I’ve never used anything except a local note.  All my notes about a person are piled onto their individual record.  Noting a source in correct format depends on how logical I was feeling the day I made the note.  They range from Birth: found on 13 June 2009 at scotlandspeople online, GROS numbers incl (pat on the back there) to the cryptic J 09 online (worse than useless). I’ve also got what might be called personality notes such as Aunty Betty used to throw humbugs at her sister when they were 98 and 93 respectively.

Then there’s what I’ll grandly call research notes. Some of these are aide-memoires so that I don’t forget I’ve already tried a particular search route – don’t search 1750 Pettinain again – he’s not there, you idiot. That’s as bad as getting  to page 152 of a book and realising you’ve read it before.  Some are me playing Sherlock Holmes if John wasn’t her real father, the censuses show Fred the butcher visiting – does this mean that Mabel is Fred’s lovechild? Yet others are pure rants I’ve looked everywhere for this bloody family – how can seven children, two parents and a grandma vanish into thin air?

The problem with research notes is that it’s like being on a cruise ship – the view’s always changing. Out of superstition (in my head I say I’m just being careful) I keep the note from 2005 complaining about Aunty Mamie’s marriage not being in the records after 1854 but I also keep the one  (2008) that proclaims enthusiastically today found Auntie Mamie’s marriage in 1845 – who’d have thought it – her husband was Lionel Higginbottom & they had nine little Higginbottoms!

I don’t think there’s a cure for my slapdash ways.  If anyone ever reads my gedcom file now or in the future, they’ll have to put up with my eccentricities. And maybe, in the individual record that is RIP RC, there will be a note written by the descendent Rachel made this file, but what a £*&$%)($(* mess it is!

Photo by net efekt

We call them in-laws which is a practical enough legal term but there’s little affection in it.  I mean, how many mother-in-law jokes d’you know?  The French, unusually for such a pragmatic people, call the mother of your partner belle mere – hard to make jokes about her if she’s your ‘lovely mother’.   The term in-law doesn’t even extend that far. Brother, sister, mother, father.  We don’t say grandfather-in-law or niece-in-law.

It’s when we come to aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces,  that things really start to come unstuck. Wife of or husband of – that’s you put in your place. Don’t for a minute think that you’re a real part of my family – oh no – you just happened to marry my aunt/uncle/nephew/niece.  Which is nonsensical, because without outsiders marrying in, there would be no family! Which is why we start off (genealogically speaking) with 2 surnames, then 4, then 8 and so on until we’re all the way back to when Charlemagne’s  mother-in-law  married great-uncle x 15 Elfred.

Why is it that such a flexible and adaptive language as English has a name for cousins who are not directly related to us – 1st (or 2nd) cousin once (or twice) removed – but fails to have names for in-laws? Could it be because in the legal system of our country, relatives by marriage are pretty far down the pecking order?  If you make your will in which you wish an in-law to benefit by your demise, you better make sure you’ve put in a cast iron clause to that effect. Otherwise it’ll all go to blood relatives.

The question of  who exactly is a blood relative is one that will keep the legal profession and philosophers alike busy for many a year to come.  But that’s another subject.

To get back to the subject in hand then, should we be picketing somebody somewhere (the OED springs to mind) about proper terms for in-laws? And does anyone have ideas for what those terms would be? In the interests of research, I googled this very question. I’ll leave you with what I found.

Photo by Rhian vK

Q. Do you call your Aunt’s husband your uncle or just your aunt’s husband? A. I just call him “Mick”

They are:

• the Indian connection
• I was here
• the pound in your sporran
• mors
• smile for the camera
  

It’s a familiar face, it’s got your grandmother’s nose and it says it was born only 10 miles from the birthplace you have on your record – can it be – yes it must be – it’s that long-lost relative you thought you’d never find. Hallelujah.

But beware – red herrings are the cuckoos of the seas.  Hidden behind that cuddly exterior is a whole shoal of bogus relations who will, before you realise what’s happening, devour your entire family tree.

How can you spot one of these interlopers? Here’s an example – if Auntie Mabel’s husband Fred appears to have been born before his youngest child, maybe he’s not the Fred you thought he was, the one so beloved by the family who could pull rabbits out of balloons. Or another: you gleefully follow the red herring’s ancestors back two generations to find you’re descended from an Uzbekhi tribesman and everyone knows that the family has always hailed from Nether Wallop.

