Getting Along With the Long S

 

It can be hard enough trying to track down an ancestor in previous centuries without having to consider changes in the everyday customs and conventions we take for granted. Handwriting, for instance, is one of those constants that we presume will always remain the same—but doesn't. In continuing my months-long pursuit of Tilson ancestors for everything from DNA matches to admittance into the Mayflower Society, I've run into a snag regarding that very detail: time-bound conventions of handwriting and what is called the "long s."

This all came to the forefront as I was reviewing the last of my Tilson DNA matches at Ancestry.com's ThruLines tool. Less than a month ago, I was close to wrapping up confirmation of those matches descending from my fourth great-grandfather, Peleg Tilson. Having only a few more to review, I was working on the descendants of Peleg's daughter Mercy. According to the 1911 Tilson Genealogy drawn up by Mercer Vernon Tilson, Mercy had been born in Saint Clair, Virginia, and had married someone by the name of James Rigsbey.

Other than the instance of that one name, there were no further details provided in the Tilson book. At Ancestry, however, there was a hint leading to a register of marriages in Washington County, Tennessee, just over the state line from Saint Clair, Virginia, a location to which several of my Tilson ancestors had moved. The problem, though, was that the record for a groom named James Rigsby was coupled with a bride-to-be named "Mapy Gittson."

Looking more closely at the register, I noticed that the format included a preprinted "19—" in the section designated for the officiant's return. In other words, this was not the original document completed at the time of the August 7, 1807, marriage ceremony, but a modern transcription of older records.

I wondered whether handwriting might have been an issue for whoever had transcribed the record to the post-1900 register, and looked for the original document. As it turned out, the FamilySearch collection had several digitized versions of the transcribed record, but I finally found what appeared to be an original version (though labeled "Damaged Document(s)").

At first glance, it did indeed look like James Rigsby had married someone with the unfortunate moniker of Mapy Gitson. That, at least, was what the handwriting on the cover of the Washington County record seemed to read. Again, that could have been drawn up by someone at a later date, set to the task of organizing court records. But looking inside the cover, pulling up the actual document itself, the harried hand which drew up the record caused me to wonder whether something else was at play here.

In completing the document laying out the requirements of a marriage bond for the recently-formed state of Tennessee, the clerk seemed to be in a rush, judging from the scribbled first letter of each of the marriage parties' given names. Then, too, the "s" in the two entries of the surname Rigsby were so scribbled as to be barely distinct from the preceding letter.

Looking at the formation of the capital "T" for both the given name of the other man listed in the marriage bond—Thomas Rigsby—and the bride-to-be, the rounded cross stroke forming the top of the capital "T" in Thomas could have been the same stroke forming what had been interpreted as a "G" in the bride's maiden name. A stray stroke across what might otherwise have been the double "l" in an alternate spelling of Tilson—"Tillson"—could easily have been misinterpreted by a transcriber as "Gittson."

More than that, though, I wondered whether the convention once dubbed the "long s" might have come into play when the clerk filled out the blanks in the marriage bond form. The "long s" had a specific list of rules for usage, especially for typeset documents.

Admittedly, for the preprinted portion of the form, in not one instance was that writing convention included; for American forms of that time period, there was already a shift away from the decidedly British convention. For handwriting of that time period—which had a separate list of rules of usage than that of the typesetting norms—I have seen appearances of the "long s" well into the nineteenth century. Perhaps old habits die hard.

Basically, the "long s" was a letter quite similar in shape to the letter "f." The difference between the "long s" and a regular "f" was that the crossbar of the lower case "f" went entirely through the downstroke, whereas for the "long s" it only protruded from the left side of the letter. In addition, in the cursive format of the "long s" the bottom curve goes to the left, whereas for the regular letter "f" it loops around to the right before ascending to form the next letter in the word to be written.

