You Know You Are a Genealogist When...
Your kids think picnics in cemeteries are normal or that EVERYBODY does it.
You're the only person in the bridge/poker club who knows what a Soundex is.
"It is only a few miles down the road" means at least 50.
Some of your best friends live over 200 miles away.
You have more pictures of tombstones than of the kids.
"I need to spend just a little more time at the courthouse" means
forget the cleaning, washing, dinner, chores; the day is shot.
The mailman can't believe that you got this much mail from someone you don't
even know.
You explain to mother why you can't go 25 miles for Sunday dinner, but can go
100 miles to check out another cemetery.
"As soon as I check out this census record, I'll fix dinner" means
"call the local pizza parlor."
Your neighbors think you are crazy, your friends wonder, and YOU know you
are.
You can't drive past a cemetery without wondering if your ancestors are
buried there.
You have to watch the credits of a movie to see if any of the surnames are
ones you are researching.
You ask all the people you meet, what their grandparents surnames are.
You move to a new town and the first thing you look for is a historical or
genealogical society in the area.
You go on vacation and beg your hubby to please drive 80 miles out of the way
so that you can try and find your granddaddy's grave in 100 degree heat.
Youthful fantasies of traveling to exotic places are replaced with plans to
get to those little towns with graveyards, or larger towns with Archives!
Your fear of snakes and bugs is overshadowed by the need to get through those
brambles to that old gravestone.
Old friends who knew you before you were into genealogy begin sending
clippings about dead or live people with your surnames (and you know you have
been talking about genealogy too much!)
You worry about the roof's leaking only if the drips threaten your genealogy
section.
When you can recite all the counties of a State you've researched but where
you've never lived.
When you find your ancestor's execution by hanging or burning at the stake,
far more interesting than the mass-murder that just took place next door.
You're not invited to family functions because your relatives are tired of
filling out family group sheets.
When you read the New Testament in Sunday School and find yourself comparing
the pedigrees in Matthew and Luke.
The public ceremony in which your distinguished ancestor participated and at which the platform collapsed under him turned out to be a hanging.
When at last after much hard work you have evolved the mystery that
you have been working on for two years, your aunt says, "I could have told you that."
You search ten years for your grandmother's maiden name to eventually
find it on a letter in a box in the attic.
The will you need is in the safe on board the Titanic.
Copies of old newspapers have holes occurring only on the surnames.
John, son of Thomas the immigrant whom your relatives claim as the family progenitor, died on board ship at the age of
Your great grandfather's newspaper obituary states that he died leaving no issue of record.
Another genealogist has just insulted the keeper of the vital records you need.
The relative who had all the family photographs gave them all to her daughter who has no interest in genealogy and no inclination to share.
The only record you find for your great grandfather is that his property was sold at a sheriff's sale of insolvency.
The one document that would supply the missing link in your dead end line has been lost due to fire, flood, or war.
The town clerk to whom you wrote for the information sends you a long handwritten letter which is totally illegible.
The spelling of your European ancestor's name bears no relationship to its current spelling or pronunciation.
None of the pictures in your deceased grandmother's photo album have names written on them.
No one in your family tree ever did anything noteworthy, owned property, was sued or was named in a will.
You learn that your great aunt's executor just sold her life's collection of family genealogical materials to a flea market dealer "Somewhere in New York City."
Ink fades and paper deteriorates at a rate inversely proportional to the value of the data recorded.
The 37 volume, 16,000 page history of your county of origin isn't indexed.
You finally find your great grandparents' wedding record and discover that the bride's father was named John Smith.
You decided to take a two-week break from genealogy and the U.S. Post Office immediately laid off 150 employees.
A magical genie appears and agrees to grant your any one wish, and you ask that the 1890 census be restored.
You plod merrily along "refining" your recently published family history, blissfully unaware that the number of errata pages now far exceeds the number of pages in your original publication.
You are the only person to show up at the cemetery research party with a shovel.
Out of respect for your best friend's reputation for honesty, you are willing to turn off that noisy surveillance camera while she reviews your 57 genealogical research notebooks. The armed security guard however, will remain.
You were instrumental in having "non-genealogical use of the genealogy room copy machine" classified as a federal hate crime.
"A Loving Family" and "Financial Security" have moved up to second and third, respectively, on your list of life's goals, but still lag far behind "Owning My Own Microfilm Reader".
During an ice storm and power outage, you ignore the pleas of your shivering spouse and place your last quilt around that 1886 photograph of dear Uncle George.
To put the "final touches" on your genealogical research, you've asked all of your closest relatives to provide DNA samples.
Ed McMahon, several TV cameras and an envelope from Publishers Clearing House arrive at your front door on Super Bowl Sunday, and the first thing you say is "Are you related to the McMahons of Ohio?".
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