Having spotted one, what to do? Gentle genealogist, there’s no easy way to say this.  Get rid of it.  Fling the baby out with the bathwater. Whisper ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to end like this’ as you delete it from your files if you must, but it has to go.  Think how much tidier your tree will be without Uncle Willie who seemed to have married 37 women in quick succession.  Think how you’ll never again have to search the frozen steppes of Russia in vain for Agnes Macklethwaite who married Ernest Jones.

So your tree is a little bare now and only dates back to 1933 – no matter, now it’s echt, it’s real.  Your mother doesn’t talk to you any more since you found that she isn’t the long lost daughter of Frank Sinatra – she’ll get over it, tell her you’re doing it My Way. And all those people on rootsweb lists who embraced you as a long-lost 2nd cousin thrice removed and invited you to their ‘cosy home’ deep in the Catskills will soon find someone else to cherish.

And finally, don’t grieve for the Red Herring. He’s guaranteed to be clasped to the bosoms of the next fleet of genealogists to come along with the words “Henry! It’s You!”

Photo by Tim Parkinson

At first, in total ignorance, I thought it was simply a fancier side to the Mormon archives in Utah – what I now know to call IGI.  Jargon really is invidious, isn’t it? Try as you might, on whatever topic, you can’t avoid it forever.  And genealogy is no different. Best to go with the flow then – saddle up my BMDs and go on over to the IGI for a long cool drink of OPRs…

Then I thought it was only for those in the US – the British records seemed woefully under-represented.  And as I, at least as far as I know, have zero connections over the pond, there seemed no point to looking at American records. You’ll notice a certain British insularity creeping in here, leading to a blind eye being turned to the fact that ahem Ancestry also holds Canadian records – and those I do have a connection with.

And finally – and here’s where I do a stunning stereotype of the money-pinching  Scot – I thought it was awful that somebody was making money out of genealogy. My and others’ family histories.  I was up on my hind legs by now – I’d be damned if I was going to pay good money to some American Johnny-come-lately who’s stolen my history! (You know it’s a bad sign when exclamation marks start creeping in).

After I’d grudgingly accepted (and let me tell you, Scots do grudging better than anyone) that well,  maybe it was ok to charge money for looking at genealogical records, I looked at the prices of subscription and nearly fainted.

It’s a given that with any product to which you subscribe, there will be a level called something like  value – bronze -essential.  Then it steps up to silver – advanced – premium.  And finally (oxygen will be supplied) worldwide – gold – platinum. This is marketing speak for Come in my dear, let me tempt you with a peek at my fine wares or I can see you’re a person of quality to select this option or, finally You are a serious and worthwhile person and I salute you (gotcha!) I’m not agin this in principle, mind. Marketing men have to feed their children too.

There’s an odd thing going on with BMDs in the ‘United’ Kingdom that our Transatlantic cousins may not be aware of.  We in Scotland, being a fierce and independent nation, have all our own records (I’m drawing my pinny defensively around me as I type).  And very excellent records they are.  These are kept in Scotland and are now (mostly) online too at scotlandspeople.  On that site, you get to look at the indices but you have to pay for anything else and believe me, it mounts up if you’re searching for anything other than a granny of unusual surname born well into the 20th century.

But, lest the Union of  Nations of 1707 fool you, the English records are entirely separate and we in Scotland cannot see them.  The English always were a vindictive race ;)

But (and here’s the lure, that juicy worm that could be yours if only you’d reach for your credit card) Ancestry has the English records – well, most of them. And they’ve got the Canadian records.  And they’ve even got the Scottish records (although scotlandspeople has naturally hung onto the plum that is view original image).

Suddenly, I’m trampling all my prejudices, I’m squashing my reservations, I’m looking at the carrot of ‘14 day free trial’, I’m telling the wee voice in my head (that must be Mother) who’s saying ‘now can you really afford this eh?’ to shut up – and I’m on the registration page.  And the credit card’s out.

I’m thinking – hey, I can milk all these records within 14 days and not pay a penny.  It’ll be fine – what a clever minx I am.  Yeah, just like hundreds of others before me.  The reality is that I’ve gone for it, I’ve committed to being part of ‘the Ancestry community’.  Notice how companies try to engender a sense of cosiness by using words like ‘family’ or ‘community’.  It’s commerce, folks, don’t fool yourselves.

So how do I feel about it now it’s done? (Let your Blog be your Therapist). Actually, its fine. As a younger person would say – I’m cool with it.

