WHAT'S YOUR ADDICTION?

I’m not ashamed of my addiction, which I can’t control. I’ve been at it for 35 years, and it is classifiable as an addiction.

In January, I found the birthdate (the year is still uncertain, but a month and day were never in our records) of Zayda, my husband’s maternal grandfather, Morris Pollack. I should have stopped when I hit the jackpot and found not one but two of his declarations of intention to become a United States citizen.

One document is dated 1917, and the other 1926. One page shows that he was born March 15, 1867, and the other indicated 1868. Either way, it was the oldest birthdate that we had recorded for him.

Zayda’s tombstone shows that he was 88 in 1959. One senior cousin always insisted that Zayda was older than 90. Now, I presume he was correct and that Zayda was at least a few years older than some of the records showed.

When I broke through that brick wall late at night, I was getting sleepy and had to force myself away from the computer. As an unquenchable desire to continue my research to break other brick walls overtook my need for sleep, I told my husband it must be what gamblers and others with addictions feel.

Genealogy and making family connections are an addiction for me. That may be the best vice to have. Possibly others with less desirable dependencies should give it a whirl. It could change lives. Honestly, though, I hope it doesn’t cause an endless barrage of sleepless nights.