A Scary Thought

 

I had a scary thought this month as I was banging my head against an immovable ancestral brick wall—and no, it wasn't scary simply on account of Halloween. It's a thought that has been rising up like a spectre, even back as early as the summer months when I was struggling with my father-in-law's Irish forebears, and even more so, now that I seem to make no headway on my Polish roots.

That thought has to do with the ebb and flow of interest in genealogy, not just for myself, but for all the people whom we, as leaders of genealogical societies, hope to entice as members. While yes, there are many people who become interested in discovering more about their family's history, and some who even express that interest by joining local or state genealogical societies, their continued interest eventually wanes. 

I know that when I brainstorm with other board members of genealogical societies about dwindling membership participation, we often end up fixing the blame on external factors. Some say we're not visible "enough" on social media. Or that we meet at the wrong hours of the day or week. Maybe that we're not "relevant" to younger potential members. Or that potential members can get everything they need or want for researching their family online at the many websites designed for that purpose.

Whatever the explanations that society leaders come up with, I think they are losing sight of one point: that the trajectory of a person's pursuit of family history can have a far shorter range than we expect.

For those of us fanatics devoted to chasing our family's stories, we think everyone, once started on this path, will become addicted and never give up the pursuit. Perhaps for someone like me, the one who claims I was born wanting to know, that desire will never fade. But not everyone is like that. Some people's interest peaks when they get married, or have their first child. Some people never thought they'd be interested at all, until a sibling or cousin talked them into taking a DNA test or shared a surprising discovery from their own research. 

For people like that, interest in genealogy sparks, then increases, then experiences a decline. Maybe even an ebb and flow of interest, such as I had when teaching full time; holiday breaks and summer vacations became my only time to research.

But I'm realizing there is another reason that can choke out that genealogical interest. That reason has to do with the very experiences I've been having the past few months—and in an odd way, is a reaction to the oft-asked question, "How far back have you gone?"

Face it, when you can't go any farther, when there are no more records to access and the trail goes cold—not just for your kazillionth great-grandparent, but for everyone living in that same village or, worse, for the entire country—what else is left to do? That's where the interest lags.

Frankly, I suspect that many of our own society's longstanding members haven't tried their hand at researching their ancestors for years. They remain loyal to our society simply because they wish to support the cause, or help others who are just starting, or like the vibe of talking about someone else's genealogy "happy dance."

To me, the more important question is, why did they stop researching? And the scary thought is, what happens to genealogical organizations when members realize they have no more to find about their family history? Unless our members remain willing to be available to help others still excited about their research path, it's no surprise that so many have talked about dwindling membership numbers at genealogical societies.

And that's a scary thought. 

S O S : Saving Our Societies

 

Perhaps blogging has become passe in today's world, but I still follow several genealogy blogs. It's one way to keep up with what's happening in the world of people who still pursue their families' stories. Since I coordinate several local family history education opportunities on behalf of my county genealogical society, I find it important to keep my fingers on that pulse.

I also know what an uphill battle it has been for local genealogical organizations to remain pertinent in an ever-connected yet increasingly isolated culture of technology. Any society board member who might have caught a glimpse of John Reid's post in Anglo-Celtic Connections earlier this week might have found resonance in the title of Tuesday's entry: "Ideas on How to Save my Genealogical Society."

Mentioning an online meeting hosted by a board member of the Stanly County Genealogical Society in North Carolina, the blog post provided contact information for anyone wishing to become part of that meeting. The meeting was open to any society's board members interested in sharing ideas on what goes into maintaining a thriving organization now.

While our local society is still active and, despite losing members ever so gradually over the decades, providing multiple programs and services each month, I was grateful to have spotted the announcement and took up the offer to join in the conversation. In my opinion, it's good for us to share our resources. Granted, what might work well for one community may fall flat in another location, but if we don't gain any inspiration by seeing what others have already tested out, we're likely to continue our own downward spiral.

As it turns out, by attending this past week, I stepped into an ongoing conversation. The group meets online on the third Wednesday evening of each month. I anticipate I'll share some ideas from out here on the west coast, and gain quite a bit of inspiration from others joining in from the south, the east, the midwest, and the north—including two organizations in attendance from Ontario, Canada. We can sit there, isolated in our own communities, and watch our genealogical societies eventually capsize with the weight of our own organizational problems, or we can reach out and connect with others determined to make the pursuit of our families' roots vibrant and pertinent to today's generations in our own communities.

Asking the Question

 

What makes a person ask the question about their roots? What prompts someone to decide the answer will only come through a personal commitment to the search?

I've always had my own thoughts about a possible answer to such questions, but when the discussion led that way in a local genealogical society meeting last week, it was interesting to hear what prompted other members.

One member began the conversation by noting that it was when one of her grandparents had died that she realized the additional implications of that loss: a personal repository of family remembrances of bygone generations was lost as well. Others agreed and added their illustrations. For another member, the oldest in her generation in that family, she realized her position as natural-born resource when any of the cousins wondered about a family detail; they would come calling her for information. She, correspondingly, complied by finding answers.

It has long been my conjecture that it is those for whom family details were hidden—versus out in plain sight for all to know—who felt a compulsion to seek out the real story on their roots. That was always my case. Despite my mother's ample supply of family stories—recounted to my generation, thanks to her mother's Aunt Fannie—there was an absolute vacuum when it came to reports about my father's family. Though amply filled with oral heritage on one side, the silence from the other side sucked me in.

As we move well into an era of instant online access to a wealth of information, including digitized historical records, I'm realizing it might be helpful to reach out to others and ask what motivated them to begin their family history pursuit. Technology introduces secondary changes to life—how we access information shifts whom we depend on—and sometimes we don't even realize how we, as a collective, are responding. Returning to our roots as genealogical organizations as well as individuals might help put us in touch with the original motivations which brought us here in the first place.

