Best way to capture hard-copy citations

I found a fun video from Family History Fanatics listing seven common genealogy mistakes. I’ve made every single one of these mistakes, and have developed some guidelines for avoiding them.

The fifth one was not citing sources, which refers to writing down a fact you discovered in a non-digital source but forgetting to write down where you found it.

I’ve done that. Drove me nuts when I wanted to go back to confirm some tidbit. My solution to this is sitting in my pocket, combined with two free apps, Office Lens and OneNote.

When you find a source, pull out your phone and take a photo. And don’t just take a picture of the page with the fact, take a picture of the container, too. For a book, the title page at the front is perfect. For a microfilm, if the machine can’t take images, just take a picture of the box before you start taking snaps of the screen. If the machine can scan images, name the file with the FHL film number, or something similar.

Pretty quickly, though, you’ll run into issues managing all those images. I ran into this app called Office Lens, available for iOS, Android & Windows. Full disclosure, I worked on the Office team at one point. Anyway, it’s a really simple premise: take a series of related photo with Office Lens, and the images are transferred to a page in OneNote.

Let me show you how it works. I’ve got this genealogy of Mayflower families. First, I take a picture of the title page. Then I add another image of the page I care about—I think you can take up to ten before you need to save. Then I save the images to OneNote and put in a quick title.

When I go to OneNote, all the images are there on one page. Even better, OneNote uses optical character recognition, so you can search through the text from your images.

It’s so much faster than what I used to do: typing in a citation and the information I wanted.

OneNote is also a big plus for capturing sources from websites. When you go to the Insert section of the ribbon and choose screen clipping, OneNote will not only copy your selection from the computer screen, but it will get the hyperlink from the browser as well, so you can go back to find that anytime.

Understanding German names in genealogy: they’re not the same as English names

If you have any ethnic German ancestors, you may wonder why so many of them are named Johann or Johanna. Or perhaps you have a pair of records that you’re convinced are for the same person, except that one is for Johann Peter Wagner, the other Hanes Peter Wagner.

Ethnic Germans had different cultural conventions for naming than the naming traditions we mostly follow in the U.S. today. I’ll highlight some of the common ethnic German naming conventions that can be confusing today.

  1. People were typically known by their middle name, not their first name.
  2. The names Johann and Johanna had multiple forms used interchangeably in documents.
  3. The letters “in” might be added to the end of women’s surnames.
  4. If a child died, parents might give a newborn the same name.

First, in German tradition, people were typically called by their second name, called a rufnamen or common name. Their first name was typically a saint’s name and was rarely used outside ecclesiastical records.

Johann Peter Wagner, for example, would have been called Peter, not Johann, in eighteenth century Baden-Württemberg or Pennsylvania. Johann Sebastian Bach would’ve been called Sebastian.

It’s not a hard-fast rule, though. For the most common names, such as Johann, Johanna & Maria, you can safely bet the middle name is the important one. For rarer names, such Philip Daniel or Ernst Bernhard, the rufnamen may have been the first name. If you’re lucky, the rufnamen will actually be underlined in the original text.

Things also get confusing in the U.S. As families anglicized, you’ll encounter a generation where the first name became the rufnamen, and that kid baptized Johannes Peter was actually called John not Peter.

Second: Johanna and Johann. These were the two most common saint’s names, and because they’re so common, they ended up with multiple forms.

Johanna and Anna, for example, are interchangeable. If you see two records that seem perfect matches except that one says Johanna, the other Anna, don’t worry about it. They’re the same name.

The same goes for the many variants of Johann, including Johannes, Hanes, & Hans.

Put all of this together, and you can understand how a child born in 1874 to German immigrants and baptized Johann Peter Wagner ended up with the name Honus Wagner on his plaque at baseball’s hall of fame.

Third, when you’re looking at ethnic German parish records, you may see a woman whose surname ends with the letters “in” such as Wagnerin or Muellerin. The “in” is a grammatical construct, it’s actually not part of her surname. Skip the “in” and just record Wagner or Mueller.

Finally, you may encounter baptismal records for more than one child with the same name. For example, in my tree, I have two Johann Jacob Schlauches born to Ernst Bernhard Schlauch and A. Elizabeth Frick, one in 1715, the other in 1717. This means that the child born in 1715 died before the birth of the second, and they were re-using the name. This practice was very common, even though it might seem tasteless today.

