Dad in the hospital, surrounded by flowers from well-wishers

I’ve just spent almost 3 weeks with my Dad in Florida. I’ve been wanting to write about him all this time, but what to say? Should I tell you about the books by Henry H. Schulte, Jr.? Or the newspapers he’s managed and edited? The thousands of students he’s taught and mentored? What about his children, or the adventures we had with him?

There’s so much to say, I never got around to writing anything.

So I was sitting on a Delta DC-9, ready to take off from Melbourne, Florida When looked out the window, there was a man standing on the ground wearing safety gear and holding a couple of orange flashlights. He waved. That was unusual.

Then I heard voices behind me. “Look, Sky, that man is waving at you.” I craned my head around to see a little boy, just a toddler, in the seat behind me. He was traveling with his parents, two people who looked surprisingly young to me.

From the conversation behind me, I figured out that it was Sky’s first ride in an airplane.

As the plane taxied and took off, Sky and his parents entertained me with their observations. When we took off, they told him to watch how fast we were going. Once we were airborne, he said, “Lookie! The sun is coming! The sun is coming!” A few minutes later, “Where’s our house? When will we land? Where’s Grandpa’s house? Are we landing yet? I don’t see Grandpa’s house.”

We ascended through a light cloud layer, and the view was one of the most beautiful skyscapes I’ve ever seen. The dark ground, lit by pinpoints of electric light, was softened by a transparent black veil. At the same time, the sunlight reflecting off the clouds made a bright ethereal landscape above.

I’ve really enjoyed having Sky behind me during the flight, despite the fact that he took me at my word when I told him he could kick my seat-back. He sang the alphabet song (but got confused at the end) and traced his letters on the window. “Big A, little A. Big B, little B…”

Sky’s joyful curiosity reminded me of my Dad, who I’d just left that morning at 5:20 am. Even though Dad is over 80 years older than Sky, and he just had open-heart surgery, he is just as vibrant as that little boy.

The first two days after Dad’s operation were scary to me. Dad was in the ICU, which I expected, but he was not himself, which I didn’t expect. The first day, he didn’t even wake up. The second day, he was awake but didn’t talk.

On the morning of the third day, I walked into the ICU with my brother, full of apprehension. Then I heard his voice. And I heard peals of laughter from his nurses.

Dad was back!

For the next two days in the ICU, he pestered the nurses with questions about how the ICU worked and what the nurses were doing. He entertained them with his stories and his observations while they did their work. We joked about the fact that on Day Two, he had been making mooing noises because of the cow valve now implanted in his heart. Then we’d joke about the fact that it must have come from a bull, not a cow. The two of us were giddy and talkative. When the nurses saw me, they told me how lucky I am.

I know that.

Dad used the teddy bear to protect his sternum after surgery

My Dad’s a lot like the little boy, Sky. He is full of curiosity about the way the world works, cataloging his finds and comparing them to his prior experiences. Sometimes he seems to say whatever pops into his head, like a little kid who doesn’t worry what other people will think. He can be very observant and oblivious at the same time. We laugh a lot together. He makes silly noises and sings silly tunes. He likes teddy bears.

In the past decade, I have heard over and over, “Your Dad is amazing for his age.” It’s not his age that’s amazing. It’s his little-boy way of experiencing the world, his natural ebullience. He’s always been like this.

For Sky, the little boy on the plane, I wish that life would always be like his first flight, that he would always feel like he could touch the sky with his joyful enthusiasm for life.

In my Dad, Henry, we have proof that it is possible for all of us. He’s touched the sky many times, and will continue to do so into his 90′s. If Dad can do it, we all can.

It’s the way the wind is moving the trees, the way the air smells, the way the fluffy white clouds form in the blue sky. It’s the way the birds sang after the rain shower, the way the homemade cherry pie tasted in the cafe in Clare. It’s the way the baby in that same cafe peered curiously from his Daddy’s lap.

It’s the bouncing, crazy exuberance of our nephews at 8 and 11-going-on-12. It’s the precious hugs from Grandma at 97-going-on-98. It’s the Happy Spot I made outside my in-laws’ motel room.

I don’t have photos of any of these beautiful moments. Just memories.