Saying Goodbye

 

We had an interesting conversation the other morning, the few of us who lingered after our genealogy society's special interest group meeting. A longstanding member asked, "What do you see as the future of our organization?"

Perhaps a question like that might seem reasonable, considering what prompted it was news that the three thousand volume collection of reference material we had amassed over seventy years was possibly headed to a future of being "purged" from the public library's bookshelves. Was it all over? Was it time we were saying goodbye?

Goodbye must have been on our members' minds for a season. Over the past few months' meetings, members had been bringing their personal books, journals, even unused pedigree charts—"free to good home"—for anyone who could use them. The reason? Members just wanted to clean up their personal office. Only problem was: everyone was hoping to do the same thing.

We talked about some of our longstanding members. These were people who were so fascinated by their own family's history that they had stayed committed to finding the answers to their questions for decades—and then helping others to learn how to do the same. They talked about reasons why they first were drawn to family history—for many, it was when they started losing their own grandparents—and wondered how to find the next generation of answer seekers. Were they even there?

Over the nearly seventy-five years since our local genealogical society was first established, the world of family history research has changed in ways so far beyond our wildest dreams. So has the world of volunteer action and dedication. And so have the individual members who had made all this possible for us to share.

In their own way, some of our most dedicated volunteers were ready to say their own personal goodbye—but hesitant to let go...to whom? To multi-national corporations with the power and resources to digitize all the handwritten records of the ages but limited reach into the world of face to face relationships? To a volunteer partnership of local residents in an age plagued by the curse of Bowling Alone?

In an ambience more befitting a late night conversation around a campfire, a mellow mood enveloped our morning coffee time gathering. We didn't come up with any answers, this gathering of researchers who, over the years, have become friends. In the hush of contemplating what could come next, we eventually said our goodbyes and each of us went about our day's schedule. But I couldn't seem to let go of the question that sparked the conversation: what do we see as our future, those of us who still want to gather to pursue our family's stories? Is it time for us to say goodbye to an era of collective effort?

Genealogy as Endurance Sport

 

The other day, a question came to mind: is genealogy an endurance sport? Setting aside the objection that genealogy could not possibly be considered a sports activity—after all, we spend most of our time hunkered over our laptops in a sedentary position—let's consider the "endurance" part of that question.

My first reaction was to dismiss the thought immediately. Having lately been analyzing the state of local genealogy society membership, I realized that perhaps it is a quixotic quest for society boards to attempt maintaining consistent membership levels.

Why? The answer is simple. Interest in family history ebbs and flows. People expecting their first baby—or even grandbaby—might wonder what could be said about that child's heritage, or where those good looks or blue eyes came from. Or a great-grandparent dies, the keeper of the family stuff, and now the family is wondering how to figure out all those unlabeled photos left behind.

Inspirations like that come and go. Sure, there are some who roll up their sleeves and dig in, faithfully attending beginners' classes and starting the long trek to find family history answers. They may even work on that fledgling tree for a year or so, maybe even a decade. But then, something else comes up, and they're off to pursue a new project: an eldest daughter's wedding preparations, or that cruise they always wanted to take. Or maybe life just got in the way.

Those are the scenarios which make me wonder whether we have adopted an organizational format which better fit our grandparents' generation—the kind of community barn-raising spirit that got things done by forming "societies" for specific long-term purposes, to address needs that would otherwise never go away. 

That generation was then; now there is the once-and-done generation, with just-in-time delivery, automated and computer-generated. Yet, we still try to fit our "society" mold around the answer-seeking mode of newer, fresher cohorts. Perhaps genealogy for them never was a marathon; maybe it was a family history sprint. Or a relay race between teams collectively chasing the same answers.

Every generation has its own approach to problem-solving. Genealogy is simply another question to be answered in life. And yet, despite some people arriving on the scene and staying only until they've found their answer, there are others for whom pursuing the answer to "where did my family come from?" does turn into an endurance sport.

There are some of us who came to this party early, and stayed late. Perhaps these were the kids whose grade school project turned into a lifelong pursuit. Or young people with questions about the missing parts of their family story. They—we—are on a quest, and the answer, once found, only provides fuel to power us through the next question. For such as these, genealogy is an endurance sport. We've been at it for ages, and we know we're built to keep going, long after others move on.

Perhaps the real question is about how to accept the reality of such a situation when tasked with forming an organization to address the needs of both the sprinters and the marathoners in this "sport" of genealogy. No matter how adept our program directors might be at finding great speakers for the next society meeting, an hour-long lecture might not be the answer to everyone's family history question.

Reaching Out

 

The connections we can gain from DNA testing gift us with the ability to reach out to strangers and meet them as family. This weekend, I had the opportunity to do just that. 

Most of us might have had the opportunity to meet first cousins once removed—those family connections some of us, before genealogy, might have called "second cousins." Some of us actually do know our second cousins. Beyond that, though, very few have a personal relationship with third cousins or beyond.

One member of our local genealogical society has found a way to break through that barrier—he simply reaches out to distant DNA matches, strikes up a conversation online, and eventually makes plans to meet up with them in person. We've been regaled with his stories over the past few years. Whether that has proven to inspire anyone else's action, I don't know. But when I had a chance to fly to a distant city this weekend, I couldn't bypass the opportunity: I asked a third cousin, once removed, if she would be interested in connecting in person.

On the surface, it took not much more than a twenty mile drive to a unique coffee shop halfway between our two locations—well, after a four hour flight cross country—but beneath that simplicity was months of email exchanges, comparing notes on cousins in common, placing mutual DNA matches in their correct position on the family tree we share. We are, after all, both researchers keen on uncovering our mystery ancestors.

When we realize the power of the tools we have at hand for building our family trees, it is sometimes lost on us that that same ability can draw us closer together, personally. In my case, this relative connects to my paternal grandfather's mystery Polish roots—the back story of the life of a relative I never met face to face, a man intent on keeping his ethnic origin a well-concealed secret.

