I'd like to say I'm sitting in the Grand Concourse of Grand Central Station to write this, but sitting is not particularly encouraged in the terminal. So my spastic thumb via iPhone on the train will have to do.
I'd also like to say ole George, my wily ancestor, was waiting for me at the New York Public Library in velvet waistcoat and breeches, but he was not.
I'd like to say he was there to greet me in the lobby of the New York Genealogical and Biographical Society, but alas, he remained the furtive triple-great grandfather that he is.
Researchers are essentially optimists. Which is why we read and scroll microfiche, pay money for fruitless document hunts, scour books (get sidetracked with the New York social register from 1904) and read stuff until our eyes can take it no more.
I'd like to say I have a lot of great stuff scrawled into my notebooks, but in truth there are just two things: the name of a guy who knows from early New York churches (this could be big) and record of Aunt Geraldine teaching at P.S. 50 in 1905.
Genealogy is rarely about the home run. Sometimes a crack at the bat is all we get. So we keep running.