Considering that, I wondered whether "Mapy" was actually a sloppily-contrived "long s" combined with a second "round s" as often happened in handwriting of that time period. It was already obvious that the clerk who drew up this document was rather rushed in forming the "s" in Rigsby, so it could be possible that he was writing "Massy" for the bride's name, mis-hearing the actual name, "Mercy." Or perhaps the accent of the time might have softened the "r" sound so much as to be less audible than we would pronounce it today, thus leading to a misspelling of the bride's name.

No matter what the cause for this odd rendering of the bride's name—whatever it might have turned out to be—the "long s" in handwritten documents was a convention that I have seen well into the 1800s in court records, long after it was considered outdated for printed formats. Still, that leaves me with the burden of finding records to support such a hypothesis. For any further written material referring to James Rigsby's wife by name, I can find none. So far, I've looked for his will, burial records, and other likely places where the woman's name might have made its rare appearance, without any results, positive or negative.

The only encouraging sign I can find so far is that this couple chose to name their son Peleg, a Bible name which, though not seen often in our current time, did make a showing during that time period. In fact, it was a name which appeared more than once in the extended Tilson family of that generation. More importantly, Peleg just happened to be the name of Mercy's father—an encouraging sign for those of us wondering just who it was that James Rigsby chose to marry in Washington County, Tennessee, back in August of 1807.

Image above from the FamilySearch.org collection of Washington County, Tennessee, Marriage Licenses, 1787-1950, Bonds 1787-1950, image 1784.

Two More Neighbors

 

Among the godparents listed for the children of Denis and Margaret Flannery Tully was a sibling named William Flannery. That was in Ballina in the northern portion of County Tipperary, Ireland. When Denis and Margaret moved their family to colonial Canada West, it seemed some of their relations moved with them.

Among the suspected relatives was a man named William Flannery. We've already found him, courtesy of his son John who bore the same name and birth year as another John Flannery—that one, son of Edmund, but who was a native-born Canadian.

After stumbling upon the son John in William's household in the 1871 census, I kept pushing back to find any earlier documentation. Once again, just as I had been surprised to notice neighbors with familiar names, the 1861 census led me to the household of a William Flannery with family possibilities.

In the case of this William Flannery, it was the handwriting of the enumerator that had me stumped at first. Was his wife's name, for instance, a sloppily rendered Nancy? Or something different?

 

Deciding that "Movey" was not a reasonable guess for a first name—although can you blame me?—it occurred to me that the actual name might be something more fortuitous. What if William's wife's name was the same as what was listed in the Irish baptismal records for William's children? One of the two possible Williams I had found, back in Ballina, was married to a woman named Hanora McNamara. While I've noticed such a given name sometimes was shortened to Nora, could it be possible that it also could be transformed into a nickname like Norey?

Comparing this 1861 census entry with what we know about our William, back in Ballina, it was easy to spot the three names we'd found in the baptismal records: Judy, John, and Margaret. For two of them—Judy and Margaret—the dates were off by a mere year. John, according to the baptismal record, was born in 1845 while the census showed someone born closer to 1848. It will take following this family further to uncover any details to confirm or reject the connection between William Flannery in Ballina and the one in Canada West.

Another entry that stumped me in this census record was that for the couple's oldest son. The handwriting left me in doubt over my guess—could the nineteen year old boy be named Willie? 

I let my eyes wander over the page, looking for similar letters to help me decipher what the enumerator was trying to convey. That's when I spotted the neighbors next door, whose first son listed had the very same name. Only this time, the writing was a bit clearer, and I realized, first, that the name was actually Mike—and, second, that the neighboring family's surname was Tully.

In this case, it was yet another John Tully—seemingly a popular name in our Tully family. This John Tully claimed for his wife a woman named Biddy, nickname for the popular Irish name Bridget. Was it just coincidence that brought this Tully family right next door to the godfather of some of our Tully relatives? Or was there a connection that we can confirm? Time to search for more records—and add them to an expanding floating tree.

 

Above excerpt from the 1861 Canadian census for Saint Marys, Perth County, Ontario, courtesy Ancestry.com.  