This was a chance to share observations of what details we knew about family, discovering in conclusion that perhaps those ancestors simply had no desire to ever think again about the life they left behind in their choice to emigrate. Unlike, say, the Irish who could never forget the beautiful—though ravaged—homeland they left behind, the Polish in our roots left a life perhaps deemed not even deserving of remembrance. At least for our family's journey to a new world, that consideration was left by the wayside.

Granted, any such meet-up between two strangers, even those who share genetic connections, can turn up full of energy—or lacking any compulsion to continue the relationship. In our case, we could have talked for hours longer.

In retrospect, though, this was a conversation begun months ago, just a chance to move the interactions to a different venue. Thinking back to the role model of my fellow genealogy society member—someone we've dubbed everybody's cousin—that was not a bad example to follow. In this case, it was certainly worth the time to make this connection, and to hope for many more to come.  

Community and Collaboration

 

While "community" and "collaboration" may have been the keywords around which our local family history class is focusing this semester, these words are also reflected in another way I've been reaching out, lately.

That way is connecting with individuals across the country who are also researching the same ancestors who have stumped me for years. In one particular case, those ancestors are the predecessors of my Polish paternal grandfather. Fortunately for me, there are a few others working online who are also struggling to piece together that same family line, an ocean away from that Polish homeland.

It is so encouraging to find another researcher who takes the same level of care in assuring that every statement in a family tree is supported by documentation. Over the past few months, I had noticed one Ancestry subscriber who had been seeking those same records, attaching them to the family tree, making careful notes. Turns out, that person was also my DNA match—distant, but a genetic connection. I decided to reach out by email and see what would happen.

Often, when we make such a move, in reply, we get...nothing. That kind of disappointment may make us shy away from trying to connect with anyone else. But if we never take that first step, we don't get the chance to connect with a family member who may know just the details we've been seeking.

Fortunately, in this case, I did hear back. Ever since that initial contact, my DNA cousin and I have been comparing notes and strategizing on next steps for finding our way around our brick wall ancestors. The collaboration has been energizing. And while this way of reaching out doesn't necessarily create "community" in the way an in-person genealogy class might, assembling a small group of researchers dedicated to finding the same answers does indeed foster a sense of community, even if it connects through email.

The more I think of such experiences, the more I think it is time for us to shed that image of the solitary researcher's genealogy-in-bunny-slippers and bring ourselves and our fellow researchers out into the daylight where we can work together, even if only virtually. There is no one like another "genie" who gets it when we finally find the answer we've searched for, year after year. Even if we are not researching the same ancestor, we find joy in hearing about others' research victories—sometimes, we even learn from those victories, as well.

The strength of what we are doing comes from collaboration. If great numbers of people hadn't come together to assemble collections of record sets, or develop ways to preserve documents, or become the way-finder to point others to the right collection, where would genealogy be today? On a smaller scale, if it weren't for the local groups of people who helped each other learn and improve their research skills, many of us would not have been able to find as much as we have concerning our roots.

Sure, technology has played a big part in the many advancements we enjoy today, but technology alone can't leave that personal touch that makes family history come alive. Community and collaboration have both been in genealogy's history. They need to continue being part of the balancing act with technology that allows genealogy as a pursuit to become meaningful to many in the future. 

When Those Hunches Say "Yes!"

 

After observing participants in online classes and during local genealogical society meetings online, I've noticed how lackluster the mood seems in comparison to what I remembered of in-person events. I had a hunch that, as Marshall McLuhan once put it, the medium is still very much the message. I decided to experiment and find a way to return to teaching genealogy classes in person.

That opportunity hit the start button this week with the first session of a course I team teach with another genealogical society member. With enough students registered to populate a small classroom—yet small enough to allow for interpersonal feedback without breaking the system—those post-Covid hunches turned out to say an enthusiastic "yes!"

Granted, straight-up lectures have lost their luster, no matter whether in person or online. For the type of classes that people attend "just for fun," facing down one hour of sheer listening can dampen the collective enthusiasm. Perhaps that should be no surprise. But I like to attribute the energy emanating from this week's classroom to more than just that. People want to share. They want to be able to contribute their piece to the conversation. They want what they have to offer to matter to others. They want to create "us."

As expected, this week's first class gave each attendee the opportunity to share something they knew that could help others. It allowed them to share where they are in their journey to uncover their family's history—a struggle each of us can relate to. And it gave them permission to try out something new, while gaining confidence to experiment in an environment where others were there at their side to help them through the process. We had each other's back.

Yes, this was the first class. There's much more to come. This may not be an experience for everyone. But it was a chance to test a hunch and bring it through to a workable solution to the isolation of online-only gatherings. We need ways to come back together again meaningfully.

How Much We've Changed

 

This weekend, I'm putting the final touches on a four-session genealogy course I'm teaching for a local continuing education program. This class will truly be an experiment. Opting to ditch the online scene, I've asked to return to the local community college campus which traditionally has hosted this program for decades. I want to work with people in person.

While online connections may be convenient—hey, the genealogy-in-bunny-slippers crowd would agree—there is something missing from that type of learning environment. I miss the synergy of face to face interaction. Something evolves from a multi-person conversation that doesn't translate well to cyberspace.

As I prepared for the first session of this learning experiment, the resources I explored made me realize just how much we've changed over the years, especially for genealogy societies and those who gather together to work on their family history. I miss the collaboration, when people shared which surnames they were working on, or told everyone about a new resource found—and yes, some of those resources or channels for sharing were even online. But the person-to-person element was still there.

I've met some of the most fascinating, warm and sharing, talented and knowledgeable people through my genealogy research. But it came not from simply copying trees from a company's website. This came from reaching out and connecting with other researchers. 