Jumping to conclusions in genealogy

I found a fun video from Family History Fanatics listing seven common genealogy mistakes. I’ve made every single one of these mistakes. The second common mistake in that video is jumping to conclusions.

There are lots of ways to look at this, but to me, it’s about performing a reasonably exhaustive search, and resolving conflicting or contradictory evidence. At the end, I should have a sound, coherent and reasonable conclusion.

My biggest mistake on this front was Willard George Harding. I was tracing my wife’s family back and encountered a brick wall with this gentleman in Washington state. He was born in 1868 in Maine according to several different census records, including the 1887 and 1889 Washington Territorial census where the 20-plus-year-old appeared alone in Skagit County, with no other Hardings or obvious family in sight. I had no death certificate, so I didn’t have any leads on his parents.

With a name, a year and a place, I started looking for Will Hardings in the 1870 and 1880 census in Maine. I needed to eliminate contradictory evidence, so I tried to guarantee that I didn’t find someone who showed up in Maine when Willard was in Washington state, or who had died. There were several, but most of them were obviously different people than Willard.

The twelve-year-old Willie Harding living in Cumberland, Maine in 1880 fit well, though—I couldn’t find any record of him after 1880, and he was about the right age, twelve, rather than the thirteen I was looking for. In fact, considering the Washington Willard was born in July, and the 1880 census recorded in June, I could even argue the two were the same age. Woot!

I then kept building my family tree, going back all the way to the Mayflower, finding along the way all sorts of great stories, such as a Salem, Mass. many-greats grandmother executed for witchcraft, and a many-greats grandfather who murdered his wife because she didn’t keep the house clean enough.

But… was my story about Willard coherent and reasonable? No. While it was possible for a young man to make the journey across the plains alone, it was truly extraordinary for the time for someone to emigrate without family and friends either with them, or at their destination. I also hadn’t resolved two pieces of conflicting evidence: in the 1900 census, Willard reported that his parents were born in Canada, but in the 1880 census, Willie Harding’s parents reported that they were born in Maine.

The root of my mistake was that I had I failed to perform a reasonably exhaustive search for people with the same name and age. My census search was limited to Maine. Once I expanded my search to include Canada, Massachusetts, New Hampshire & Vermont, I found an 1881 census record for a Willard Harding of exactly the right age and place of birth living in Canada with the Flagg family.

And there were plenty of Flaggs recorded in the Washington census right next to Willard, including an Augusta Flagg. Her 1877 Grand Manan marriage record to Allen Flagg revealed her maiden name as Harding, and she turned out to be Willard’s mother, who descended from a line of New York loyalists who moved to St. John, Canada after the Revolution.

Willard hadn’t made the trip across the plains alone. He traveled from Canada to Washington, not only with his mother, but with his step-father and huge extended step family.

Onomastics: How baby names can help break through genealogical brick walls

Onomastics or cultural naming conventions can yield genealogical clues that may lead you to previous generations.

My first examples come from David Hackett Fischer’s Albion’s Seed, which is a long, dense but surprisingly accessible book on Colonial American cultural traditions.

The most useful naming convention from a genealogically perspective is the colonial Virginian custom of using a mother’s maiden name as a forename for sons—for example, the son of Joseph Chew and Ruth Larkin was named Larkin Chew. Anytime you see an odd forename in Virginia, look for people from the same place with that odd forename as a surname, and you may very well get closer to the maternal line.
Virginians also typically named their first-born son after their paternal grandfather, and the second-born son after the father. In some families, you’ll see that pattern repeated for generations.

Scotch-Irish tended to follow the same pattern, naming the first-born son after the paternal grandfather, and the second- or third-born son after the father. The preferred different names than Virginians, but the pattern was the same.

Quakers followed the pattern of “honoring the mother’s father and the father’s mother” by naming the first-born daughter and son after those individuals. While it wasn’t a 100% thing, if you know you’re looking at the eldest son and have a maiden name for the mother, you probably know the maternal grandfather’s name.

New England Puritans don’t have as helpful patterns, however. They often named the first-born son after his father, and the first-born daughter after her mother. If you’ve figure out birth order, you’ve probably already worked out who the parents were.