Initial Assessment

 

It was the mention of what looked like "heirs of I. H. Ijams" in his brother Isaac's 1846 will that had me puzzled. Isaac, brother of my mother-in-law's third great-grandmother, Sarah Howard Ijams Jackson, had no children of his own, but thanks to his success in life, was able to be generous with the descendants of his siblings. The catch was, other than Isaac himself, none of those siblings had a first name beginning with the letter "I."

To complicate matters, other than Isaac's youngest brother Frederick, all the other brothers—as well as their sister Sarah—had for their middle initial the letter "H," likely for Howard, their mother's maiden name. So who would that "I. H. Ijams" be?

Handwriting in the mid-1800s era in which Isaac Ijams drew up his will could be challenging to decipher. Stylistic throwbacks to a previous century—such as what looks like "fs" for the double consonant "ss"—still made their occasional appearance in government documents. Somewhere in all my rusty recollections about past handwriting quirks, I seem to remember—but of course can't find a source for—aberrations mentioned for capitals of the letters "I" versus "J." Sometimes, the descending portion of the "J" did not extend below the line of text, making it difficult to decipher which of the two letters was intended.

Even if that were so and Isaac meant by his will his brother with the initials as J. H. Ijams, we are still left with a dilemma. If that "I" in the initials for Isaac's brother were really a "J" then which brother did it signify? Isaac had two brothers possessing the initials "J. H."

The answer to this we determine by the fortunate (for us, at least) revelation that Isaac was thinking of his brother "J. H. Ijams" who had already died. Lest we go off on a mad chase of Ohio documents to determine which brother that might have been, Isaac also provided several items in his will concerning that brother's children. In fact, as we learn from the will, at least two of the three children were still minors, for whom his brother had appointed Isaac as trustee.

We had already learned from Isaac's father William's will that the two possible brothers would be John or Joseph. As it turns out, Joseph did have three children whose names match the "heirs of I. H. Ijams" listings in Isaac's will: William Edwin, Caroline Elizabeth, and Joseph Henry Harrison Ijams.

In confirming their relationship to the correct father, though, the effort led me through some fascinating details—which you know I couldn't simply observe and move past, without mentioning. So, starting with tomorrow's post, we'll revisit those life details, beginning with the eldest of Joseph Howard Ijams' children, his son William Edwin.

 

Checking on Another Sullivan

 

After what I discovered yesterday about the possible mother's maiden name for my latest research quest—finding the parents' names for Mark Falvey of Chicopee, Massachusetts—I am beginning to wonder whether I have uncovered a new rule: that all Irish immigrant family trees must include the surname Sullivan.

And yet, I didn't wish to be too hasty about that. After all, we need to put ourselves in our ancestors' shoes whenever we encounter a puzzling outcome in our research. The place where I found that Sullivan maiden name was in a death certificate. Think about it: what is farthest from one's mind, upon learning that a loved one has just died? Correctly reporting the maiden name of the long-gone mother of the deceased.

In a spotless hand, an official someone in Hampden County had drawn up the death certificate for Mark Falvey, ancestor of my husband's DNA match. There is no way I could fault that impeccable handwriting, or claim I had misread the entry. Sure enough, in researching all these members of a very extended Falvey family from County Kerry, Ireland, it is time to add yet another Sullivan to the mix. Mark Falvey was born to a woman named Margaret Sullivan—if, that is, we can believe that cool heads prevailed when his son stood in as informant for the official report.

 

Just in case a stress-induced mistake was permanently captured for generations of genealogy researchers to perpetuate, I decided to take a look at other records to see whether the report could be replicated. Unfortunately, even though Mark Falvey's naturalization paperwork claimed his arrival in the States was when he was twenty two years of age—arriving in New York City, which I not only find odd, but can't trace through other records—there was no mention of his parents' names.

However, there are other documents. And, as documents of that era went, they often omitted some detail about the women in a man's life. Thus, Mark's marriage record reported that he was son of Jeremiah Falvey—but omitted any mention of the mother.

Fortunately, Mark was not the only Falvey to settle in Chicopee. Remember, my husband has another DNA match who traces back to one of Mark's siblings who also lived in that city. Those who are researching that area in Hampden County have ample access to additional records online. So, I took that same record set which included Mark's marriage entry, and searched for any Falvey who was married in that county. 

