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A Tech Lesson Learned The Hard Way

Oh, technology. You love it when it works and you despise it when it fails.

I recently had a failure that stopped me cold, even though I was absolutely certain I had done everything right. I’m sharing what happened so you can avoid making the same mistake.

My number one rule has always been to back up. And I do. Religiously. But sometimes, even that isn’t enough.

I was working on Volume 5 of Echoes of Britannia when I realized it had grown too large and really needed to be split. I saved Volume 5, made a copy on my desktop, and renamed that copy Volume 6. Then I opened Volume 5, deleted the material that would live in Volume 6, saved, and closed it. Next, I opened Volume 6, deleted the material that belonged in Volume 5, saved, and closed that file as well.

That evening, I saved both files to Dropbox and to a standalone external hard drive.

All seemed right with the world. Sure.

Three weeks later, while working on Volume 8, I became confused about a pedigree and reopened Volume 6 to double-check a spouse. That’s when I noticed something was wrong. The footnote I was looking for was gone. In fact, nearly three-quarters of the footnotes in Volume 6 were missing.

I refused to panic. Surely it was just the way Word had loaded the document. I closed it without saving and reopened it.

Nope. Still gone.

No worries, I told myself. I’ll just open the Dropbox version.

The footnotes were gone there, too.

That actually made sense, every night I saved over the same files. But Dropbox keeps deleted versions for thirty days, right? Except…there was nothing to restore. Why? Because I hadn’t deleted the file. I had saved over it using the same filename. The old version was overwritten, not archived.

At this point, panic started to creep in but I reminded myself I also saved everything to a standalone hard drive. Surely that would save me.

It didn’t.

About a week and a half earlier, I had uploaded the entire folder to the drive, overwriting those files as well.

Now I was panicking and I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly. So I did the sensible thing: I turned to Geni, my trusty ChatGPT research assistant.

After I explained the situation, he calmly told me the truth: there was no way to recover what was lost.

Then, cheerfully, he added that it wasn’t so bad. I’d written it once, so I could write it again.

OMG. No. That was the last thing I wanted to hear.

Let’s just say you were lucky you weren’t at my house at that moment. I railed against the universe. How dare this happen when I had been so careful, so diligent, so responsible?

And then, right in the middle of that fury, it hit me.

Geni might have the footnotes.

Here’s something I didn’t fully appreciate until that moment: he did. Almost all of them.

As I wrote these volumes, I frequently turned to Geni with a skeleton narrative and uploaded my research finds. My prompt was always the same: “Write a short, tight, engaging narrative with Chicago-style footnotes from the information I provide, with no subheadings or conclusions.”

Using the chat search feature, I was able to locate most of those narratives. Rebuilding the footnotes wasn’t instant but it was possible. It took three full days to reattach everything, but that was infinitely better than starting from scratch.

Eight narratives were missing footnotes. Geni explained that saved chats can sometimes be lost during system upgrades, which may account for those gaps. He also gently pointed out something else I shouldn’t be doing: I tend to write very long chats. The longer the chat, the more likely parts of it may become difficult to retrieve later.

Lesson learned.

I now know that when I save files to Dropbox or to an external drive, I must rename them every time so they don’t overwrite earlier versions. Backups only work if the history survives.

AI has been a wonderful partner in my genealogy work over the past two years, but it never occurred to me that it might become the one place where my work still existed when everything else failed.

Add this to the list of reasons why I love AI.

Smart Roots: Hands-On AI for Family Historians

I’m pleased to share that I’ll be presenting a workshop at the National Genealogical Society Conference: WS01 Starting Smart with AI: Hands-On Tools for Family Historians, and I’d love for you to join me.

This session is designed to be practical and immediately useful, focusing on real examples, hands-on tools, and strategies that help family historians integrate AI thoughtfully into their research and workflow. Whether you’re just getting started or looking to refine how you use these tools, you’ll leave with ideas you can put into practice right away.

