Hi Everyone, This was sent to me by a fellow "lost family" seeker. It tickled my funny bone so much I had to share. Hope you enjoy it too. Maureen LAST TRAIN TO POTTSVILLE by Beth Maltbie Uyehara My co-workers and I were sitting around at lunch last spring talking about our vacations. One had just returned from spending April in Paris. Another was headed to Rome. Others had penciled in Hawaii, London, New York, Yosemite. "Where are you going this year?" someone asked me. "Rhosllannerchrugog," I said. (Or, at least, that's what I hope I said. My attempts to pronounce the Welsh double-el usually sound like what follows when the dentist says "rinse and spit." I suspect the reason the Welsh carry umbrellas everywhere is not because it's likely to rain -- although on any given day, it is -- but because Wales is infested with American genealogists trying to pronounce Welsh place names.) Silence ensued, while my co-workers mopped up. When everyone was dry again, one nervously asked, "And where might that be?" "It's near Mold." A profound silence ensued. The people at the table chewed uneasily. Finally, someone said, "Why are you going to ... Mold? "To look at graves." This resulted in a general stampede from the area. Which leads to my point: Attempting to describe the appeal of a genealogical field trip to non-genealogists can shut down a conversation faster than a tick suckin' blood from a Pedernales bedbug, or whatever it is that Texans say to indicate excessive speed. I didn't used to be this way. In fact, I started out life as more or less a normal person, looking for vacation ideas that entailed relaxation, such as lolling around on beaches of golden sand; or mental stimulation, such as visiting museums in exciting world-class cities; or spiritual uplift, such as viewing awe-inspiring cathedrals or the scenic wonders of national parks. You know, the usual meaningless, boring, touristy stuff. Then I found genealogy, and it's been downhill ever since (and I don't mean on skiis). My first genealogical field trip, a.k.a. "vacation," was to Pottsville, Pennsylvania, and I had a wonderful time. Found my great-great-grandfather's and great-great-grandmother's graves, and my great-grandpa's grave (note to self: One of these days, go back and find out where the heck they put great-grandma), and lots of death records in the county courthouse, and a quit-claim deed to die for. Life doesn't get much better than that. If my co-workers didn't quite understand my satisfaction with my trip, at least they had heard of Pottsville, because The Monkees once sang a song about it ("Last Train to Pottsville").* Where I lost them was showing off my vacation photographs, which consisted entirely of pictures of headstones -- close ups, middle distance, long distance, at an angle, in sun, in shade, etc. With flowers and without. You know, the usual. My next vacation was to Salt Lake City, which civilians can also accept, because there are all kinds of attractions in the area that normal people appreciate. After my fourth trip there, however, a friend said to me, "Boy, you must really like that lake," and I replied, "There's a lake?" My explorations of the city, of course, had been limited to the trudge across the alley from the hotel to The Library -- a distance of some 20 feet -- although once I did cross the street in the other direction to a mall to buy a new pen when mine ran out of ink. Next vacation, I headed for Ashtabula County, Ohio, and it got harder to explain to Real People why I was going there, because The Monkees never sang about Ashtabula, although they should have, because it's certainly as much fun as Pottsville is and is just as great a place to visit. And, boy, does Ashtabula have some great cemeteries! Hoo-boy. Talk about a blast from the past! (Whew! Excuse me, while I take a drink of water and try to get my pulse rate back to normal. Just thinking about it gets me all atwitter.) From Ashtabula, it was a short step to Clearfield County, Pennsylvania, known far and wide for . . . uh . . . Well, it's a very pretty neck of the woods, and I recommend it highly to anybody who has family planted in the area. And even to those who don't. Get off the turnpike and look around at this great country, for gosh sakes! See what's really out there. (And once you're in the area, I highly recommend spending an afternoon or two in the Odd Fellows Cemetery in Brisbin.) But all of this was just a warm-up to Going Over the Water to the mother lode: An entire nation chock full of dead ancestors plus dusty old libraries, tucked-away records offices, moss- covered cemeteries, tiny parish churches, etc., etc. Heaven on earth. And Mold, Wales, turned out to be just as charming as I knew it would be. And, as for Rhosllannerchrugog -- well, what can you say about going "home" and walking the streets that generation after generation of your ancestors once walked? Hey, I'm a genealogist, folks. I'll take August in Ashtabula over April in Paris any day, any way.