My mother-in-law grew up in Michigan, when the world was smaller. Michigan was her world, and though her father traveled for work and her parents moved a couple of times, it was always within Michigan.

This morning, she showed us some old family photos from the 1940′s and 50′s. Most include her parents, aunts, uncles, or cousins. They’re always smiling and laughing, whether standing on the shores of a lake, sitting at a table, or posing with their arms around each other in front of some trees. The extended family vacationed together for decades, fishing, sharing meals, playing cards, drinking beer, and just enjoying each others’ company.

Of course, all these vacation spots are in Michigan. From what I can tell, this state has always been beautiful, as long as the right people are here.

A cafe caught my eye, and I joined the line to buy some juice, setting my luggage down and shuffling it forward each time the line moved.

I hardly noticed the older woman in line behind me, until her husband joined her. “I don’t know what you were thinking, you $@#%! You should have $@#^@!” she said to him, her tone loud and acerbic. He responded defensively, then started making nasty accusations at her. I thought about giving up my place in line to get away.

It devolved into one of those toxic “You always!” and “You never!” arguments that’s impossible to resolve. Fortunately for me, they disagreed vehemently about the cafe and went somewhere else.

I felt icky, contaminated by their toxic emotions, but also relieved. It gave me a chance to appreciate that my life is not like that.

By most measures, my morning went downhill further from there. Bad weather delayed my second flight, and when I arrived in Charlotte, my flight home had been cancelled.

Luckily, I didn’t have the same attitude as the angry couple I’d overheard earlier. I took a deep breath and walked to the customer service counter, where a smiling customer is an anomaly. I decided to be the anomaly.

The customer service agent worked out a couple of options and printed new boarding passes. As she handed them to me, the agent still looked concerned. “I need your luggage tags,” she said. I was befuddled by the request, then I realized why she was frowning.

“I only have carry-on luggage,” I said. Her face lit up with a huge smile. “Wow! You’re good to go, then!”

I had plenty of time to catch my new flight to Orlando. With a sigh of relief, I headed for the nearest bathroom.

It was sparkling clean, and just inside the entrance was a display with free candy, hand lotion, hair products, and feminine supplies. The clue to this largesse was the accompanying tip jar. I had just entered the domain of one of the Charlotte airport’s restroom attendants.

This woman, though, was no mere attendant. She was earning her tips as a Bathroom Ambassador.

She bustled around the large bathroom with a cleaning towel, wiping the counters as she greeted women with a cheery hello and a smile. “Hi, how are you today?” She also served as a traffic cop, keeping track of which stalls were in use. “Come on over here, I’ve got a great room for you, lady!” “Here, take this big one — you’ve got a lot of luggage.”

She made the bathroom so pleasant, I wished they had more comfortable, less-specialized seats in there. I would have stayed for a while. She came over and said hi as I was washing my hands. “If you’re going someplace sunny, take me with you!” she quipped.

“I don’t know,” I said, rummaging around for something to put in the tip jar. “You’re making it pretty sunny in here!”

I had over an hour to kill, so I stopped at a Starbucks for a cup of tea. I didn’t even have to use money for this treat — I paid for it with a gift card my brother Hank had given me.

Every time I use this gift card, it makes me feel good. It’s as if he’s giving me a Christmas present over and over.

After my Philadelphia cafe experience, I found myself looking curiously behind me, to see who was next in line. It was a woman about my age, black, with a southern accent. She was alone and had no luggage, perhaps an employee from one of the other shops. She placed an order very similar to mine, and as she fumbled in her purse for the money, I had a brainstorm.

I handed the gift card back to the cashier. “Here, charge it to my card,” I said. The cashier didn’t miss a beat, just swiped the card and handed me a new receipt. She probably assumed we knew each other.

The woman in line behind me went through a series of reactions. There was initially confusion as the cashier refused her payment, and then astonishment that a stranger would pay for her order. Apprehension — was I going to ask something of her? And finally, she got it, and was simply grateful. She’d never experienced anything like this before.