If you’re interested in attending, you can register using my personal referral link and code below:

🔗 https://whova.com/portal/registration/LEUZPBaoRt-vaFngte8X/?refer_code=plqof
🎟️ Referral Code: plqof

I hope to see some familiar faces in Fort Wayne, Indiana on 26 May, 9:00 AM–12:00 PM. Feel free to share this with colleagues or anyone interested in genealogy, research methodology, or practical AI applications.

When Silence Answers the Question

There was a recent public discussion about artificial intelligence and genealogy that left me thinking, not emotionally, but analytically, about where our field is right now.

What struck me most was not what was said, but what wasn’t.

Several audience questions centered on whether AI should be used at all, or when AI might someday be capable of returning source citations. Those questions are revealing. They suggest a community still waiting for permission, still assuming capability lies in the future, and still being told to fear a tool that many genealogists are already using responsibly and effectively.

More concerning, however, were moments when concrete ethical scenarios were raised and no clear ethical line was drawn. When real examples involve other people’s data, living individuals, or derivative work, “it depends” is not guidance. It’s abdication.

Genealogy does not function well on ambiguity alone. Our work affects real families, real identities, and real relationships. Ethical frameworks only matter if they are applied when it’s uncomfortable to do so.

Silence is data.
So are the questions we choose to answer and the ones we avoid.

What this discussion confirmed for me is something I’ve been observing for months: much of the leadership around AI in genealogy is stalled. Not because the technology is unknowable, but because decision-making feels risky. Talking is safer than teaching. Warnings are safer than methods.

The work, however, is already happening, quietly, responsibly, and outside the spotlight.

And that’s where I’ll continue to focus my energy.

Part 5: Postmarked in Purgatory: The Mail That Might Never Arrive

Possible Post Office Locations in Downtown Indianapolis

This is the last in a series on my adventures obtaining family records for dual citizenship. You can read early posts here, here, here, and here.

We had tried to get family documents from Illinois and Indiana in person and used email to obtain records from Florida and Arizona. Unbelievably, the online records had already been mailed to me while I tried to obtain the in person ones. Why? Because some states are more efficient then others. Illinois & Indiana, not so much.

We decided to drive two hours south east to acquire my father’s birth record in Mercer County, Ohio. The clerk was warm and welcoming which was such a change from our experiences elsewhere. A problem surfaced quickly; the record for my dad in their computer claimed he had been born in 1939. Umm, no, he would have been the youngest enlistee in World War II if that was the case. I had a copy of the birth and death certificate which I shared with the clerk. She couldn’t print a certified copy because whoever had input the information into the computer had made a typo. She went to search for a hard copy and found it. It was dated 1939. I believe what happened is that my father went to the office to obtain a certified copy so he could get his Social Security card. The clerk handwrote a new one and when my father looked at it he likely informed the clerk she had added the wrong year for his birth. I suspect she gave him a corrected replacement but kept the error record in the files. So, whoever input the info wasn’t at fault.

It took over an hour and three transferred phone calls to Columbus for someone with tech knowledge to inform the clerk how to issue the birth certificate with the correct date. Meanwhile, others were arriving for records and I was surprised to learn that another person was also seeking dual citizenship.

With record finally in hand we decided to make an attempt to drop off the death records request that Gary refused to accept earlier in the week. So, it was back home again in Indiana. Sigh.

There’s no walk-in service at the Indiana State Department of Health in Indianapolis, and I knew that. What the website didn’t say was that you also can’t drop anything off. Still, I figured it was worth a try.

Two and a half hours later, we pulled into the very last spot on the sixth floor of a parking garage. $35 an hour. But hey, it was next to the elevator. Life was looking good.

Until it wasn’t.

Disappearing Buildings and Imaginary Signs

We couldn’t find the building. The address led us to a large office labeled Bank of America but surprise! It was actually the Department of Health.

Only in Indiana could a government agency masquerade as a bank to “save taxpayers money.” And if I were to complain to a legislator? I can already hear the syrupy voice:
“Now ma’am, we did you a big, beautiful favor by saving that signage cost, see?” (They always say “see.”)

