Love it or hate it, Spelchek is as here-to-stay as computers themselves. This Janus of contemporary writing is invaluable for saving you embarrassment when your fourth grade grammar skills fail you. But woe unto those whose faith in Spelchek is blind.

Spelchek will not save you when your flying fingers add “double garbage” to the new home description instead of “double garage.” It won’t come to the rescue when you offer to bring “threats” to the neighborhood potluck instead of “treats,” or tell the boss you “hate to talk to him” rather than “have to talk to him.”

And Spelchek is most certainly not a genealogist’s friend. Great-grandmother Yetta (from Russia, not Nepal) might have been a Yenta, but she certainly wasn’t a Yeti. Grandmother Winsberg did love to talk with her family members but that’s no reason to call her a Windbag. Ditto for Grandmother Methe, rudely tagged by Spelchek as Methane. And let’s pass on the profanity—Great-uncle was a Goldman, not a Goddam. Great-aunt Gittel did not hail from the Gutter, nor did she Glitter. Aunt Friedel was not Fried, and being born in Wilno doesn’t make her a Wino.

Great-grandmother Margarethe from Hattstedt bore little resemblance to a Margarita, and Great-grandmother Takson from Russia doubtfully ever partook of Tacos. Great-great-grandfather Yosef wasn’t actually Yoda, and his brother Jehuda was probably not a Jedi.

It’s offensive at times how presumptuous Spelchek can be. How does it know whether Orner ancestors were Ornery? That the Brodersens were Brooders? That Great-great-grandfather Fyval was Feral? (We thought he was a blacksmith, as was his brother Yackov, who was no more Yankee than Cherokee.)

No, ancestral allies and computing compatriots—Spelchek cannot be trusted. It doesn’t know a typo from a taco, let alone a Takson.

A word-o to the wise: proofread your own family histories. And width know hemp form Spelchek.

Ellen Notbohm is a writer living in Portland, Oregon. She can be reached via www.ellennotbohm.com.