“This is one of those pay it forward things, isn’t it? Now I have to do something nice for someone else?” she said. I just smiled and said, gently, “Only if you want to.” I slipped away to put some milk in my tea, and she followed me across the restaurant. “Thank you! You really made my day! What’s your name?” If I hadn’t been carrying a very full cup of tea and two pieces of heavy luggage, I suspect she might have hugged me.

Despite my lack of sleep and change of plans, I was on Cloud Nine for the rest of the day. If I hadn’t jotted a note about the angry couple in Philadelphia, I would have forgotten about them completely.

For many people, the experience of traveling by plane is miserable. The security process takes away all privacy and dignity. When you reassemble your belongings and put your shoes back on, you no longer have your autonomy or your freedom. Your fate is in someone else’s hands.

Your fate, perhaps, but not your experience. Each of us can choose whether to be miserable or not. The couple in the cafe line? They chose to be angry. Me, I choose to smile, and to do things to help other people smile.

Sometimes, like when my flight gets cancelled, I don’t feel like smiling, but I paste on a smile anyway. Eventually, someone sees my smile and smiles back at me. Then the game is up — I can’t help it, I’m smiling for real now! The next thing I know, I’m smiling at everybody, basking in the cheerful smiles I get in return.

Meps, smiling at you: (=

Today it isn’t any cooler, but it was overcast, drizzled a little, and now that it is evening it is really starting to rain. But a warm, hard, summer rain still.

Yesterday I started working on another item on my ever-present list, but didn’t get make a whole lot of progress–I spent more time visiting with people in the boatyard and speaking to friends thousands of miles away more than working.

Today I slept in (talking to people in other time zones isn’t helping this night-owl get on local time), and did a little more work on the same project…but once again, I didn’t make much progress on that todo list with 92 items.

I’ve been thinking more about other things. You see, I’ve realized that when Meps decided to take her road trip so she could have some time to write and be on her own, having her own adventures, she just gave me the most amazing gift. Something I didn’t even realize that I hadn’t had in the last twenty years. In fact, I may never have had it, since the last summer I had no obligations, I was still living with my parents, and thus had a few rules and a little structure imposed on me.

For this month, I am my own master. I do not have a job to report to. I do not have somebody living with me to discuss things with, or negotiate things with, decide things with, or do things with. There isn’t somebody to do things for, and nobody will do things for me either. I can eat when I’m hungry, or just be hungry. I can cook whatever I like with anything I have aboard. I could go out to a restaurant. If I leave my shoes in the the middle of the floor, nobody else will trip over them. If I don’t decide to do anything, nobody will point it out to me. I’m not really alone–there are lots of people in the boatyard, and I am enjoying their company, but I have no commitments with them.

So I came here thinking that the todo list was my master. But it isn’t. I am my own master, and I choose whether to look at the list or not. And I pick my own item from the list to work on. Or maybe I will pick two or three and bounce around them. Instead….or in addition….or whatever, I spoke with Nancy at Bahia Street and asked what I could do to make their website better. I have a whole world of choices here, and they are all mine.

And I’ve worked on things not because they were the top of the list critical items we need to complete before we launch. Instead I picked a couple things that just bugged me. The fact that they were smaller items I could finish soon helped, but mainly I was tired of having them hanging over me as something I meant to do but hadn’t got to yet. Perhaps I’ll knock a lot of things I’ve been “meaning to do” out this month. Or perhaps I’ll decide that I was really “meaning NOT to do” some of them instead?

Tonight I took a look at the weather radar and saw a rainy evening coming. Now I’m battened down in my cozy little boat, writing for the web, and cooking bacon and eggs and some sort of hash for dinner at 8pm. Actually I think it will be bacon, hash and a extra sharp cheddar omelet. And it probably won’t be ready ’till 8:40 or so. In fact, I’m already eating at 8:35, and I made too much hash, and put too much ground chipotle pepper into it. It is all wonderful, and I did eat it all. But then I didn’t eat much else today.

If it doesn’t rain too much tomorrow, I might get the new section of teak toe-rail installed with the newly polished bronze chocks. I will soon cross something off that big list. I may start back on one of the bigger projects like re-finishing the masts. But not tonight.