There were no address numbers on the building. We finally wandered into another bank across the street, where someone kindly told us where to go.

If I had known what was coming next, I would’ve turned around.

The Plexiglass Purge

Inside the “Bank of Not-America,” a lone woman sat behind a desk topped with plexiglass, an absurd formality, given that it was the only furniture in the entire room besides a circular couch off in the corner.

She did not smile.

“We can’t take that,” she said flatly after I told her I had completed requests for death certificates.

I asked why.

“We don’t offer customer service.”

Well, clearly, that must be the vital records motto throughout Indiana.

I explained I’d driven from the northeast corner of the state because Gary refused to issue the records and whenever I mailed requests, they disappeared into the void.

“We’re very backlogged.”

At that point, my husband, officially done, asked if he could sit down. She pointed silently to the one chair in what was once the vestibule.

I asked where the nearest post office was. My thought: if I mailed it from just a few blocks away, maybe they’d actually receive it. Silly me.

She offered to draw me a map. I handed her my notebook.

That’s when it got weird.

Enter: The Scowler

Out of nowhere, a man’s voice boomed behind me:
“What can I help you with?”

Startled, I turned to see a tall man with a very unfriendly expression and a gun. Yep, it was an officer of the law. I had no idea he was even in the room.

I answered, “There’s nothing you can help me with.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.

He started yelling, “Tone it down! Tone it down!”

I wasn’t raising my voice. I hadn’t even been speaking when began yelling. But suddenly I could see it all: me, tackled to the ground, handcuffed, arrested for attempting to find a post office to send for three death records that the department who issues them refused to take.

The woman at the desk piped up, “She’s a nice lady, she’s not a problem.”

He replied, “I’ll handle this.”

Handle what? Was he going to walk my envelopes to the post office for me? Hand-deliver them to the Department of Health? Please, don’t tease me.

He eventually got bored and retreated to the sofa, where another officer sat watching the show with amusement.

Yep, fun and games intimidating an old lady genealogist. Karma, baby. Let it be soon.

The Map of Madness

The woman finished her map and handed it to me proudly, saying, “I’m not much of an artist, but I think I did a good job.”

I looked at it: three horizontal lines, three vertical lines, a circle, and three X’s because she “wasn’t sure where the post office was.” Also, she misspelled Washington. It had taken her five full minutes to draw this.

I stared at the page, silently. She looked sad that I didn’t appreciate her work.

I asked if it was walkable, thinking I could leave the car parked. “If you’re good at walking,” she said.

Not knowing what that meant, I asked how far it was.

“Maybe five or more blocks.”

Sure. We’d drive.

She said she should probably give me the address as well, there was another post office nearby, but she wouldn’t send me there because “it wasn’t very good.”

(Pretty sure that’s the one where all my mail has vanished into the ether.)

She had to call someone else to find the name and address of the post office she’d just drawn a map for.

I left, sad for the state of public service and even sadder that this was the outcome of my tax dollars.

The Last Gasp

It was now pouring rain.

I parked in what was probably an employee lot behind the post office and left my husband in the car in case it needed to be moved.

Inside: long line. No one at the desk. Classic.

Thirty minutes later, I sent off two envelope, each with certified requests for death certificates, destined for a building two blocks away.

Only in America can it take three days to deliver a letter that far.

It was scheduled to arrive on Saturday when no one is there to sign for it. Of course.

So maybe Monday. Maybe never.

And when it inevitably goes missing? I planned to take my receipt to my local post office, and they’ll tell me I have to go back to Indianapolis to get a refund.

At this point, I’m starting to think dual citizenship was absolutely the right decision. Even with all the hassles. Even with the yelling. Even with that map.

Next week, to begin a new year, I’ll post a a look back at the favorite blog posts selected by readers for 2025. Stay Tuned.

