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Murphy's Law of Genealogy
The records you need for your family history were in the courthouse that burned.
John, son of Thomas, the immigrant whom your relatives claim as immigrant ancestor, died on board
ship at the age of twelve.
The public ceremony in which your distinguished ancestor participated when the platform collapsed
turned out to be a hanging.
Records show that the grandfather, whom the family boasted, "He read the Bible at four years and
graduated from college at sixteen," was at the foot of his class.
Your grandmother's maiden name for which you've searched for years was on an old letter in a box
in the attic all the time.
When at last you have solved the mystery of the skeleton in the closet the tight-lipped spinster
aunt claimed, "I could have told you that all the time."
You never asked your father about his family because you weren't interested in genealogy while
he was alive.
The family story your grandmother wrote for the family never got past the typist. She packed it
away "somewhere" and promised to send you a copy, but never did.
The relative who had all the family photographs gave them to her daughter who had no interest in
genealogy and no inclination to share.
A great-uncle changed his surname because he was teased in school. He moved away, left no address,
and was never heard from again.
Brittle old newspapers containing the information you desired have fallen apart on the names and
dates and places.
vThe only record you find for your great-grandfather is that his property was sold at a sheriff's
sale for insolvency.
The portion of the index you need is continued in the next issue, only the publisher died prior
to publication.
When you find the obituary for your grandmother, the information is garbled. Her name is exchanged
with her daughter's, the whereabouts of her sons is unknown, the date for her father's birth indicates he was younger than
she was.
The only surname not found among the three billion in the Mormon Archives is yours.
The vital records director sends you a negative reply, having just been insulted by a creep calling
himself a genealogist.
The 4 volume, 4,800 page history of the county where your great-grandfather lived is not indexed.
The document containing evidence of the missing link in your research invariably will be lost due
to fire, flood, or war.
Your great, great, grandfather's obituary states the he died, leaving no issue of record.
The town clerk you wrote to in desperation, and finally convinced to give you the information you
need, can't write legibly and doesn't have a copying machine.
The will you need is in the safe on board the "Titanic."
The spelling of your European ancestor's name bears no relationship to its current spelling or
pronunciation.
That ancient photograph of four relatives, one of whom is your progenitor, carries the names of
the other three.
Copies of old newspapers have holes which occur only on last names.
No one in your family tree ever did anything noteworthy, always rented property, was not sued,
and was never named in wills.
You learned that great aunt Matilda's executor just sold her life's collection of family genealogical
materials to a flea market dealer "somewhere in New York City."
Yours is the ONLY last name not found among the 3 billion in the world-famous Mormon archives in
Salt Lake City.
Ink fades and paper deteriorates at a rate inversely proportional to the value of the data recorded.
The 37-volume, sixteen-thousand-page history of your country of origin ISN'T INDEXED.
The critical link in your family tree is named "Smith."- - - - - - - -
Copyright 1983
Gibbs Publishing Co., P.O. Box 112, Napoleon, OH 43545
YOU KNOW YOU ARE A GENEALOGIST WHEN:
*You talk about towns no one has ever heard of.
*You take a trip to Salt Lake City in winter
and don't ski.
*You read EVERY Roots-L Posting.
*You never leave home without $4 in quarters.
*You
call ATM's "stamp machines".
*You've memorized the counties, their seats, and their addresses for three states.
*You
KNOW that people who have been dead for 200 years are laughing at you.
*You visit cemeteries carrying food and cosmetics.
*You
check out office supply stores "just looking".
* You've changed computer programs three times this year.
YOU KNOW YOU ARE ADICTED WHEN
When you brake for libraries.
If you get locked in a library overnight and you never even notice.
When you hyperventilate at the sight of an old cemetery.
If you'd rather browse in a cemetery than a shopping mall.
When you think every home should have a microfilm reader.
If you'd rather read census schedules than a good book.
When you know every town clerk in your state by name.
If town clerks lock the doors when they see you coming.
When you are more interested in what happened in 1895 than 1995.
If you store your clothes under the bed and your closet is carefully stacked with notebooks and
journals.
When Mitchel, Davis, and Tenney are household names, but you can't remember what you call your
dog.
If you can pinpoint Harrietsham, Hawkhurst, Kent on a map of England, but can't locate Topeka,
Kansas.
When all your correspondence begins "Dear Cousin."
If you've traced every one of your ancestral lines back to Adam and Eve, have it fully documented,
and still don't want to quit.
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