Puritans embraced necronyms or naming a newborn after a deceased sibling. Fischer notes that 80% of the time a child died, the next child born of the same sex was given the name of the deceased child. That won’t help you break through brick walls, but it will help you avoid the mistake of thinking you have two families with identically named kids born in different years.

Puritans also had the singular practice of closing their eyes, pointing to a page in the bible, and naming their child after that word. That’s why you’ll see names such as Thankful, Wrestling and Notwithstanding. The best of these is Fly’s Fornication. Poor woman.

Moving to the Catholic tradition, there are two important naming conventions. The first is that of naming a child based on the Saint’s day the child was baptized or born on. This generally isn’t very useful genealogically, as there are multiple calendars of Saint’s Days, and many of the saints had similar names.

The second is naming a child after a godparent, and this also applies to Lutherans and other sects that follow this tradition. The naming by itself isn’t particularly important, but the godparent is. Being a godparent was not a casual matter: that person was supposed to take an important role in the child’s life, especially their spiritual life, so godparents were almost always close friends or family members. That means you should always take a close look at the sponsors on a baptismal record for potential family members.

Expecting precision with dates – Common genealogy mistakes

I found a fun video from Family History Fanatics listing seven common genealogy mistakes. I’ve made every single one of these mistakes and have some guidelines for avoiding them.

In this video, I’ll cover the second error, expecting dates to be exact. They’re not, though, and I see four different types here:

  1. Calculations based on age made by modern transcribers.
  2. People not knowing a date, or just making a best guess.
  3. Flat out lying about your age.
  4. Contemporary… imprecision or flexibility, for lack of a better word.

For the first, lots of genealogy websites try to make your life easier by taking numerical ages on records on subtracting the year of the record to give you a birth year. I definitely find it helpful—I’m much better at math with variables and ranges than I am with doing subtraction in my head.

This matters because the calculations can be a year or so off. For example, the 1860 census was taken over a five-month period in the latter half of the year, so a 27-year-old with a birthday in December would have been born in 1832, while a twenty-seven-year-old born in May would have been born in 1833.

One of my core principles in genealogy research is to read everything, and that means examining the original, which will tell you clearly if a year was actually recorded, or if it was just calculated by the transcriber.

For the second, look at my second great-grandmother, Mary Shiel Gallagher. I know the story of her life from family oral history. She was born near Swinford, Ireland, spent some time in Worcestershire, England, and then immigrated to Philadelphia. Without that story, though, I’d have real trouble tracing her using birth years, with different records suggesting she was born 1844, 1849, 1851 and 1857. I don’t think Mary even knew what year she was born.

For the third, people probably started lying about their age the moment we started recording birth years. Maybe a woman wants to marry a younger man, but that’s not culturally acceptable. So… she says she’s the same age. Maybe a boy gets caught up in a patriotic fervor and tells a military recruiter he’s two years older than he really is so he can join the army. Anyway, I’ve got a whole video dedicated to this one—you can access it via the card up above.

The last one is the probably the most difficult to understand for us today: I mean, I know the birth years for everyone in my family (and my wife’s family), and from that I can get marriage years pretty much right on. But… precise dates are part of our culture. Go back 150 years, did it really matter if you told a census taker the right age for everyone in your family? Not really.
The only times your age really mattered were for minors trying to marry, inherit or enter into a contract.

Your ancestors lied about their age

People lie about their age. When I turned twenty-eight eleventy decades ago, I decided that was a good age, and stuck with it until I was in my mid-thirties. Kids say they’re older so they can use online services such as Facebook. Adults claim they are younger for fear of ageism in the workplace.

And people have been lying about their age for centuries for a variety of reasons. That means you’ll encounter it when researching your own ancestry. So what do you do when you find records where someone’s year of birth is off? In this five-minute genealogy video, I’ll share the questions I ask when I see discrepancies in birth year on different records, and share a couple illustrative examples.

  1. How likely was it that the person reporting the information knew the facts?
  2. How carefully have I checked for another person with the same name?
  3. Do other facts support the relationship?
  4. Is there a reasonable story for the discrepancy?

I was reminded of this recently, when I broke through a brick wall with my wife’s Palatine ancestors in Pennsylvania. The wall I had broken through was Philip’s line, finding birth records for both his parents and his older siblings in the village of Neckarbischofsheim in the Palatinate.