I spent a couple of hours on the site last night and my first thought was what an excellently designed site it is. It’s visually attractive, very easy to navigate (especially for a battle hardened family researcher used to endless screens of Times Roman 10 tables with only the sketchiest of headings). And their use of little pop-up, fly-in, flash-and-goodness-knows-what-else boxes – well, that’s a delight.  No more opening endless tabs in Firefox.

Yes but what about the records? So far, so good. I haven’t actually found anyone yet that I wanted to find, but, as all us genealogy geeks know, hey that’s a detail.  The fun is in the hunt, right? At one point, I got thoroughly absorbed in ship’s passenger lists – could that Catherine be ‘my’ Catherine? Well no she couldn’t, but goodness what does it say about her – how fascinating.  This syndrome is, of course, called the ‘What shall I have for supper? Ah, I know – a nice plump red herring’.

In summation (isn’t that a great phrase? I’m trying to improve my language skills, no matter that I’m reverting to Victorian office-ese) I have to admit that I’m caught. Hooked. Sunk. It’s a fair cop, guv – you got me. It’s a fair assumption that I will be renewing my worldwide subscription (only the best is good enough for me) after the trial period.  And my credit card will fall groaning to its fiscal knees once more.

Photo by René Erhardt

Anyway, I’ll write more about this later, once I’ve calmed down and deciphered this document.

I’m planning a whole series of stories about the people in my history to form the core of this blog.  First, I need to pull a lot of research together for the sake of coherence and interest.  But to whet appetites, here’s my list of rough titles.  I was amazed that I could immediately find a dozen topics – but then, I do have a lot of folk.

• Betsy’s Story
• Linlithgow Burgesses
• Storiones & Reds under the Bed
• The Indian Connection
• What’s in a name?
• Mining tragedies & the women left behind
• Red herrings – everyone’s favourite fish
• Ontario – why was John left behind?
• Childhood seaside hols & the warmth of family
• What a Scottish shilling would buy you
• Have your ID ready, please
• The Somervilles of Pettinain

Apparently, old Scottish currency was not on a par with English sterling.  The Bank of Scotland was set up in 1695, primarily to help develop Scotland’s trade, mainly with England and the Low Countries. It began business in February 1696 with a working capital of £120,000 Scots (£10,000 Sterling). And after the Union in 1707, no more Scottish coinage was issued. Today, the Bank of Scotland, that august institution, is a casualty of the economic meltdown.

The old coinage included groats, bonnets and bawbees.  A reference to the latter, worth 6 old Scottish pennies, survives in the song

Ally Bally,  Ally Bally Bee,

Sittin’ oan yer Mammy’s knee,

Greetin’ fir a wee bawbee

Tae buy some couter’s candy

Footnote This post first appeared in curlsdiva.com on April 15, 2009, before folkarethething.com existed. I’m transferring all genealogically related posts from that blog to this.

Photo by the_junes

A mortcloth (from the Latin word mors, mortis, meaning ‘death’) was a form of pall, i.e. a large cloth (usually black) thrown over a coffin or corpse at a funeral. Mortcloths were kept by kirk sessions (church courts in each parish). Some were more elaborate than others, and a wealthier parish might have more than one (including a small one for corpses of children). They were hired, usually by the family or next of kin of the deceased, to cover the coffin (if a coffin could be afforded), or the corpse itself (if a coffin could not be afforded).

I’ve found those charges for my lot ranging from 10 shillings to £6. One family elder had a velvet mortcloth and also had the bells tolled for him – a pricey business for a man who was a burgess (part of a tanner’s guild) of the town.

Footnote This post first appeared in curlsdiva.com on April 14, 2009, before folkarethething.com existed. I’m transferring all genealogically related posts from that blog to this.

In the midst of all this data-gathering and detective work (that’s why it’s fascinating, of course, it’s your very own detective story and you have to pick up clues where you are and piece them together if you can) I sometimes stop to think why I’m doing it.  I know that it’s important enough to me that I’m thinking of putting it into my will.  I know that the doing of it makes me feel connected to family, even if they don’t know I exist, or they’re long dead.

Above all,  this research, all this mass of Cowan and Higgins and Somerville and Benson (and all the other associated names) proves something.  It proves that I existed, I lived. It proves that I was here.   A small life such as mine is often an unshared, unwitnessed life. Most of my ancestors led small lives, leaving only the faintest dent in history.  It’s fitting that I, who will leave only the smallest of impressions on the world, am the recorder of all those lives.

Footnote This post first appeared in curlsdiva.com on April 13, 2009, before folkarethething.com existed. I’m transferring all genealogically related posts from that blog to this.