Part 4: Helpful Hoosiers, Elusive Records, and One Good Clerk

This is a continuing series on my recent adventures to acquire documents for dual-citizenship. You can read earlier posts here – here – and here.

We were up bright and early on Wednesday, ready to track down a divorce record at the Porter County, Indiana courthouse before they even opened.

Here’s another tip for researchers working in Indiana: be prepared to feel like a threat. Most facilities are swarming with armed officers who clearly believe they’re guarding nuclear codes rather than 19th-century paperwork. And no, you can’t bring your cell phone in. Doesn’t matter if you need it to pay. Doesn’t matter if you’re old and holding a manila folder. It’s Wild West rules. Don’t bother asking for an exception. I warned you.

As expected, they couldn’t locate the record.

I thanked them for the stack they had mailed me two years ago, minus the final dissolution of marriage I actually needed certified. Last time, it took them three months to find anything, and they charged me $50.00, a dollar per page, even though they’d made five copies of the same ten pages. No, it wasn’t a juicy divorce. Just sloppy duplication.

This time, I showed them the exact document I needed. I was told I’d hear back once they found it.

Here we go again.

One Clerk, One Win

On to the Porter County Health Department, where I entered a bit too early for some folks’ comfort. While I stood silently at the counter, I overheard one clerk complaining about “letting people in before we open.” (Hi, yes. That would be me.)

Thankfully, another clerk came to the rescue. She was efficient, kind, and within five minutes, I had the certified record I needed.

I mentioned the nightmare from the day before in Gary, and she replied with a sigh: “I couldn’t even get my own birth certificate from them. I had to go through the state.”

So maybe I was lucky after all.

A Church with a Lock and a Secretary with a Key

We drove back to Lake County to revisit the church that had been closed the day before. Again, the door was locked and the secretary spoke to us through it. When I explained what I needed, she let us in and quickly found the baptism and marriage books.

She couldn’t locate the names but from across the desk, upside down, I spotted them and pointed them out. She allowed me to take a photo of the entries, but only after covering up the rest of the page. I didn’t bother mentioning that many dioceses have digitized records entirely, so full-page images are already online.

She couldn’t issue the certificates, though as there was no priest available, and wouldn’t be one “for a while.” The plan was to mail them when a priest showed up.

Which, given how things were going, might be never.

Cemetery Software and the Mystery of the Missing Priest

Next, we made a quick stop at the cemetery, where I hadn’t planned to clean any graves, but found myself wiping down markers anyway. I was there to get an updated cemetery record for the family plot. The version I had was from 2001, and a new family member had since been buried.

They had upgraded to new cemetery software. Unfortunately, no one knew how to print a basic update using it.

So one employee simply handwrote the new information and told me to submit it alongside the old printout. (Ah, technology!)

Déjà Vu with a Twist

While there, I got a call from Porter County. They told me to check my email to confirm they’d found the divorce record.

Cue near-heart attack.

I checked: no email. Nothing in spam. I called back, no voicemail. I called again. The clerk laughed and said, “Oh, I didn’t send it yet.”

I told her we were already on our way.

One Archivist’s Righteous Indignation

And then the Chicago Archdiocese archivist called.

She wanted me to know firmly that my grandparents had not married at St. Salomea’s and that she would not be refunding my money.

I hadn’t asked for a refund.

She was clearly annoyed that I had requested a church record despite already having a civil marriage certificate number. I explained that the county couldn’t find the record.

Her response? “They should find it.” Right – shoulda – woulda – coulda!

As if that’s something I can make happen.

She then turned her attention to the birth/baptism record copies I had submitted for reissuance. Because mine were in English and the parish books were in Latin, she couldn’t issue a new version.

I told her Latin was fine.

Next excuse: the form she uses doesn’t include the word “birth,” and my copy did. She couldn’t reissue it for that reason, either.

I simply said, “That’s okay. I’ll explain that policies have changed over time.”

She grumbled something about being unsure when she’d get around to it. I told her to mail it. We were already heading home.

Tally So Far?

Two days. Fourteen stops. Five records. Not great.

