetery located somewhere other than where you expected.

Or perhaps a story that has been waiting patiently for generations to be rediscovered.

As America approaches its 250th birthday, I am grateful for the opportunity to remember one patriot whose journey helped shape both a nation and a family.

And little did I know that another member of the Duer family, buried just a few miles away, was about to reveal an even bigger surprise. More next week.

A Mortgage Carved in Stone: What Ancient Greece Reveals About Our Financial Lives

Landmark of a mortgaged field, c. 4th century BCE, Athens, Greece Airport Museum, photo by Lori Samuelson 3 April 2026.

I didn’t expect to find a mortgage record at the Athens, Greece Airport Museum.

But there it was, carved in stone.

Not a scroll. Not a document tucked into an archive. Not something filed away in a courthouse.

A rock. Sitting out in the open for the world to see.

The ancient Greeks called these markers horoi, boundary stones that recorded debt. They were placed directly on the land itself, announcing that the property had been pledged as collateral. The inscription would typically include the name of the owner and the value of the obligation.

In other words, this wasn’t just a marker. It was a public declaration: “This land is mortgaged.”

Now imagine that for a moment.

Imagine your mortgage, not buried in paperwork or hidden behind passwords but carved into a stone and planted in your front yard.

No privacy.
No discretion.
No quiet understanding between borrower and lender.

Everyone who passed by would know. Your neighbors. Strangers. Anyone walking down the road. Your financial situation on display. And we so get up tight about privacy today!

As a genealogist, I didn’t just see a stone. I saw a record. A remarkably rich one.

Here, in a single object, was evidence of:

• Property ownership
• Economic status
• A named individual tied to a specific place
• Participation in a financial system that feels surprisingly familiar

This was, quite literally, a land record and a lien combined, preserved not in ink, but in stone.

And then, of course, my mind went where it always goes. I found myself wondering…

Could one of these have held my family’s name?

It’s a long stretch, I know. My own lines don’t trace back to ancient Greece through paperwork but through maternal DNA. But that thought, that somewhere, someone’s ancestor is named on one of these stones, stopped me.

Because for that family, this isn’t just an artifact. It’s a record.

A tangible, physical link to a moment in time when land was pledged, risk was taken, and a name was important enough to be carved for all to see.

We often think of the past as distant, disconnected from our modern lives. But standing there, looking at that stone, I realized just how familiar it all felt.

People borrowed money.
They leveraged what they owned.
They took risks.
They worried about outcomes.

The tools have changed.

The systems have evolved.

But the human story?

Not so much.

Today, our mortgages live in digital files and legal documents. They’re processed quietly, stored securely, and largely invisible to the outside world.

In ancient Greece, they were anything but invisible. They were meant to be seen. There’s something striking about that difference.

Not just the lack of privacy but the permanence. Paper can be lost. Files can be deleted. Systems can change.

But stone? Stone remains.

As someone who spends her time digging through land records and probate files, I never expected to encounter a mortgage like this, one that didn’t require deciphering handwriting or chasing down courthouse copies.

It was simply there to be translated. Clear. Direct. Enduring.

Long before courthouses and filing cabinets, before clerks and digital databases, people marked their obligations in the most permanent way they knew how. They carved them into stone.

And standing there, I realized the past isn’t as distant as we think.

It’s just written differently.

5 Practical Lessons from an Ancient DNA Study

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For years, genealogy has been dismissed by some as storytelling. Another study I blogged about last week says otherwise. (Genetic genealogy of the Piast dynasty and related European royal families) Done correctly, genealogy is history, biology, and evidence all working together. The study teaches us the following lessons we must adhere to:

1. One record is never enough
Even kings couldn’t be identified from a single source. It took DNA, archaeology, and documentation working together. If you’re relying on one census or one tree, you’re not done. (GPS 1 – Conduct reasonably exhaustive research)

2. Biology and paperwork are not always aligned
Non-paternity events didn’t start in modern times. They’ve always been part of family history. The difference now? We can detect them. (GPS 3 – Analyze and correlate evidence)

3. Geography can mislead you
The Piasts ruled Poland but their origins likely trace to Western Europe. Don’t assume origin based on where someone lived or held power. (GPS 3 – Analyze and correlate evidence)

4. Build your work to withstand revision
This study didn’t “destroy” history it refined it. Good genealogy should do the same. Leave room for new evidence without collapsing your conclusions. (GPS 4 – Resolve conflicting evidence & GPS 5 – create a well-reasoned, written argument that explains how the evidence supports the conclusion)

5. Genealogy is moving toward synthesis, not silos
The future isn’t records or DNA it’s both, plus context. The genealogists who thrive will be the ones who can integrate all three. (and make sure to GPS 2 – Maintain complete and accurate source citations)

DNA Doesn’t Care About Pedigrees: What a Royal Study Just Proved About Genealogy

 

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I just read one of the most important articles I’ve seen in years and if you care about genealogy, you should too. (Genetic genealogy of the Piast dynasty and related European royal families)

The study confirms something many of us already suspected: The paper trail isn’t the final word.

A recent scientific study analyzed the DNA of the medieval Piast dynasty, the ruling family that built early Poland.

Not one king.
Not one tomb.

An entire dynasty.

Researchers examined skeletal remains from multiple burial sites, applied DNA analysis, and combined it with historical and genealogical data.

And what they did should make every genealogist pause:

• They identified specific historical individuals using DNA
• They reconstructed relationships across generations
• They confirmed some lineages and quietly broke others

This wasn’t theory.

This was proof.

For decades, historians debated where the Piasts came from.

Local Slavic rulers?
Foreign elites?
Legendary founders?

DNA answered the question. They were not local.

Their Y-DNA traces back to a lineage far more common in Western Europe, places like England, France, and the Netherlands.

In other words, One of Europe’s foundational royal families likely came from somewhere else entirely. And then it gets even more interesting. The researchers didn’t stop at origin. They reconstructed family relationships and found something genealogists know all too well: Not every father in the records was the biological father.

At least one individual inherited royal DNA through the maternal line (mtDNA) instead of the documented paternal line (YDNA).

No scandal headline.
No dramatic accusation.

Just quiet scientific correction.

Let’s say that again: A medieval royal pedigree…Was wrong.

Now here’s where this connects directly to my work and to yours.

Because this study didn’t succeed with DNA alone.

It required:

• Historical records
• Burial context
• Chronology
• Genealogical reconstruction

Sound familiar? It should. Because this is exactly what serious genealogists do.

When I began building my books, Echoes of Britannia, my goal wasn’t just to collect names.

It was to create something durable. Something that could stand even when new evidence emerges. This study confirms that approach.

Because what they built scientifically is what we aim to build genealogically, a structure where evidence supports identity across generations.

Not just “Here’s who someone might be,” but “Here’s who they were and why we know it.”

European royal families were never isolated, pure, or static.

They were:

• interconnected
• mobile
• politically strategic
• and sometimes… biologically inconsistent

DNA is now proving what the records only hinted at and that’s powerful.