GENEAHOLICS' SPOUSES GO TO THE DOGS
by H. David Morrow
Much has been written lately about the tragedy of addiction to
genealogy. While one must pity those afflicted with this malady, their own
disorientation pales when compared to that of those who must live with
geneaholics.
The geneaholic can seek counseling, can join a support group (often called a
Society), and may soon even be able to get into a 12-step program. There is none
of this for the spouse of a geneaholic.
Night after night, male spouses must endure cold dinners, if there are any at
all. They must do their own washing in order to have enough underwear to wear to
work. Their beds are only rarely made and the sheets changed only when
threadbare.
If the spouse is older and has to make in-the-dark trips to the bathroom during
the night, he or she must step carefully so as not to kick over a pile of
papers. The real danger is slipping on a single piece of paper and breaking a
hip.
The spouse must endure interruptions of sporting events on TV in order to hear
about the discovery of a relative who was "not in my direct line, but a
sister of the cousin of the sixth child of my great-great-great-grandmother's
third husband."
Further, spouses are supposed to administer back rubs when the geneaholic has
spent far too much time sitting in front of a keyboard and monitor. Spouses are
also supposed to fix computer glitches that may arise from downloading megabytes
of "relevant, relative" information. We are expected to drive to
cemeteries, deliver film to and pick up pictures from the processor, make
endless trips to the post office, take days off to visit obscure courthouses
looking for sometimes elusive and mostly unreadable documents from the 1800s,
and generally go to bed alone.
There are, however, some upsides. The only real household chores I must do,
besides cook my own dinner, are replace light bulbs in my wife's desk lamp and
change cartridges in her printer. (We started using paper plates when the
dishwasher and sink both were filled to capacity.) I haven't emptied the trash
since I learned about the addiction. I get to spend quality time with my dog,
who never regales me with stories about related horse thieves and murderers.
I am considering starting a new organization called D.O.G.S., which stands for
Despondents of Geneaholic Spouses. This is a good name because when the meeting
notice comes, the mail person will think you are merely going to a group that
appreciates dogs. The carrier won't, therefore, be able to inform all the
neighbors that an addict lives on the block.
Besides, when I don't give full attention to my wife's e-mail from a cousin she
never knew she had, when I am not ecstatic over a new piece of information, and
when I don't accept her invitation to spend hours in the library looking at
census films, she thinks I'm a dog anyway.
PERMISSION TO REPRINT articles from MISSING LINKS is granted unless stated
otherwise, PROVIDED: (1) the reprint is not used for commercial purposes; and
(2) this notice appears at the end of the reprint: Previously published in
MISSING LINKS: Vol. 7, No. 8, 24 February 2002, and written by H. David Morrow,
mailto:FuzzyGem@worldnet.att.net and http://www.petuniapress.com/