In the search results, I could spot other possible candidates. That was the good news. The down side was that the transcription of the entries was less than optimal. Someone at Ancestry had indexed the parents' names for Bridget Falvey as Janey and Margaret. Obviously, something was lacking there. A similar result occurred for the marriage record of a woman named Johanna Falvey, whose parents were noted to be Samiah and Margaret.

Thankfully, the search results led me to actual copies of the documents, so I took a look at the real deal. Maybe my ability to read dreadful handwriting might tune up those previous attempts.

Sure enough, the actual register entry for the October 11, 1860, marriage of Bridget Falvey to James O'Brien could loosely be translated to read Jerry and Margaret Falvy. Of course, that record didn't include a mother's maiden name, either. And the other Falvey entry that could be found? Perhaps her much later wedding date—April 17 of 1875—did the trick, for this time, the bride's mother had a full identity: yes, although somewhat difficult to decipher, it looked like Margaret Sullivan was the wife of Jeremiah Falvey and the mother of Johanna Falvey.

Another Sullivan. All together now: groan.

What we have, with this exercise in seeking the mother's maiden name, is very possibly the link to tie these three Falvey weddings together. Thus, we can assume that Mark, Bridget, and Johanna were three siblings—or at least half-siblings—who somehow made their way to Chicopee from County Kerry, Ireland. We'll double check on that assumption tomorrow, as we get to know a bit more about Bridget, the sister of Mark Falvey (as opposed to his wife of the same given name). After that, we'll confirm what else can be found about Johanna Falvey's mother through the documents she left behind, as well.

Lessons in Chicken Scratch

Round and round the search seems to go, seeking answers to a simple question: who are the parents of Johanna Falvey of County Kerry, Ireland?

At this point, armed with data from seven DNA matches' trees, I thought it might be a simple matter of searching through the digitized baptismal records from the two Catholic parishes where I had previously found promising Falvey records. I had culled the "founding ancestor" from the pedigree chart of each of seven Falvey descendants whose DNA matches my husband's test results, along with the purported name of their parents in six of the match cases.

I worked my way down the list, from the match with the largest amount of centiMorgans shared in common, with not so much as a possible connection, once I searched those baptismal records.

And then, I came to an entry for a child of a couple named Jeremiah Falvey and Margaret Sullivan. This seemed a likely match, as in previous explorations, I had seen the Sullivan surname pop up as sponsors for some of our own close Falvey family records. The record was also from a parish which I had already encountered for the baptismal record of one of our Johanna's own children.

The entry I found, however, was apparently a record in very poor shape. Whoever attempted to transcribe the handwriting left the entry riddled with question marks. There was simply no way to confidently determine, in the faint scrawl, what the gaps in handwriting could have signified.

I squinted and peered and blinked and looked again, but the letters just didn't speak to me. Finally, I went looking for any translation key that could help me make sense of the written message, and found this helpful decoding ring from Claire Santry's "Irish Genealogy Toolkit." It provided an example, not of a baptismal entry per se, but of a likely shorthand a Catholic priest might use to abbreviate the entry.

Here's her example:

Bapt Michaeli, fl Patricus Daly et Ellena Mahony, Courtmshry. Sp John Doyle, Marian Shea.

Here's her translation:

I baptised Michael, legitimate son of Patrick Daly and Ellen Driscoll of Courtmacsherry. Godparents John Doyle and Mary Shea.

I had spotted the "F.L." entry in the baptismal entry I had found in County Kerry, and wondered whether it might have stood for filium legitimum. After all, I suppose it could get tedious for a priest to have to write the same formulaic phrases over and over in a record book, when everyone already knows the pattern of what was supposed to be written. Seeing Claire Santry's example helped substantiate my guess.

As for the rest of that faint scrawl in the baptismal records in the Falveys' parish in County Kerry, I wasn't so certain. I could make out the faint "Falvey" but what was the father's given name? It started with Deme—but then, what followed? Could it have been Demetrius? But that didn't yield me the Jeremiah Falvey and Margaret Sullivan this DNA match's tree assured me I'd see.

