Headstone Tourist: My Hilariously Morbid Journey into Ancestry

Let's be honest, my journey into genealogy started with a healthy dose of nosiness and a sprinkle of boredom. Forget dusty old books – my real education began in the eerily quiet, yet surprisingly fascinating, world of cemeteries. Yes, you heard that right. While most folks are busy planning their weekend getaways, you could find yours truly tiptoeing through rows of granite and marble, squinting at inscriptions like some sort of historical Sherlock Holmes with a slightly morbid bent.

​Turns out, cemeteries are basically outdoor history museums, just with significantly less gift shop merchandise and a higher chance of running into a squirrel, or twisting an ankle. Each headstone is an artifact, a tiny little biography etched in stone. We genealogists, often stereotyped as cardigan-wearing, tea-sipping obsessives (okay, guilty as charged on the tea front and I do loke a good sweater), see these stones not as symbols of finality, but as clues – breadcrumbs leading us down the fascinating, and sometimes slightly scandalous, paths of our ancestors.

​Before I started my "headstone tourism," my family tree looked more like a tangled vine with a few suspiciously bare patches. I knew Grandma Audrey loved Elvis and Grandpa Jack had a legendary stubborn streak, but beyond that? Very little. Then I ventured into the hallowed grounds, armed with a notebook, a camera, and an unhealthy curiosity.

​And what did I find? Oh, the stories those stones whispered! There was Great Aunt Wilhemina, who apparently lived to a ripe old age, despite what I can only assume was a lifetime of questionable dietary choices (the woman loved her butter tarts, bless her soul). Then there was a distant relative, Archibald, whose headstone proudly proclaimed him "A Friend to All" – a claim my newly unearthed family gossip suggests might have been a tad exaggerated.

​It's like these cemeteries hold secrets that time itself has tried to bury. Without these stone-cold facts (pun absolutely intended), those lives, those little details that make up our family tapestry, would be lost forever. Imagine future generations trying to piece together their lineage, only to find a gaping hole where your quirky great-uncle who collected honking rubber chickens should be! The horror!

​This is where preservation comes in, my fellow genealogy enthusiasts (and curious onlookers). These silent storytellers are facing the relentless march of time, weathering storms, moss invasions, and the occasional overzealous lawnmower. If we don't make an effort to document and preserve these historical markers, entire branches of our family trees could vanish, like a particularly stubborn stain you just can't get out. Think of it as genealogical CPR – we're keeping the stories alive!

​So, the next time you find yourself near an old cemetery, don't just drive by. Take a stroll. Read the names, the dates, the little epitaphs. You might just stumble upon a missing piece of your own puzzle. And who knows? You might even find out that your great-great-grandfather was a notorious pie thief. Now that's a story worth unearthing. Just remember to bring your tea – you never know how long you'll be there. In fact, if you're having a hard time reading those stones or feel they just need a good cleaning. Give me a call, I'll bring my cleaning supplies and tea too.