Collaboration and cooperation, sharing what we've got—and what we're missing: I know it's still out there, but often hidden from view. I want others to see the importance of that person-to-person connection now, ironically in this age of interconnectivity when so many seem disconnected. Hopefully, this genealogy course will model that. The energy that expands when people find others seeking the same answers is so invigorating.

Looking at family history means exploring local history, too. While I wandered through some century-old publications for our local area this past week, I recalled how production or sharing of many such resources once were the domain of local genealogical societies—from publishing their own books to preserving local records that would otherwise have been impossible for researchers out-of-town to access. Granted, now that I'm stuck puzzling over my fourth great-grandparents in my Tison line, FamilySearch's Full Text Search is finding many of those old publications for me—a quest that would otherwise have taken me ages to replicate—but this also reminds me of how producing material is no longer the focus of some of our local societies. Our focus has shifted.

Over these same years, our numbers have shifted, as well—downward. Where once, people saw genealogy not only as a fun way to learn their family's stories but a mission to share resources with those others who would appreciate them, we now have settled into a more comfortable, possibly shrinking, role.

Granted, generation by generation, people have changed. I appreciate what those who came before us have accomplished. I certainly appreciate what I can accomplish online now with the many tools and resources that were unimaginable in past decades. But there was something about that person-to-person connection of past generations that I think we're missing. I want to find a way to bring that back.  

Genealogy Gets the Spa Treatment

 

Are you a member of The Club? You know, the one that costs $5K per year for exclusive services for the "most passionate" of genealogy researchers. If you haven't yet heard of it, well, neither had I—until last weekend when the buzz exploded onto several of the genealogy blogs I follow. Curious, I had to take a look. After all, I'd consider myself among the most passionate about genealogical research, not to mention the services which help provide the material needed to find answers about my family's roots.

Apparently, one segment of the genealogy community will soon be getting the spa treatment. For a price.

My first clue about the launch of Ancestry.com's "Club 1890" came in the form of a blog post from outside my own country: Canadian blogger John Reid, mentioning on Anglo-Celtic Connections about an analysis of the offering, posted by genealogist Amy Johnson Crow. Curious, I Googled this new offering to find out more.

As it turns out, Club 1890 had been announced at this year's RootsTech. In addition, Thomas MacEntee, long known to the genealogy community, had posted about the Ancestry offering in his blog, Genealogy Bargains, back in March, shortly after Ancestry's announcement. He has since come out with an in-depth analysis of this development in the genealogy world, posted on his blog just yesterday.

At the same time, he also distributed an article to those in the genealogy community, especially those involved in continuing the work of nonprofit genealogical societies. This emailed article provided suggestions for how genealogical societies could market their own contributions to the world of family history research in the wake of Ancestry's product launch, such as providing affordable alternatives to those wishing to learn how to find their own family's roots—at a far more accessible price point.

Whether Ancestry's new "Club" meets your every research need at precisely the right price, or you are among the vociferous many experiencing negative reactions to this product announcement, it is important to be aware of the developing changes in the world of genealogy—in other word, in the world of the genealogy community. Whether you spring for the price or not, the impact of this new product on the genealogy community may indeed affect you.   

Off the Shelf: "Time Anxiety"

 

Not that I'm experiencing time anxiety myself, but Time Anxiety is a book I've wanted to read for the past, oh, thirty nine days. That's when the book was released, a perfect choice for a release date for a book like this: April 15, just in time for every American to release a collective sigh of relief over the national tax deadline.

Author Chris Guillebeau defines "time anxiety" as "the feeling of being crushed by the scarcity of time and the inevitability of things ending." He has been mulling over the problems with time management for a long time, and this newest of his books is a collection of his observations on what he calls a myth: Time cannot be "managed." 

Time management, this author asserts, "is a powerful story built on an entirely false premise." However, there is, he assures us, still much we can do about that.

While reading through Guillebeau's explanation of this predicament, I noticed a few thoughts that can be applied to genealogy—a pursuit which itself, much like the perennial "to do" list, is never really "done." Here's a sampling of some ideas which caught my eye.

• In a practical tip he calls "The Reverse Bucket List," the author urges readers to "make a list of the amazing things you've already done." It's not just a matter of a pat-yourself-on-the-back journey down memory lane; the process may inspire you to set new or revised goals, especially if the review lights up some previously obscured information or resources not available to you the last time you tackled the problem.
• In questioning just what constitutes "enough" for a project, begin by deciding on "a logical finish line" for the goal. Observing that a lack of boundaries for a project conditions us to "the idea that work simply never ends," the author sees the lack of "milestones and end points" as robbing us of a sense of purposeful accomplishment. Genealogy research in general can have that effect, as many of us have experienced. That's why I've chosen my Twelve Most Wanted research cycle for the year: to help me attain finish lines with each goal, even if it only turns out to be a wrap-up summary at the month's end with a next-step list of objectives for the next time I tackle that research question.
• When getting started on a research project, think about where you tend to get sidetracked or encounter stuff that throws you off your planned course. Rabbit trail? Yep, that's me, so I need to do an evaluation of the dips and twists in a typical project cycle, make a note of them, and create tactics for reshaping the behaviors. I don't worry so much about the rabbit trails—they generally lead me to some useful insights in the end—but it is helpful to have a rescue plan on hand to get me back on track when I veer off course.

Time, as Guillebeau observed, is "the greatest nonrenewable resource in the world." For example, unlike many other items—out of milk? go to the store; out of money? find a way to get more—he notes: "if you run out of time—you're done." 

"Time is limited, but desire is limitless" is an observation the author shared which likely resonates with so many who are pursuing questions about their family history. There is always something more we want to know, some new question that looms on the horizon of our latest family discovery. These are two facts in conflict which the book examines—and that those of us fascinated with pursuing our ancestors would benefit from considering, as well. While we have made considerable progress in unearthing our family's stories, there is always more work to be done.