Now the season is becoming clear to me. This is a season for me to think. And it is a season for me to feel. I suspect the second is even more important. It absolutely is time for this season.

During a period of a couple months, I discovered that roosters don’t necessarily crow only in the morning, they crow all day. I thought it was charming. Other neighbors — the upscale ones — didn’t find it charming. They complained, and the flock was made compliant with Seattle law: Three hens, max, and zero roosters.

After that, the chickens were very quiet in their little coop, tucked behind some bushes and against the house in the front yard.

Given this experience, when we were invited to chicken-sit four chickens at a different friend’s house in Seattle, I was puzzled. “How can you have four?” “It’s OK. One of them is not a chicken,” was my friend’s response. This friend will remain nameless, because I’m afraid that the one that is not a chicken acts so much like a chicken, there might be a slight compliance issue. At the risk of being an accessory to the crime, I will not publish any names.

Except for the chickens’ names. First names only.

We arrived at the house for our chicken-sit instructions, and indeed, there were four creatures that looked like chickens. Two brown, two black-and-white. Mango, Frango, and Lucky are chickens. But Clam is simply the most chicken-like clam you’ll ever meet. There is no compliance issue. “This house has three chickens and a clam, Officer.”

Which one of these is not a chicken?

Like the other girls, Clam bursts out of the coop with a rush of flapping, flying energy when you open the door. Then she runs around the yard, clucking and looking for bugs. She digs up the dirt in the side yard, which may explain why the cucumbers are stunted. She hates being cooped up and wants to be top in the pecking order. She runs over and attempts to eat anything you toss on the ground, whether it’s a cucumber peel or a frisbee. She has been seen drinking from the infamous avian-nipple watering system. She produces award-winning volumes of chicken shit.

But lately I’ve noticed that Clam’s behavior is a little different from the others. Yesterday, she came over to me as I was standing on the patio. I thought she might be suffering from insecurity, being the outsider, so she was going to be more affectionate. “OW!” That was not affection, it was aggression! After she pecked me on the big toe, I punished the whole lot of them by vanquishing them from the backyard. And decided it was no longer a good idea to stand barefoot on the patio.

Ow! (Chicken pecking the photographer's foot)

Today, I went out in the yard wearing clogs. Picking green beans, I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my heel. Clam had found the only exposed flesh on my foot and pecked it. Back she went, along with the others, into the Chicken Prison Exercise Yard. Barry seemed relieved.

Barry contemplates the risk of squatting near a clam with a beak

Right now, the chicken-sit is pretty easy; the chickens are too young to lay eggs. But what will happen when they start laying? Will Clam lay eggs, too? Or will she lay clams? She just might be the juvenile delinquent of the chicken yard, in which case, I hope she’ll straighten up and fly right. Otherwise, she’ll be out of here, and her owners — no, I still won’t tell you their names — probably won’t give a cluck.

Clam emphatically proclaims, "I am not a chicken!"

“What’s wrong with your cat’s leg?”
“She’s not my cat.”

“You’re flying to Seattle? What are you going to do with your cat?”
“SHE’S NOT MY CAT!”

To other people, fostering a cat family looks a lot like having cats. We had a cat door, food and water bowls, and a playful, frisky kitty named Buttercup who followed us around the boatyard and frolicked under our boat. All of which explains the number of times in two weeks that we had to protest, “SHE’S NOT MY CAT!”

Aboard our boat, her two kittens spent all their time sleeping and nursing. When their mother climbed into the berth with them, they would make tiny, cute squeaking sounds, and she would respond with chirps. Then they’d find a teat, suckling quietly, and she would purr.

Barry with two not-his-kittens

One night, just after I went to bed, I heard agitated squeaking. Buttercup was responding with more than the usual meeowing, purring, and chirping. When I went to see what was up, there was a soggy kitten on the galley floor. Buttercup’s water bowl was a small Tupperware cup, just big enough for one kitten — and one kitten had fallen in!

That night, she decided the quarterberth was not a safe place. She moved the kittens under the stove, where we had to get on our hands and knees to see them. They hardly noticed us, since their eyes remained closed. We tried not to spill popcorn or sauteed onions behind the stove.