Part 3: The Gary Gauntlet and the Bureaucratic Brick Wall

Gary, Lake County, Indiana Index to Death Records, 1908-1920, Joseph Koss, digital database; Ancestry.com: accessed 30 July 2025, image 10 of 14.

This is a continuing series on my genealogical adventures in obtaining family records for a dual citizenship application. You can read my previous blogs here and here.

By early afternoon, I decided to head straight for Crown Point, the county seat of Lake County, Indiana. According to the website, the building that housed marriage and divorce records was located directly across the street from the one with birth and death records. Efficient, right? I actually thought to myself, “Wow, Lake County has it together!”

Think again, Lori.

Crown Point Confusion

Our GPS led us to… a juvenile detention facility. No address numbers anywhere. Hoping for better luck, we crossed the street to a large, official-looking government building and went inside.

That’s where I was able to obtain one record: a marriage certificate. After six hours of effort, that felt like winning the lottery. The staff promised to research the divorce record and contact me if, yes if, they found it.

Next stop: the County Health Department, which, according to an officer, was “the white building next to the juvenile facility.” Turns out the reason we hadn’t seen it was because it was set so far back off the road it might as well have been hiding.

My husband noted, “Hey, we got the first free parking space right in front of the door. That’s a good sign!”

Narrator: It was not a good sign.

Enter: The Wall of Gary

The moment we walked in, we were greeted by multiple signs declaring that the health department did not have records for Gary.

Wait, what? This is the Lake County Health Department, and they don’t have records from one of the cities in the county?

I double-checked the website later, no mention of this. I asked the clerk at the window where I could get Gary records. She looked at me like I had just uttered profanity in Latin. “At Gary’s Health Department,” she snapped.

“And where is that?” I asked.

Without a word, she pointed to a sign with an address on it, turned, and walked away.

Wow.

The Ethnic Club and the Mystery Man

My original plan had been to stop at two more locations that day, a local ethnic organization where my family had once been active, and the Diocese to pick up church records. But it was nearly closing time, and now I had three stops to make, clearly, that wasn’t happening.

We decided to do as much as we could, spend the night and continue the next day.

We started with the ethnic club, since it was close by. A car was parked out front, but the building doors were locked. I had tried to reach out to them previously with no success. No website. No returned Facebook messages. At this point, I figured I’d just mail them a query and hope for the best.

As we were pulling away, a man opened the front door. I jumped out. He wasn’t affiliated with the group but rented office space there. Still, he was helpful, gave me two phone numbers and admitted that the organization wasn’t exactly known for its communication skills. No kidding.

He also offered advice on dual citizenship. Turns out, he was trying to apply, too but his info was wrong. He’d tried to get his birth certificate through VitalChek. I’ve used them before. They happily took my money and never delivered a record. (Pro tip: if you use them, pay with a credit card that’ll support you when you dispute the charge.)

This man told me he had made 37 phone calls to try to track down his birth certificate because, brace yourself, Gary wouldn’t give it to him.

Why not?

“You’ll figure it out,” he said.

Oh boy. I could hardly wait.

A Warm Welcome in Gary

Next stop: the Diocese. They informed me the church records I needed had been transferred to another parish. I called. They had just closed, literally two minutes earlier.

So we decided to head straight to downtown Gary to try and retrieve the birth and death records I needed.

When we arrived, a shirtless man was being confronted by a police officer on the sidewalk. And in my head? Back Home Again in Indiana was playing. You can’t make this stuff up.

We parked quickly and headed inside the same building I had visited as a child to get my birth certificate before starting school. The elderly security guard greeted us warmly and directed us upstairs.

The First Hint of Hope

There were two employees at the counter, and one immediately asked what we needed. Miraculously, we received two birth certificates almost right away. After seven hours of driving, detours, and dead ends I finally had three documents in hand.

Then things went south. Fast.

The Death Certificate Debacle

I asked for three death certificates, dated 1919, 1966, and 1970. (See pic above) The woman behind the counter asked for the deceased individuals’ birth certificates.