I knew that immigration from that part of Germany at that time wasn’t just families. Portions of entire villages packed up and moved to Pennsylvania over the course of a few years, and I wondered if Jacobina could be from Neckarbischofsheim as well.
I had an 1804 church death record for Philip’s wife, Jacobina Heyl nee Zeigler, that recorded her date of birth as 1 Jun 1740. Searching for Jacobina Ziegler in the same village, turned up a baptismal record with a birthdate of 1 June 1736.
Same village as Philip Heyl, some date of birth, just four years earlier. This had to be the woman who married Philip Heyl in Philadelphia.

Back to my four questions. First, check the person reporting the information. Unfortunately, I can’t know whether the person who reported Jacobina’s death knew what they were talking about.

Second, check for similar names. I searched for birth records for women with the same name between 1730 and 1750, and found three born in September 1740, October 1741, and November 1742. But the mismatch in months didn’t feel compelling.
Third, I looked for supporting evidence the family immigrated to Pennsylvania, and found that a man with the same name as Jacobina Ziegler’s father arrived in Philly in 1751. I would have liked a little more, but its not bad.

Fourth, was the story reasonable? I think so. I have seven different primary sources showing Philip was born in 1738 or 1739, and a reliable secondary source reporting his birth on 15 September 1739. If Jacobina were born in 1736, she would be over three years older than her husband, but if she said she was born in 1740, she would be nine months younger. Even in today’s culture, it’s more common for women to marry older men. In 1740?

As another example, my second great-grandmother, Mary Shiel Gallagher, was sort of the reverse of Jacobina Ziegler. I know the story of her life from her daughter via my uncle—she was born near Swinford, Ireland, spent some time in Worcestershire, England, and then immigrated to Philadelphia. I have no idea when she was born, with different records suggestion 1844, 1849, 1851 and 1857.

Her husband wasn’t much better, with census and immigration records suggesting 1847, while his death certificate suggested 1855.

My conclusion stops with my first question: I don’t think anyone, including Mary, knew exactly when she was born.
With Jacobina Ziegler, I could use a convincing narrative about her birthdate to associate two records with different birth dates. For Mary Shiel, I have to rely on other methods—namely, oral history and her father’s name—to tie records together. The inconsistent birth years are only helpful as supporting evidence.

Married vs. Maiden Names

I found a fun video from Family History Fanatics listing seven common genealogy mistakes. I’ve made every single one of these mistakes. Except maybe this one. Or, rather, I’ve seen this advice many times, and I made a conscious choice not to follow it.
The consensus seems to be you shouldn’t put a woman’s married name in the “surname” field in your tree.

There’s a solid point here: it’s extremely rare for a woman’s maiden name to be the same as her husband’s, so putting it there may get you poor search results. It can even lead to poor assumptions.

Here’s an example I discovered: a commonly accepted genealogy of the Chew family shows that a pair of brothers, Thomas and Joseph Chew, were born to Anna Mariah and Andrew Chew. It’s all based on 1850 and 1860 census records, where Anna Mariah is living with her widowed daughter in law, Amelia, Joseph Chew’s wife. Every tree out there has Amelia’s surname recorded as Chew. Including mine.

But my tree is different from everyone else’s, because I found Joseph and Amelia’s marriage record, which listed Amelia’s maiden name as Chew. Which means than Anna Mariah may have been Amelia’s biological mother, rather than her mother-in-law.
If you follow the practice of putting married names as a woman’s maiden name, you might miss important details like this.

But if you leave that surname field blank, you’ll have another problem: lots of women with the same first name and no other obvious identifier. That’s a problem when you try to add a source & fact—you might have a dozen Elizabeths, and you can’t recall her years of birth and death off the top of your head. I mean, I have over 150 Elizabeths in my tree.

What I do when I don’t know a woman’s maiden name is put her married name in parentheses, and add “nee ?” in the suffix field. It makes her easier to find, since I at least have a surname. And in case someone else doesn’t understand my parenthetical notation, the “nee ?” should make it more obvious. I’ve seen other people put a Mrs. in the suffix field as well.