Buttercup Not-My-Cat comes out from under the stove

Less than a week before our departure, we got a very welcome call. Donna of PAWS had found a foster home for the three with a retired couple who are dedicated to cats. Imagine a large house in the country, surrounded by miniature houses, each with carpet, windows, and air conditioning. Our single mother and her babies were going to live in a real cathouse!

So we dropped them off at a vet for the transfer. Even after just three weeks, it was hard to say goodbye. We drove back from the vet wearing PAWS bracelets that say, “I saved a pet.” And in our email box was a timely message from our cat rescue mentors, Blaine and Suzy: “hero merit badges earned!”

But the boat was quiet and empty. The feral cats we feed sat at the bottom of our ladder, puzzled. “Where’d that girl kitty go? We didn’t mean to chase her away!” they seemed to say. We threw ourselves into finishing the masts and packing for our trip, as if working 19-hour days would distract us from missing the friendly cream-colored cat.

We’re in the Pacific Northwest now, with even more distractions. Still, I find myself looking at the photos of Buttercup Not-My-Cat — of which we have way too many — and thinking, “Yes. For a short time, you were my cat. Thank you.”

It was a fleece jacket.

That’s when we decided we’ve been away from home for too long. I sat down at the computer, sweat rolling off my nose onto the keyboard, and bought airline tickets to Seattle. We arrive at midnight on July 8th.

Don’t get me wrong — I love it here in Beaufort. We are surrounded by wonderful people, and it’s beautiful here on the water. But with the thermometer hovering around 100 degrees, we find ourselves spending too much time sitting around, panting, and not enough time working. Sure, we could rush and get the boat in the water, just in time for the worst of hurricane season. It’s not worth it.

There have been a number of other clues that we’ve been away too long, too. I was down below on Dick’s boat last week, up at the marina in New Bern, and a wake caused the boat to rock. Dick and Barry laughed at the startled look on my face, but I was mortified. I’ve been on the hard too long — it’s time to get on some boats that are floating.

Then there are the cats. Five little kitties, becoming more attached to us each day — it’s like growing feline roots. Time to go and let others take care of them!

So I let my mind wander, and I came up with ten more reasons why we need to come home:

1. Mom and Dad have some Big Birthdays to celebrate.
2. We heard Dave is having some trouble with the Atomic 4 on Whisper. He’s been forced to sail in and out of Shilshole all this time. (kidding!)
3. Ben needs a new F.E.
4. Nancy needs someone to chicken-sit. Don’t you love that term? Chicken-sit!
5. Leilani is incarcerated in the hospital and needs to be sprung.
6. Bill says we only painted half of his house in 2007 and need to paint the rest. He’s willing to pay us in Killer Oatmeal and Coffee Herbies.
7. I need to hear my favorite chiropractor say, “What the heck have you been doing to your body?”
8. I’m dying for some dim sum. And Sichuanese green beans. And a bubble tea! Chinatown, here I come.
9. Two people in Wallingford owe me money. Maybe this should be reason number one?
10. I’m at risk of going native here: Ah seem t’be acquirin’ a Suthin’ accent and a SUNTAN!

The 2009 Meps’n'Barry Pacific Northwest Tour runs from July 8th to mid-September, with a trip to Burning Man the first week of September. We plan to stay with Barry’s folks on Camano Island part of the time, and we’ll be doing two chicken-sits in Seattle, too.

The biggest question right now is where to go from the airport and how to get there. Our tiny east coast brains will think it’s 3 am, so we’re likely to be pretty weird and interesting. Are there any night owls out there who might rescue us from SeaTac and let us surf their couch for a night?

And if you can think of any other reasons why we need to go home, please share them on the blog as comments!

Then we carefully went through the boat, stowing our fiberglass tools and boatyard-skanky clothes and our dorm-sized refrigerator inside. We removed all loose items from the deck and the area around our jackstands, set off a bug bomb inside to eradicate the palmetto bugs, and locked the companionway. The last thing we did was take down the ladder.

And then I turned the key, and the Squid Wagon did not start.

How is it that an inanimate object, a simple dumb non-sentient vehicle, can know that we are about to ask it to drive 6000 miles? Whoever heard of a lazy van?