I did recall, somewhere in the distant past of researching Irish names translated into Latin, that there was something up with the name Jeremiah, once it was transformed into Latin. Off on a mad search I went again, to see what the Irish equivalent of Demetrius might be—if, of course, that scrawl did indeed spell Demetrius.

There are several listings which assured me they contained exactly what I was looking for, but upon further inspection, alas, did not include the sought after Demetrius. All except for one, that is: this chart from FamilySearch on equivalents of Latin names for England. Sure enough, there in its right place was an entry assuring me that the English equivalent for Demetrius was indeed Jeremiah.

With that small victory, I wasn't done with this particular search, though. There was one small problem remaining. While I was looking for a child of Jeremiah Falvey and Margaret Sullivan whose name was Bridget, this entry recorded the baptism of their son named Michael.

Even bigger problem: the date of Michael's baptism—clearly given as the 28th—happened in August of 1842. Guess what year was given for the birth of our DNA match's ancestor, Bridget? That very year. Clearly, we aren't talking about the same Jeremiah and Margaret as parents.

Perhaps it's time to retrace our steps and look at the family trees of each of our DNA matches with a more discerning eye. Rather than assuming that the line of descent is already correctly laid out in each match's pedigree chart, it's always best to start with the present and work our way backwards through the generations. The best lesson we can learn, in deciphering chicken scratch, is to make sure we are looking at the right handwriting in the first place.


Above: Entry from Catholic parish in Molahiffe, County Kerry, Ireland, for 1842 baptism of Michael Falvey; image courtesy Ancestry.com.

Deciphering the Illegible Hand

The bane of the serious family history researcher may well be the oft-encountered illegible hand. While I understand nineteenth century clerics did not perform their record-keeping duties with twenty first century genealogists in mind, I do wish they had taken a bit more care in attending to their daily routine.

In searching page by page through centuries-old baptismal records this week, I've discovered one thing about that Falvey surname I've been seeking: there are more ways to write it than I would ever have thought.

From uncompleted loops for the "a" to overzealous flourishes for the capital "F," I've witnessed several transcription traps which have beguiled their unsuspecting indexers to misread what I suspected I was looking for. All I wanted to do this week was uncover a few baptismal records for mothers whose maiden name was Falvey. And I run into records like this:

Guess how it was indexed? Not as Falvey, I assure you.

After a while, I guess we researchers get a sixth sense of how others might misread handwriting, so I succumbed to taking a peek at search results which I otherwise might not have pursued. The example above was actually indexed as "Lealvey," though I could see how it might have been mistaken for "Hulsey." I saw another Falvey entry listed as "Furrey." Cute.

Exposure to great variety in handwriting samples may strengthen a researcher's resistance to succumbing to the first guess offered. I've seen my fair share of capital Fs which look more like they could be read as "H." Likewise, I can understand why someone might have read the leading letter in that example above as an overzealous L. The search for correct record matches goes downhill from handwriting's slippery slope. That's why I take to searching, page by page, through handwritten records. Especially old ones.

What opens up new venues for searching is coupling the surname Falvey with that of the other half of the marriage party. In the case above, my research partner and I have been examining the family connections of a DNA match who recently shared his tree. It includes the County Kerry surname Cullinane. While that, too, has its spelling pitfalls, chances are much better that the most egregious of indexing errors there would be the dropping of the final "e" or the misreading of that first "u."

Even so, I've taken to reading all three, five, or more pages of search results, as well, hovering over each choice to allow the rest of the entry to pop up for review. Any misreading which seems likely to correctly be rendered with the surnames I'm seeking gets a second glance. It's worth the effort, judging by the number of records I'm finally finding.

Once those records are located, on to the next step: looking for the telltale baptismal sponsors who, remember, should be either siblings or in-laws of the parents in those old Irish Catholic records. That is the point at which we can build a hypothetical family tree for the parents and associated family members—more than we've been able to do so far with the limited records we've already found.