I calmly explained: they were born in the 1800s, outside the U.S., and their countries didn’t issue birth certificates at that time.

Her response? “No birth certificate, no record.”

That is not Indiana law. That is a clerk making up her own rules and digging in.

I showed her original death records issued by that very office. She didn’t care. She asked for death certificates of their children which I provided. I also gave her birth and baptism records for one child.

Still no.

I tried to show her obituaries naming the parents and just for fun, me. Nope. She wasn’t having it.

Then she turned and walked away, loudly repeating, “Birth certificate, birth certificate, birth certificate” as if chanting it would magically make them appear.

We left empty-handed.

At this point, we checked into a hotel in nearby Porter County because I had one more shot at records the next day.

Spoiler: Things get weird. Again.

Dual Citizenship Part 2: Chicago Chaos

Cook County, Illinois Marriage Indexes, 1912-1942, Koss, Mary, digital image; Ancestry.com: accessed 30 July 2025, image 145 of 304.

After all the issues I’d already encountered (you can read about here), I foolishly believed things could only get better. So off to Chicago I went.

Stop 1: Cook County Clerk’s Office

I started at the County Clerk’s office, bracing myself, several colleagues had warned me about unhelpful staff. To my surprise, the clerk I got was wonderfully professional. One small mercy. Unfortunately, I didn’t walk away with any of the three records I was hoping for.

I had a certificate number for my grandparents’ marriage record, but it wasn’t in the system. You can see it exists from the picture above. I was also looking for a birth certificate that was possibly never filed; after all, I had a church-issued “Birth and Baptism” certificate. Back then, churches often issued those in lieu of civil records, and that document had even been used by a family member to enroll in Social Security. Still, no luck.

I was also searching for a death certificate I’d requested by mail on 31 March, four months prior to my visit, with no response. After about an hour of searching, the clerk informed me that a specialist would need to take over the research and contact me once they found something.

Correction: if they find something.

Stop 2: The Elusive Archives

Tip for Cook County researchers:

Ask security where to scan your parking garage ticket to get a discount.
When you first arrive, skip the main office, go down the first hallway with a large sign and a barcode. Scan it to get an electronic number. My wait? Only 25 minutes.

While I waited for a maybe, I moved on to Plan B: the Archdiocese of Chicago.

From there, I drove several blocks to the address listed on the Archdiocese’s website. Found a garage, $27 for 15 minutes (ouch), and entered the building.

Inside, I was informed (drumroll…) the archives are no longer located there. They knew the website was wrong. No apology, no signage, no indication they planned to correct it. Clearly, they don’t want people to use the archives.

The receptionist suggested I call the real archives before heading over I suppose they don’t like visitors. I did and was told to mail my request instead of dropping it off. I explained I was already in town for one day and just wanted to drop off the application to ensure my information was correct.

Back to the car. $27 parking bill for 15 minutes. No discount from the diocese, either. So much for grace.

Stop 3: A Parking Lot Blessing?

I spotted another lot across from what I hoped was the correct archives this time only $11 for 15 minutes. Progress! As I crossed the street, I realized the building was none other than Old St. Pat’s, where my husband’s great-great-grandmother, Mary “Molly” O’Brien Cook, had secretly brought her sons to be baptized. (Read my blog about dear Molly)

That felt like a good sign. (Also made for a great photo op.)

Inside, however, I was told the archivist wasn’t available, was going on a two-week vacation, and I shouldn’t check back until late August. The secretary reviewed my paperwork, made a few copies, took my check, and that was that.

The wrinkle? I wasn’t 100% sure which church my grandparents had married in, either St. Salomea, which is now closed, or St. Benedict’s, the family’s parish at the time of my great grandparents’ last child’s birth. Here’s a fun fact: if you don’t know the exact church, the Archdiocese will not help you. No guessing allowed.

