by H. David Morrow  FuzzyGem@worldnet.att.net

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.

Continual complaint as to need for names, dates and places.

Patient has blank expression, sometimes deaf to spouse and children. 

Has no taste for work of any kind, except feverishly looking through records

at libraries and courthouses. 

Has compulsion to write letters. 

Swears at the mailman when he doesn't leave mail. 

Frequents strange places such as cemeteries, ruins and remote, desolated country areas. Makes
secret calls. 

Hides phone bill from spouse.  Mumbles to self.  Has strange faraway look in eyes.

 No Known Cure

 Treatment: 

Medication is useless.  Disease is not fatal, but gets progressively worse.  Patient should
attend genealogy workshops, subscribe to genealogical magazines and be given a quiet corner in
the house where they can be alone.

 Remarks:  The unusual nature of this disease is - the sicker the patient gets, the more he
enjoys it.
 
 

Author Unknown

The following was overheard at a recent high society party...

"My ancestry goes all the way back to Alexander the Great," 
said one lady. She then turned to a second woman and asked, 
"How far does your family go back?" 

"I don't know," was the reply. "All of our records were lost 
in the flood."