So . . . Who Is E.T.?

Okay, I'll spare you the suspense. I'll tell you the answer up front: I don't have the slightest idea. Other than one brief mention of the daughter of James Tucker as Mrs. E. T. Lilly in the 1962 death notice of her father in Portland, I've failed to pull up any mention of a man with those initials and surname. Ditto for the daughter's alternate identity as Mrs. Jan Lilly of Portland in her mother's 1966 obituary. Perhaps that photograph of a young James Andrew Tucker may have to languish in my office for a while longer.

Not that there weren't Lilly family members in the Portland area. I did pull up a few other mentions of earlier obituaries for people with that same surname. None of them, however, included a Lilly descendant with a name which could be reduced down to those initials. Nor were there any mentions of a Lilly by the name of Norma—just in case that given name came out of hiding for some official records.

As it appears that James and Edith Tucker had no other children, the search for a connection with Tucker descendants will have to occur through another branch of that family. Fortunately, I was able to follow the winding path from one of James Tucker's siblings, down through the generations to a descendant who died only a few years ago. Thankfully, his obituary is accessible, and the path through this line of the Tucker family leads us once again to California—this time, to a spot in the northern portion of this state which boasts an active genealogical society with which I've been privileged to have some connections.

Wonder if it's time to call in some family history favors. Perhaps someone in that town knows someone who knows someone who...

It worked for me once before. In the meantime, we'll take a look at that wandering line tomorrow. Never know when it will help to lay down some cousin bait in this waiting game.

Above: Excerpt from the U.S. Census for 1940, showing the Klamath County, Oregon, household of James Tucker. Note the descending stroke for the father's initial letter "J" and the difference between that and his daughter Norma's clearly delineated "I."  Image courtesy Ancestry.com.

No Hints from Heidelberg

If we can't figure out French handwriting, how about trying German?

I'm still determined to find a way to send home the hundred year old photograph of two adorable French Canadian children, but until I can figure out a way to tap into some local resources in Quebec, Canada, we'll have to set aside that mystery.

Meanwhile, there are more photographs to review from that shopping trip to the antique store in the hills of northern California.

True to form—Gold Rush country seems to yield such results—there were more than that one photograph with an inscription on the reverse in a foreign language. One photograph in particular was an item I couldn't resist buying. For one thing, the handwritten date revealed that was possibly the oldest picture I had found in the store. On the positive side, there were three lines of handwritten notes on the back of that photo. The down side was that I didn't attempt to read what the note said while I was still in the store.

Perhaps I should have tried that approach before buying the thing.

What I thought I was seeing was handwriting in German. After all, the photographer's imprint was from Heidelberg. Sounds pretty German to me. And the size of the picture's format seemed to fit with photographs produced during that time period. But I knew I wouldn't really be able to tell what the handwriting said until I got the thing home, scanned and enlarged it.

That done—months afterwards—I still can't read that handwriting. Perhaps that is owing to that little inconvenience of not knowing how to read German (or at least German script). What I can tell are the two dates—one being the year 1873 and the other a specific date in 1876.

While those three lines of handwriting don't seem to have provided the clues I was hoping for—a name would have been a nice touch—they do say something. And perhaps that something will be pertinent to our search. While I may not know much about the German language—and definitely not much about how it is written—perhaps someone here does.

So, to start with...anyone here know how to read German? Here's the note, as big as I can enlarge it while keeping it fairly legible.

Or maybe it isn't German, after all...

The Telltale T

No, T is not for Tax Time, though I can certainly understand such a guess on a day like today.

T, in this case, is for Thirza, and just as I was preparing to send Thirza's picture home to a Cole descendant, its intended recipient, Karen, sent me a little interesting clue.

Remember Thiega? That scrawled name with the spelling which caused me so much doubt? How's this for a possibility? Wouldn't you think this handwriting said "Aunt Thiega" instead of Thirza?

That happens to be Thirza Cole's signature on a letter to Karen's parents, back in the 1940s. You can see how a beleaguered researcher might feel confused.