Perhaps we can benefit from a tip in the book as Chris Guillebeau, an author known for his writing and speaking on entrepreneurship, considers what has come to be called "granny hobbies"—activities among which has been counted the pursuit of family history. Such activities, he explains, can bring us into a "flow state where time seems to feel more expansive." Noting a New York Times article on that very subject, he explains that such activities can be associated with "cognitive improvements related to both memory and attention." 

The main point that caught my eye in this section of Time Anxiety is this: doing such activities in groups—think knitting groups, quilting circles, book clubs—is not solely to execute the task, but to incorporate it into community. When we think of the quintessential avocational genealogist, we think of someone in pajamas and bunny slippers, hot cocoa in hand, holed up at home, feverishly scrolling through digitized documents long past midnight. What if we took a page from this chapter of Chris Guillebeau's book and considered genealogy to become a team effort, gathering to build family trees together?

Perhaps I can't take a detour away from genealogy without seeing applications which relate back to that endless pursuit of our family's long story throughout time. Every "granny hobby," as Guillebeau noted, has a "large ecosystem of teachers and practitioners." In the genealogy world, we certainly do. I'd like to see us energize that world even further—especially through local genealogical societies—by coming together in community to encourage each other as we discover more about our own families. That may well be our best option as an antidote to "time anxiety" for those of us who realize our family trees will never become "done." 

      

Zooming Out

 

It has been a long five years since the pandemic caused our local society to abandon in-person meetings and exchange them for live online sessions. The funny thing was, though, once the restrictions were lifted and people were no longer required to remain isolated, our organization stuck to the status quo.

There were several reasons for that, first among them being that even our most tech-phobic members discovered the relative convenience of not having to drive somewhere on a blustery evening for the sheer reason of showing support to one's organization. Bunny slippers and hot chocolate or not, staying home is far easier than going anywhere.

Other reasons stood in our way as a group, as well. The onslaught of rising prices everywhere—from a cup of coffee to the gasoline to drive to the meeting—eventually conspired against us. When we used to see multiple offers of free space to use for our meetings, now we see dollar signs. And yet, our budget is constrained, too. It's far cheaper to maintain our website and host online meetings than it is to pay a rental fee for a year's worth of monthly meetings.

The down side to all that, I noticed, was perhaps something other groups might not experience: when we zoomed in to these handy online meetings, everyone sat still and listened to the speaker. Rare was the too-talkative member's interruptions (yet again) of the speaker; everyone was on mute. Even attempts at encouraging discussions among members seemed stilted, mostly a function of the technology, I suspect. The give and take of normal, everyday conversation just doesn't play well over online delivery.

For that reason, our board had been entertaining the idea of finding a way to meet again in person. If only occasionally, we wanted our talkative bunch to get together face to face once again. 

A few months ago, that reality began taking shape. One of our society's members had connections with the people who run our local FamilySearch Center, and asked about the possibility of their co-hosting one of our meetings. This week's meeting was the result of that open house gathering.

What happened at this in-person gathering, as the speaker's presentation finished, was that she recommended our members download the FamilySearch "Family Tree" app to their phone. On that app, she explained, was a section called "Relatives Around Me." Since I already knew there were several members who had already downloaded the app, I asked if we could all pull out our phones and try it during the gathering.

Almost immediately, people began calling out, "who's John?" or "who's Nancy?" We had several visitors for that meeting, so it became a time for people to meet each other—especially those people who, unbeknownst to them, might actually be distant cousins with someone else in the same room.

Of course, such calculations are only as good as the trees from which they are gleaned, but it was a great ice-breaker. Even more than that, I can't imagine any such form of interaction occurring, had we held a meeting like that online.

The electric energy level that carried through the next half hour, people sitting around computers, comparing notes on family trees, or sharing stories about research conquests or battles to overcome brick-wall ancestors—I can't imagine that happening online. Spontaneous life happens best in, well, real life. We can approximate it through technology. Make meeting easier through technology. But technology can't make life real. That comes with people reaching out to people, face to face in real life. 

The Whodunit Drive

 

I can't say this statement is genetically verifiable, but it's obvious many humans have a "whodunit" drive embedded in their DNA. We need to find out who did it, get to the punch line, discover the answer. We can't abide the vacuum of uncertainty.

I watched a brief video positioned at the end of a recent blog post by Seth Godin. The video took all of about three and a half minutes—yes, I said minutes, not hours—and the ending made me literally laugh out loud.

The introductory blog post—brief, in quintessential Godin style—was about choosing to learn and why we choose not to learn. The end of the post segued nicely into the YouTube video, an unedited version of his talk given at TED2014.

The talk (spoiler alert here) asked, "It is a note worth playing?" As Seth Godin began his monologue, he pulled a clarinet out of its case and assembled it, all the while discussing a mindset of determining that if something is worth doing, it is worth doing exceptionally. Clarinet in hand—and almost before the audience realized it was over—he concluded his remarks as he turned his back on the audience and exited the stage, never once having played a single note on his now at-the-ready instrument.

I laughed because I just witnessed a brilliant object lesson. He had our attention because we were waiting for his demonstration. 

The demonstration never came.

The other shoe never dropped.

He left us in mid-sentence, thought-wise, waiting to hear what should have happened next.

And with that disequilibrium, our only resolution is to fill in the blank. Finish the sentence for ourselves.

That's not education. That's learning.

I just spent an entire day at a genealogy seminar hosted by a D.A.R. chapter in an ocean town I often enjoy visiting. The many speakers presented useful material—I focused here mostly on technology tools and techniques—but if I don't go home and put that newfound knowledge to use on my own research projects, I will really have learned nothing.

Right now, we have entered a genealogical season of learning. Of worldwide attention right now is the approaching annual RootsTech conference in early March. Following on the heels of that event, another virtual family history seminar hosted by the African American Genealogy Society will feature Renate Yarborough Sanders. Just over a week later, the Jewish Genealogical Society at our state's capital—Sacramento—will feature a case study by Steve Morse. And rumor has it that another genealogical society in that same city—Root Cellar—has two notable guest speakers on their spring lineup: Daniel Horowitz from MyHeritage in March, and Judy Russell ("The Legal Genealogist") in May.