I gambled on St. Salomea and asked how to access St. Benedict’s records. “They’re still open,” the secretary told me, handing me their address. I asked if she’d mind calling ahead to make sure someone would be there. She wouldn’t. Just handed me the address and not even a good-bye. Wouldn’t give me the phone number, either.

So, onward to Blue Island.

Stop 4: St. Benedict’s—Sort Of

About 30 minutes later, I arrived to find the church closed and the office now located somewhere else entirely. Apparently, the Archdiocese archives hadn’t gotten the memo.

My GPS couldn’t find the new location, so we tried another app and eventually found the building, locked. After ringing the bell twice, a woman finally came to the door. Without opening it, she told us everyone was in a meeting and to come back later.

I explained that I’d been sent by the Archdiocese and simply wanted to leave a message. After a pause, she let us in and asked for the couple’s names and marriage date. I handed her a copy of the Cook County index listing with the certificate number.

She disappeared into a back room, reemerged a few minutes later, and informed me: “No one by that name was married on that date.”

Sigh. The saga continues next week…

When AI Lost the Plot

How a quiet English lineage turned into a political scandal and what it taught me about truth, technology, and trust.

I use AI almost daily and have written and presented on it for nearly two years. But a recent experience left me completely baffled and more than a little uneasy.

I’ve been working on my final family genealogy book, this one tracing our Great Britain ancestry. My previous four books came together easily earlier this year because my notes were meticulous, my colleagues had verified my findings, and I’d been blogging about those ancestors for ten years.

Our British roots, though, are a different beast. Between my husband’s lines and mine, there are only five but they reach deep into medieval soil. Scholars can’t always agree on the pedigrees, and the repeated use of the same names has led to confusion and overlap. Sorting it all out requires patience, precision, and a love of historical detective work.

Last spring, when winter refused to obey the calendar, I drafted the outline and introduction for my new book, Echoes of Britannia. Then the season’s speaking engagements and client projects took over, and I set the manuscript aside with plans to finish it this fall.

When I returned to it in September, progress came slowly. My writing rhythm faltered, and I found myself staring at the same sentence for far too long. Grammarly could fix the punctuation, but it couldn’t fix writer’s block. My AI research assistant, Geni, usually helps bridge the gaps between genealogical sketches but apparently, he was blocked too.

We were working on the Venables of Kinderton, a noble but quiet family from Cheshire. They lived out their days peacefully, kept out of court battles, and occasionally donated a stained-glass window to a nearby abbey. In other words, wholesome and uneventful.

Until AI got involved.

My writing style isn’t the typical “Josiah begot Daniel who begot Uriah who begot…” genealogy. My family would fall asleep halfway through the second begot. They don’t like numbering systems either, even though they’re math people, not history people. Me? I’d rather run laps in PE than solve for X.

That’s why AI has been such a useful partner. Geni understands that I’m a storyteller who insists on historical truth, even when it’s messy. I like to think I’ve created a new genre: bedtime family stories with pictures for visual learners.

But one day, Geni froze mid-thought. After several failed attempts, I switched to another AI tool, Claude. I don’t use it often, but it greeted me warmly by name, which felt encouraging. I gave it a straightforward task:

“From the provided information, maintain all footnotes while making the narrative more engaging. Keep the tone conversational for readers with limited historical background.”

What came back stunned me.

The Venables, my mild, landholding, church-donating family, had been transformed into a political thriller. Claude had rewritten the story to liken them to a well-known modern politician, naming names and all. Suddenly, the Venables were misogynistic felons clawing for power.

I was horrified. I hit “thumbs down” and deleted it instantly.

A week later, I still couldn’t shake it. How could a neutral story about medieval gentry morph into a contemporary political allegory? Who gave the machine permission to do that?

My only conclusion: some AIs are now reflecting the political biases of the data they’re trained on. If their training includes modern news, it stands to reason that bias slips in and it shows.

That realization made me pause. AI is supposed to help us see patterns, not project agendas. As genealogists, we work hard to separate fact from family legend. Shouldn’t we expect the same integrity from our digital tools?