Still, I’m sorta baffled why one of the family research companies hasn’t added a feature to handle this declaratively. Give me a check mark that indicates I don’t know a woman’s maiden name. When that’s set to true (which would be the default), the surname column is disabled in the UI, and there’s an indicator (e.g. nee unknown) in search results and the like. It wouldn’t be that hard to retroactively assign the value: if the woman’s surname name doesn’t equal her husband’s surname (trimming whitespace, ignoring case, and normalizing rare characters such as vowels with umlauts), set it to “known”, otherwise “unknown.” But you could have a tri-state as well, with a null or grayed out checkbox reflecting legacy values.

Relying on other peoples’ family trees

I found a fun video from Family History Fanatics listing seven common genealogy mistakes. I’ve made every single one of these mistakes, and developed some guidelines for avoiding them.

The third mistake is relying on other people’s trees, and here are my principles for how I make use of other trees on ancestry.com, familysearch.org, etc.

I group all genealogical sources into three types: Primary, Secondary and Tertiary. Primary source documents are created contemporaneously with a given event.

Secondary source documents are detailed analyses written after the event—sometimes centuries after—and are based on explicitly cited primary source documents.

Tertiary sources are summaries of family research without supporting citations.

Family trees on the web could be either secondary or tertiary sources, but you should handle them exactly the same way:

  • Don’t cite other trees, use them as roadmaps to do your own research.
  • When choosing a roadmap, look for ancestor profiles with unique contributions and high fact counts.
  • Be careful who you trust: a high-quality researcher may not have high quality research throughout their tree.
  • A DNA match doesn’t prove your paper trail.

First, the person who created the tree had good intentions. They’re not lying, they’re not fabricating facts out of thin air. They want to get this right. But they’re human, and they make honest mistakes. One confusing record could have led them to jump to conclusions, and the end result is an erroneous tree. Point is, examine their research, use it as a roadmap. If they did it right, you can speed up your work substantially. And if they made a mistake, maybe you can catch it.

Second, you’ll probably find a bunch of profiles for your ancestor. Most of them will be nearly identical, because people often just copy from other trees and move on. So just pick one tree profile as a roadmap. I prefer profiles that have high source count, assuming they are primary sources. If I see lots of millennium file and American genealogical biographical index records, I move on. If I see the genealogist added scanned images of probate files or other primary source documents, that makes me feel I’ve got a solid roadmap.

Third, once you’ve dug into your own tree pretty deeply, you’ll find other researchers who consistently land quality work. Michelle Fury and Dan Perry are my favorites for my mother’s family, and I hope others have come to rely on my research into the Slough family in the 1700s and 1800s. Thing is, I know that my quality research only applies to specific people and lines in my tree. Other parts of my tree? Not so much. Lots of fact copying with little more than census records and find-a-grave sources. Point is, even when you trust the researcher, you should examine their work on each profile.

Final point, I see a lot of people claim that their written-record-based genealogy is “confirmed by DNA” when they get a DNA match to someone else with the same written-record-based genealogy. But you could both have the exact same error in your trees.

For example, I have this one family in my wife’s tree that sprouted from a single guy in Jamestown, John Chew. Everyone has a record-based lineage that connects my wife’s tree to John’s youngest son, but… the DNA matches before a particular generation (about 1800) were all to people descending from the eldest son. Turns out the record-based lineage might be wrong because in 1820, my wife’s fifth great uncle, Joseph Chew married a woman named Emily Chew, and the record-based lineage was completely dependent on the assumption that Emily’s maiden name was not Chew at all. Whoa.

You could also have a false positive—whether it’s via a genetically isolated community sharing common indicators, or just by chance.  And… let’s get real, hanky-panky wasn’t invented in the past one hundred years. People have been sleeping around since before some human came up with the idea of marriage. I keep looking at my wife’s paternal DNA matches, and can’t find a single tree/DNA match past her third great-grandfather.  DNA matches are not infallible evidence of a paper-and-pencil lineage.

Semi-famous ancestors: be suspicious!

I found a fun video from Family History Fanatics listing seven common genealogy mistakes. I’ve made every single one of these mistakes and have developed some guidelines for avoiding them.

The final mistake in that video was about assuming a connection to famous people based on a common surname. You definitely shouldn’t try to make a connection to a famous person, or any person for that matter, by trying to bridge a gap between them—you’ll find a way to overlook contrary evidence.

But there’s another potential pitfall here: semi-famous people in history—that is, b-list people who generally aren’t named in history books but who associated with influential people—can exert a sort of gravitational pull, drawing you into a mistake just because there are soooooo many records.