Some season of learning opportunities—but only if we put the education we've gained to personal use.

Remembering "First Families"

 

For this month's goal, as laid out almost a year ago in my Twelve Most Wanted research plan, I had thought that surely there were no more resources for me to continue pursuing my father's Polish ancestry. Instead, I set upon a different plan: a genealogical "giving back" project. For this month, I'd work on the family trees of the "first families" of my county.

By "first families," I'm referring to the programs offered by many groups to recognize and honor the early settlers for a particular geographic area. These certificate programs generally award recognition to a direct line descendant of an honored early resident, along with preserving that ancestor's family history. Some programs are coordinated by historical societies, such as the First Families of Tennessee, launched by the East Tennessee Historical Society. Many are administered by state genealogical organizations, such as the Utah Genealogical Association's First Families of Utah. Some county organizations also host First Families programs, such as the San Mateo County Genealogical Society in the San Francisco bay area. There are even cities promoting First Families programs, such as Saint Louis, Missouri. 

The term "first families" may be a misnomer, at least in the way most genealogical and historical societies use it. "Early settlers" would be a far more realistic term, especially for those geographical locations which experienced wave after wave of migrant settlements. Perhaps our neighbors to the north in Canada have a more accurate way of putting things when they refer to "First Nations" among their residents. Among some U.S. statewide programs, Oklahoma acknowledges that disparity in their First Families of the Twin Territories, where their stated goal is to: "recognize, honor and perpetuate the memory of early Pioneer and Indian families who were residents of Oklahoma or Indian Territory on or before the date of statehood."

Date ranges for recognition vary from program to program. Genealogical Society of Pennsylvania members who can prove descent from a resident as early as 1638 in what is now the state of Pennsylvania are eligible to apply for recognition in the First Families of Pennsylvania program. As we move westward through the country, dates of eligibility logically advance with each respective state's settlement history, sometimes pinned to the date upon which a territory achieved statehood, as is the case with the Missouri First Families Program.

One of the best points about such First Families programs is that the hosting organization often makes available the list of names of such recognized settlers. That's how I discovered my own fourth great-grandfather, Charles McClellan, was included in the Florida Pioneer Descendants Certificate Program of the Florida State Genealogical Society. It becomes a useful resource for others who are also researching the same ancestor.

That is only one of many reasons people have given for participating in a First Families program. Years ago, Amy Johnson Crow recapped several of these reasons, reminding us that by participating in First Families programs, we are "honoring our ancestors and recognizing their contribution to history." While I've mentioned several programs above, there are far more such programs in the United States—currently, Cyndi's List provides links for seventy nine of them.

As for our own local program, it is a partnership between our county genealogical society and the county's historical society. We currently have nearly three hundred names of recognized, documented ancestors who settled in our county and were recognized by our First Families programs.

Among those early settlers were those who made our cities, suburbs, and farm regions what they are today. These were the men and women who gave us our heritage. I like how one society put it: these were the "settlers who cleared the land, drained the swamps, ran the stagecoaches, built the dams, roads and houses, planted and harvested the crops, and sold the meat, potatoes, clothing, soap and other necessities their neighbors needed."

For this month's Twelve Most Wanted, we'll review the stories of some of these settlers.    

What Energizes You?

 

That may seem to be a silly question for a family history blog; of course it's genealogy that keeps us up far too late in the evening, oblivious to the passage of time—or sometimes even to the people around us. But genealogy can be a solitary endeavor when we engage with online resources. Even messaging fellow researchers and working together online on elusive ancestors can still keeps us apart.

Reason I ask what energizes you: the other day I attended an event on a nearby college campus. The occasion was the social gathering to introduce the upcoming fall course offerings for our local OLLI program. I was there because I had been invited to teach once again this fall. The attendees filling the university ballroom came from all walks of life, but had one goal in common: remaining active and engaged through lifelong learning.

While I had a brief two minutes in the limelight to introduce my course topic, I had ample time before and after the program to meet other instructors, catch up on news with former coworkers and other friends, and talk with several people I'd otherwise probably never get to meet. 

Walking back to the parking lot afterwards, I realized I unexpectedly felt quite energized. And it wasn't simply because I was there to talk genealogy—it was just having the chance to talk about anything at all. There is something energizing about getting together with other people, whether we know them or not—or even whether we end up discussing our favorite topic.

That's the lifted spirit feeling I've noticed in our own genealogy society meetings, once we emerged from the isolation of the pandemic and started meeting face to face instead of computer to computer. The human touch can animate, energize, and enliven. Never forget that when thinking about whether to connect with others in an organized fashion over your favorite topics, genealogy or otherwise. We build on each other's energies.

Granted, that is what energizes me. Perhaps what brings that spark to you may be a totally different topic or encounter—but keep in mind that if you find yourself enlivened by it, there are others out there who feel the same. It's that element which, added to our society meetings, can become the actual draw to a meeting—not necessarily the bona fides of the featured speaker, or the popularity of the topic. Remember, we can hear great speakers' recordings through multiple online avenues now, and the Internet offers a wide array of subjects to select, even in such a specialized pursuit as family history. But we can seldom replicate the chemistry of coming together through technology the way we can by just simply getting together in person.

By all means, work hard to find great speakers for your organization, or survey your members for guidance on the latest hot topics. But it may also come in handy to ask society members, "What energizes you?" Ask them about the meetings which created the most buzz among members in after-session opportunities. That's what really will revive your organization.

Owning It

 

At many local genealogical organizations, summertime is break time. Members are traveling, or spending time with family, or celebrating holidays, wedding anniversaries, or birthdays. Summer is not the best time to expect a record-breaking turnout for society meetings.