But that's not the only thing about that handwriting sample. There was something else. Remember that much older photograph I stumbled upon, from that same expedition up to California Gold Country to rescue some more abandoned family photos? The one of the elderly couple, Grandfather and Grandmother Browne from Grand Rapids, Michigan? It didn't have Thirza's name on it—as had all the other photographs I found from her collection—but it did have one other detail.

See if this handwriting looks familiar to you.

Just in case you think that T might have been a fluke, here's another handwriting sample received by Thirza's nephew and niece—subsequently passed to their daughter, Karen.

In my opinion, the handwriting on the reverse of the Browne grandparents' photograph is that of someone in her later years, but no matter when it occurred, the curious flourish over the T in both the Thirza signatures and the T in Timothy remain consistent. Whether Timothy and Caroline were indeed the names of Thirza's paternal grandparents or simply the grandparents of whoever wrote the original entry remains to be uncovered by additional research. But it's an encouraging clue. One that couldn't possibly have been discovered without input from another genealogist intent on collecting everything available about her family history.

Now Indexing: Some Really Old Handwriting

I'm back at my monthly attempt to pay back the genealogical world for all the good it has done me over these decades of researching. The simplest yet most meaningful way I can show my appreciation for all those years of help freely given is to spend some time indexing more of those digitized records at FamilySearch.org. That way, maybe what I've helped get online will become the key to unlock a family history mystery for someone else.

I've been focusing on records from places where my family once lived. Selfish, I know, but I'd really like to find some more records about, say, our Tullys' immigration from Canada to Chicago. Lately, I've been indexing immigration and naturalization records for the state of Illinois. Who knows? Maybe one day, I'll index a record for one of our own ancestors.

This week's record batch was both easy and frustrating, all in one brief encounter. That the batch took such a short time to index would be reason enough not to complain—after all, I think it took first place for brevity. But it also had its down side: a pre-printed form for which only a few lines needed handwritten completion. The trouble was that whoever completed those few lines did so in an abysmal hand.

Perhaps it's not the clerk's fault entirely. This batch of records which was served up to me from the category, "U.S. Illinois Naturalization Records" just happened to be dated 1860. Being over one hundred and fifty years since the document was drawn up, some things have changed in the interim. Like handwriting styles.

Things to learn when tackling documents from other centuries (or other countries, as well): letters like m or n, for instance, look like u. Both d and b end in an upward flourish atop the stem. One thing that never seems to go out of style, though: some people have sloppy handwriting—was that an a or an o? And terrible spelling, which seems to vary with the mood, often on the very same page as yet another version.

Since the process for indexing is automated, by necessity the elements have to be formatted to include every possibility of field entries that might have been used over the years. Thus, for those relatively simple forms of the 1860s, there were only about three fields for which I could enter any information: basically the name and the year the document was processed. Depending on the instructions, for the other fields I had merely to keep track of the requirement to either hit tab to advance, or control-B.

At the close of the ten-item batch, I began feeling somewhat guilty for having blipped through my monthly obligations so easily. To make amends, I resolved to do another batch from the same record collection.

I jumped back in, right away. My thinking was, if I could get another set of these easy records, I could slam dunk three or four of the like in about the same time it usually takes me to struggle over the more representative collections. No such luck, though, for the next set—still, unfortunately, written in a near-illegible hand—was dated from 1910 through 1914.

What I loved about this set of naturalization records was that as devoid of information as the previous set was, this one provided information overload. Those forms that furnished the answer to how many children were included in the family gave details of names and dates of birth which, unfortunately, weren't captured in the indexing process in any way whatsoever. This is one reason, during the classes I teach, that I urge students to always look at the document itself, and not just rely on a transcription. What precious details might go missing, simply for want of the patience to take a look at the form itself.

All told, this batch took much longer than I had anticipated, but it was handily balanced out by the relative speed at which I was able to tackle the original batch. You never know what will be served up during an indexing session, even after having selected the collection you prefer. Things have changed so much over the years in standardized governmental records.

And even in handwriting styles.