As a family historian, I am constantly amazed at the interesting information I find while searching for a family member. Unfortunately, this information often has nothing to do with my ancestor but is merely a side note on some unknown person that happens to catch my fancy. And off I go. Two, three days later, I stop and think, "Now, what was it I was doing?"
Sometimes it's just an isolated sentence or two that captures my imagination. Like this entry from a 1919 big city newspaper: "LOST -- Christmas morning somewhere between north Madison and Sycamore streets, a red knitted bed shoe. Finder please leave at the Evening Chronicle." I could write a story around that one.
Death records are particularly sad. "Killed by his own team of horses." "Buried in a well." Many young children drowned. There are death causes like gravel (kidney stones), consumption (pulmonary tuberculosis), putrid sore throat (ulcerated tonsils), quinsy (tonsillitis), typhus, and typhoid fever (not the same as typhus). In 1890, one couple lost 3 children, ages 7, 10, and 15, to diphtheria within a five day period!
No wonder I can't seem to make progress on my family's genealogy and life stories. With my frequent illnesses the last few months, my ever-present depression, and my general lack of focus, added to the intrigue of various glimpses into the lives of long-dead strangers, it's amazing I've found anything pertinent at all.
Hopefully, I'll be able to persist. Notice I said persist, not overcome. I have no illusions in that arena. "Old genealogists never die, they just lose their census." Ha. I'm already there.
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