There's only one problem with such a schedule: though based in reality, it puts the group's officers in a bind if the following season is time to nominate and elect candidates for the upcoming year's board of directors. Our local organization moved that schedule up a month to satisfy all the requirements of our bylaws—and to leave enough time for the nominating committee to adequately network among members and (who am I kidding here?) coax, cajole, and downright bribe potential candidates to step up and volunteer their services for the good of the society.

It was in beginning that nominations process last week that a thought struck me. Having served on our local board for (mumble mumble) years, I've noticed two types of volunteers who have done their part on the board. One group is comprised of those who have done just that: done "their part" in a perfunctory, to-the-letter manner. They have filled the slot on the roster, gotten the job done at least adequately, and then moved on.

Then there is the other group. The only way I can describe this group is to say when they stepped up to be installed in their position, they owned that position.

In talking with others about our genealogy organizations—no matter whether national, state, or local—I have sometimes heard people mention a particular board member as a "Type A" individual. I won't belabor the description of such a term; I think we all have a mental image of such a person. But I think that way of looking at such board members does all of us a disservice. 

I've worked in private business, for governmental agencies, and as an owner or partner in my own businesses over the years. From experience across multiple work environments, I think I can say there is a vast difference between those who see themselves as simply employees, just doing their job, and people who own their work. While it may be the employee's boss for whom that ubiquitous saying has been adopted—"the buck stops here"—for the self-employed, there is no one to whom that "buck" can be passed. They own the results and the results' consequences.

Now that I look back at all those conversations with friends about board members, I wonder if I got it all wrong. It may actually be that those "Type A" volunteers were the ones who owned their work. They owned their contributions to the organization in that they put their whole heart into the effort, and took responsibility for seeing the outcome through to the end.

If that's what "Type A" really means, perhaps it is a good thing that there are people out there willing to "own" their efforts, and "own" their outcome. We need more board members like that.

(Not) Off the Shelf (Yet): Community: the Structure of Belonging

 

Set on top of my husband's desk this weekend was a book I hadn't seen before: Community: the Structure of Belonging, by Peter Block. This was the kind of title which demanded I read it, so I put a sticky note on the cover of that new purchase on his desk to take my place in line as next reader.

You would think that, after just having finished his doctoral studies in leadership, my husband would be thinking about taking a break from the topic, but that is apparently not the case. He had just written up his research on building community within the workplace—or, more specifically, for teams in nonprofit settings—so I could see how Peter Block's book would catch his eye. In my husband's case, he has spent years developing his own thoughts on how to take a team of employees who are (almost literally) at each other's throats and lead them through a team building process to establish shared values and develop mutual goals. So thoughts of community and a sense of belonging speak to him loudly.

Though I certainly haven't undergone as much study on the subject, community building has been something I've been musing about lately, particularly when I think about one specific organization: our county genealogical society. Like many such organizations post-Covid, ours has suffered several set-backs. It is as if we are still emerging from that cocoon of isolation, not sure how to flex our wings, even years afterwards. The book's title spoke to me, too.

While the book was originally published in 2009, an updated version was issued in 2018. Scrolling through the reviews at Amazon, I noticed the page included some excerpts from the updated version of Peter Block's book. In one passage, the author referred to the work of Robert Putnam in the earlier book, Bowling Alone, where Putnam refers to "social capital." As Block explained it, "A community’s well-being simply had to do with the quality of the relationships, the cohesion that exists among its citizens."

That community cohesion has been on my mind a lot lately. I had noticed it at work years ago in projects to bring together disparate groups for a mutual goal. When a community gels, that group can get so much accomplished.

In our own group, our county genealogical society, I believe I'm seeing the development of that same cohesion. I actually think our members became so tired of online-only meetings—despite our relief that at least, during the pandemic, we could still come together, if only virtually—that they were desperate to have face-to-face social interaction. We still hold our monthly meetings online, mainly because we've been priced out of the market for paying for a public venue, but online doesn't afford us much opportunity to feel as if we've connected with each other. We've actually had members begging for us to come up with a way to just get together—no speaker, not even an agenda, other than to see each other face to face.

Now that we've had some in-person opportunities—a potluck at the park, several morning gatherings over coffee and baked goods, monthly special interest group meetings at a local restaurant—it seems the energy has built upon itself. In these past two weeks, in the midst of an ongoing heatwave, I thought numbers would be down at two different events our society hosted. That was certainly not the case: each event had even more participation than usual. There is a synergy building here, an enthusiasm which I can only attribute to whatever that community-building concept is that Block's book refers to. We're deep in the middle of something evolving, but only now do I find a book that might explain what's happening.

Whatever it is, I'm glad to see it unfolding. It gives me pause to consider just what, moving forward, our  genealogy societies really need. It's not only a matter of offering solid programming—which we do, month after month—but it delves deeper into human needs to connect and interact, to create and mutually encourage in the process. Whatever those needs are, when we find the ways to give those needs a voice, then a venue to let it happen, that's when we'll see our societies grow again.

   

  

From Generation to Generation

Every now and then, I'll hear talk about intergenerational wealth, those gifts passed from parent to child—or in some cases, passed on down from grandparents—that help young struggling families to obtain key purchases they might otherwise not have been able to afford for years to come. Help with paying for a grandchild's college education, for instance, or providing a down payment on a starter home would be examples from our current era, though anyone who has read an ancestor's will can realize the help such gifts represented for those in the distant past.

This week, though, I ran across another example of passing gifts from generation to generation. The other day, our local genealogical society held their annual potluck in the park. We often encourage members to bring a friend to this social event, so one of our longstanding members invited her daughter, who was visiting from out of town.

What we discovered, as this member introduced her guest to others at the meeting, was that the daughter is also an avid genealogical researcher. Unlike the many stories people share of family members rolling their eyes at yet another family history story—a symptom I suspect is a main incentive for people to join genealogy societies so like-minded friends can share in those "happy dance" research victories—this member has a daughter who is just as consumed with this research passion as her mother is. In this case, at least, the genealogy "gene" has successfully been passed from generation to generation.