The point is, be suspicious anytime you see a flood of information about a famous or even semi-famous person who appears organically through your research. You might be related, but your true relative might also be concealed by that flood of data. Let me give you an example: Jacob Slough of Pennsylvania. His father, Matthias Slough, was a b-list figure in the Revolution. He corresponded with George Washington, hosted a lot of Pennsylvania’s leadership at his tavern in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and held a few minor public offices in the colony.

Matthias used his connections to advance the interests of his children, acquiring land in Pennsylvania’s backcountry for his sons, and helping Jacob get a commission as an Army Lieutenant. Jacob served in the Northwest Indian War and was injured in combat at the Battle of Fallen Timbers in 1794, so he created quite a paper trail all on his own.

The challenge for genealogists is that we work backward. Let’s say you have an ancestor named William Slough and family oral history tells that his father was named Jacob.

When you start looking in Pennsylvania, you find a lot of records for Matthias’s son, Jacob Slough. I have twenty-two facts from Ancestry.com indices on his profile and I added five more from external sources along with thirty-five images. He and his brother George appeared in so many land records that I even stopped taking notes.

Even if I think that my William’s father is a different Jacob Slough—and there were twenty Pennsylvanians with that name living in Pennsylvania before 1800—Matthias’s son appears so frequently in indexed searches, it’s hard to see anyone else. It’s not like I and many others went looking to connect ourselves to someone famous. We just get pulled in by the subtle, inexorable gravitational force of all those records. Jacob had the added difficulty of not having any children with his wife. That made him a blank slate, especially since baptismal records for the early 1800s are not that easy to find. So as long as I don’t find evidence that Jacob had a son named William who was obviously a different William than mine, it was just too easy to say my William is Jacob’s son.

Be suspicious!

Using newspapers for genealogy

The United States used to be a country of newspapers. Just about every town had one, and they all made money, not only by selling newspapers, but by selling advertising. In fact, some newspapers only made money by selling advertising, distributing copies for free.
Advertising didn’t just mean ads for businesses: People paid money to announce births, marriages, deaths, and sometimes even the comings and goings of their family. To find those, you’re going to need a good idea of dates, the name of the town, a healthy dose of patience, and a little luck.

I’m Mike O’Neill, and in this video, I’m going to cover how to search for newspaper items of genealogical value in just five minutes.
If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to find what you need on one of the big websites that index and image old papers: I prefer GenealogyBank.com, but Newspapers.com is good as well. And that’s where you should start, of course.

But the numbers aren’t good. Newspapers.com touts more than 7,400 newspapers, but there are over 19k towns & cities in the U.S., and another 15k unincorporated communities. You can bet most of those towns had at least one newspaper at some point.

Just consider my hometown, Princeton, which has two newspapers today: the Town Topics & The Princeton Packet. Then there are two small regional papers, the Trenton Times and the Trentonian, which cover the Trenton metro area, which includes Princeton. I could go even further: when I worked on a congressional campaign for New Jersey’s 12th district, we followed a dozen newspapers which covered central New Jersey news, including dailies from Philadelphia and New York City.

Finding the little paper that covered your ancestor’s town may take some work, so you should be willing to

  1. call up existing papers and local libraries to find out where microfilms are kept.
  2. use inter-library loans to get microfilms, &
  3. work with small volunteer historical societies that made the effort to preserve their local paper.

Let’s take an example from my own research: finding a 1929 obituary from Crofton, Nebraska—current population 726. I had no luck with newspapers.com or genealogybank.com, so I searched the web, and discovered the Crofton Journal. I rang them up (it took a few calls) and was told that the paper was in business back in 1929. They suggested the local library. I called them, and they let me know that the Nebraska State Historical Society was my best bet. And they were: I got the obituary I was looking for.

I’ve since learned that Family Search’s Research Wiki is a good resource for identifying repositories and records for a given location. In the case of Crofton, the wiki points right to the Nebraska State Historical Society.

You should also take a swing at worldcat.org once you know the name of the paper you want. Worldcat combines thousands of library catalogs into one database. In some cases, the publication you’ll want only exists on microfilm. Take the information you found on worldcat to your local library, and ask them to obtain the microfilm via interlibrary loan.