I chose not to share the story on Facebook. The last thing our country needs is another spark thrown into the bonfire of division. But I also felt this moment needed to be shared, not as outrage, but as a reminder.

We live in an era where algorithms, headlines, and echo chambers can reshape our understanding of truth. It’s up to us, researchers, writers, and everyday citizens , to hold fast to kindness, empathy, respect, honesty, and responsibility. These aren’t partisan ideals; they’re the foundation of human decency.

And as for those Venables? I’ve decided to let them rest a while. I’ll return to them soon, with fresh eyes and a renewed respect for their quiet simplicity.

Because sometimes, living a peaceful life that harms no one isn’t boring at all, it’s the truest kind of legacy.

When the Cloud Collapsed, Genealogy Continues

Guess we now know which Genealogy software companies use Amazon! MyHeritage.com and Findmypast.com are up and running. (2 PM Eastern)

I hope this is a wake up call to all of you who haven’t SYNCHED or DOWNLOADED your trees elsewhere!

All of the software companies are working. I’m able to access all of my info because I’ve saved it other than Ancestry.com and FamilySearch.org.

When the cloud service is restored you may want to read my blog articles on how you can prepare for the next time. Here’s the how to for FREE – Legacy Family Tree does not synch but you can upload a downloaded .gedcom from Ancestry. This means you won’t have pictures of the census or any other media but you will have the information about your ancestors. This older blog article talks about a previous version of Family Tree Maker, I’ve updated to the latest and greatest which fixed the problem I encountered and provided the work around. I don’t use FTM’s vault, a cloud service, but you might want to consider it given what’s happened today with Ancestry. I no longer use RootsMagic since version 8 as later updates would not allow me to synch with Ancestry. They do have a free version for smaller trees you could download. I do appreciate that their tech folks recommended I try downloading my tree with the free version to see if the problem was corrected; it wasn’t but they are aware of it and working on it. Click here for the free version.

Your genealogy research does not have to stop when a part of the internet breaks. Go make a cup of tea, write up what you’ve been working on, and make a plan for the future so you don’t get caught without access to your information. Here’s links to an older blog about writing up your research using AI. If you aren’t comfortable with AI, here’s an alternative. Remember, once upon a time there was no “online” for us to use to help us with genealogy.

The Hidden Discoveries of Writing Your Research

As genealogists, we spend hours pulling records, analyzing handwriting, and piecing together family connections. Most of that work happens in the collecting stage, we hunt down wills, census pages, land deeds, and church registers. But it isn’t until we write that we begin to see what those records are really telling us.

Writing forces a shift in how our brains work. Collecting records is like gathering puzzle pieces. Writing is when you finally flip the pieces right-side up and begin to see the picture. Patterns emerge that you hadn’t noticed before. Gaps in the timeline become obvious. A stray witness on a deed suddenly matters because you’re weaving the story instead of cataloging the fragments.

I saw this firsthand with my ancestor Daniel Hollingshead. I had collected a mountain of records: tax documents from Cheshire, court cases, marriage records from Barbados, and family land deeds in New Jersey. It wasn’t until I began to write his story that the threads pulled tight. Suddenly, the narrative was clear:

A grandfather’s failure as a tax collector plunges the family into crisis.
An uncle flees to Barbados after funds are stolen.
A young Daniel joins the military, is posted to Barbados, and marries into sugar wealth.
He returns to New Jersey with enslaved people, rising socially but carrying moral shadows with him.

The facts were always there in the records. But the story, the irony, the Atlantic World connections, the moral reckoning , only emerged when I tried to explain it in writing.

That’s the hidden power of writing: it doesn’t just preserve what you’ve learned, it teaches you something new. Writing sharpens your research questions, reveals new avenues to explore, and brings ancestors to life in ways a database never can.

So the next time you feel stuck in the research grind, try writing a short biography or family sketch. Even a rough draft will show you what you’ve missed. You might be surprised at what discoveries are hiding , not in the archives, but in your own words.