It is always refreshing to learn of researchers who have been able to share their family findings with others. Usually, though, those family members with whom we share our discoveries are distant cousins. Many are contacts we've made online, when we meet those who also are pursuing the stories of our mutual great-great-greats. It was quite refreshing to meet someone who likely gained this passion not from a distant relative in a one-off passing of pages gathering dust in a closet or attic, but from the day to day example of a parent who consistently pursued those elusive roots.  

Are We a Dying Breed?

 

The other day, I did dog-sitting duties for my daughter's recently acquired puppy while she attended an out-of-town training. Her new canine companion is a Briard, a French breed known for its sheep-herding and protecting tendencies. The Briard comes with a long and fascinating history, depicted in tapestries during the time of Charlemagne, admired by even the dog-hating Napoleon, and recorded in the journals of Thomas Jefferson, who imported Briards from France on his return home from service there as ambassador from the fledgling United States. The French so admired the capabilities of the breed that the Briard was named the official war dog of the French army, serving on sentry duty, pulling supply carts and rescuing wounded soldiers. This had devastating effects on their numbers after both World Wars, when casualties greatly mounted for the Briards in service on the front.

Perhaps the Briard would have been a dying breed, except that certain breed advocates devoted themselves to the cause of resurrecting the Briard to its previous standing. The woman who managed the litter from which our puppy came is such a person. This takes work, just as all breeders would know, but it also takes a special dedication. The less people know about a breed—or even that there is such a breed—the less the public would want to acquire such an animal. Support and advocacy for the breed take an elevated place in such a role of breed advocate.

After a typical busy week of activities in our genealogical society, perhaps it might seem that puppy-sitting an unusual breed of dog might be a radical change of pace—and yes, I did get my workout with this active six month old—but strangely, my thoughts sought out a parallel. I don't know about your local genealogical society, but ours has recently suffered a drastic drop, year over year, in membership. Plus, those of us who remain are not getting any younger—yet the world around us, including those who are curious about their ancestors, keeps changing and doing almost everything differently. Learning to keep up with changes to be vitally relevant to those potential new members around us will be the key to avoid slipping from most popular to most pathetic.

Thinking of this newly-learned lesson of the Briards' history causes me to ask about our genealogical societies: are we a dying breed? What can we do to introduce those around us to the vitality of knowing one's own family's story? How can we better become advocates for this process we enjoy? 

Answering questions like these isn't just about coming up with a quick gimmick that sounds trendy, but digging deeper to discover what resonates with people at specific stages in their lives: newly-weds, new parents, intermediaries helping others in life-changing stages such as parents' downsizing, or even stepping into retirement for themselves. What to do with the time now? Or the now-inherited resources of family memorabilia?

These are life stages in which people may have the kinds of questions for which we as local genealogical societies might provide answers. But we need to know who might be asking. And how they would best receive our answers. Listening to an hour-long lecture in a meeting hall might not be the best venue for giving them the answers they seek.

If the hour-long-lecture model is a dying breed, let it go. But helping people find the story they've been seeking on their family, I'm convinced, will never go out of style. Like the Briard in life after war, that's the kind of rekindled interest we should seek. Our "breed" isn't seeking listeners to sit in rapt muteness before a talking head—no matter how knowledgeable—but a far more compelling journey of personal discovery to find answers concerning our own families. 

Context Before Relationship

 

Not all jokes are funny anymore.

A while back, someone shared a joke with a group I was in. I didn't get it. Not because I lack a sense of humor; it was likely because the story line referred to some celebrity I know nothing about. I didn't know the context behind the joke's story line. I missed a chuckle, but spared everyone the monotony of a post-mortem on a now-vanished moment of mirth.

From that fleeting experience, I realized something: context is king if you want to function in any social circles. It doesn't matter whether you belong to a D&D gamers' group or a grandmother's knitting circle. If you don't track what's new and upcoming in that interest group, you likely also don't have a basis for ongoing relationship. Not only are the jokes not funny, the gossip is meaningless, and the heart-to-heart confidences might never make their necessary appearance.

I kept thinking about that moment of the missed joke for quite a while. During that time, I had been meeting with various genealogical groups in my region, noticing the differences in membership composition. While the "personality" of each society might have been different—some more eager to ask questions after presentations, some more focused on research techniques or relevance to local history—there was one inescapable solidarity: this is primarily the domain of those retired enough to spare time for family history pursuits. And that's a particular shared context.

Those of us in genealogical societies have been at it for quite some time. Those who choose to join us are more likely to first size us up with the conclusion that they can easily become one of us. Why? The context resonates. In other words, they are examining the context of our group—the topics we discuss, the terms we use, the comparisons we make. If they understand the terms we use, the way we think, the buzz words we resort to, that puts them at ease and they will feel more comfortable envisioning themselves becoming part of our group.

If not? I'm beginning to wonder whether it is really the terminology of genealogy—the pedigree charts, the family group sheets, the third-cousins-twice-removed—that keeps potential new members from joining genealogical organizations. Could it actually be something else—like the social context, itself?

Perhaps those genealogy programs which focus on discovering the roots of current celebrities are not far off base. Those for whom names like Ciara or Jesse Williams resonate will not be attracted to our local society if we don't learn to talk the talk like Dr. Henry Louis Gates has done. If we want a different membership in our group, we need to talk like the people we want to join us.

Membership in an organization is a form of relationship. Before new people will join a group, they need a positive feeling that their context is the same as our context—talking the same language, sharing the same day-to-day concerns, even laughing at the same jokes. Changing the name of our group from Washington County Genealogical Society to Washington County Genealogical Association does not provide that context. What does is when new eyes look at the current group and see themselves in our membership.