But Squidley knew that we were about to head on a cross-country road trip, and instead of a giant diesel-sized roar, there was just a tiny whimper.

Luckily, Kenny Bock keeps a portable charger for such emergencies, which probably occur every few days around boats. We got the van started, I got hugs from all my favorite guys in the yard (that’s Randy, Larry, and Dale) and we headed west.

In truth, we’d simply run the batteries down with the dome lights while doing all that packing. Once Squidley realized that we really were heading all the way to Nevada with a deconstructed port-a-potty strapped on top, he decided to cooperate.

As I write this, we’re driving across Utah on I-80. The sunshine on the Great Salt Lake is achingly beautiful, and there are many sailboats out there.

The sails don’t tempt us at all. We continue on, away from the water and toward the Nevada desert.

Our first encounter with other pilgrims was in the middle of Nebraska, in a Cabela’s parking lot. When we came out, we found a note on our windshield: “We shall see you at the gates of heaven.” It was in response to one we’d left on a New York van on our way into the store: “See you at home!” We never actually saw them, only their vehicle, which featured mountain bikes and (the dead giveaway) a large Burning Man logo.

Our next encounter was on I-80, somewhere in Wyoming. At the Squid Wagon’s usual 60 mph, we rarely pass anyone, but some Burners travel even slower, laden with art and gas cans and misshapen trailers of curious gear. Last night, we honked and waved as we slowly passed a converted shool bus with dozens of hula-hoops strapped to the back.

We’re all excited and happy to be going to Black Rock City, that amazing temporary city of 50,000 people, where Burning Man is held. We come from all over the world, from Australia and Scotland and New York and San Francisco and Seattle and, of course, North Carolina. We bring art and costumes and food and drink to share, and we bring a spirit of freedom and generosity not found anywhere else in the world.

As usual, our voyage across the country to this amazing event included a lot of stops along the way. We started with my brother in North Carolina, then detoured to Ohio to see a whole passel of friends, siblings, in-laws, and nephews. This was followed by a stop with my aunts, where we stayed in a convent crammed into a twin bed (there’s no reason for a double bed in a convent, evidently).

Best of all was the shopping, which started during a rendezvous with Margaret’s Dad in South Carolina and ended during a rendezvous with Barry’s Mom and Dad in Nevada. The list included Lucite platform shoes, pink knee-high boots, inflatable aliens, and 8 packages of tofu. We’ll have to write more about that — and the port-a-potty on our roof, and the original Tin Roof Sundae, and the tag-team oil change — later, when we emerge from our week-long communications blackout.

Through it all, Squidley has started each day with a giant roar and that diesel rumble that sounds like a UPS truck. I think that van has a sense of humor, and has been laughing at us all the way across the country.

We have lived aboard for several-month periods before, but never on our own boat. The longest period was seven months, with Brian on Cayenne, and shorter times on Vger, Complexity, and Indigo. We even lived on Flutterby briefly while we did insurance company-required repairs and transported it from South Carolina to North Carolina. But we always had our “home” elsewhere, or if not an entire “home,” we had something like 75% of our stuff in storage.

This time, it is different. We don’t have anything but a few boxes of photographs, wedding china, and other irreplaceable memories–we have all the things we need right here with us, either on the boat or packed up inside the Squid Wagon. And this time, moving aboard took us by surprise–we thought we knew what living aboard is all about, but life always smacks you in the face with a lesson pretty quick.

Before we arrived in the boatyard, I had been thinking of all the projects we had to do to make Flutterby ready to cruise, starting with re-finishing the bottom and fixing leaking hardware in the deck, along with any damage it had done. It has now been four full days and the only project we have completed is plumbing the icebox drain so it gets pumped overboard instead of draining into the bilge.

What have we been doing? Trying to carry our stuff up the ladder from Squidley into the boat, and find a place for it inside.

It didn’t take us three days to succumb. In fact, we would have done it in two and a half, if our cellphone had better signal in the boatyard. We are now the proud renters of a storage unit. I hope that when we are ready to sail we can fit everything aboard, but for now, this is the cheapest way to protect our sanity that I can think of.

Dear Gullible Friend,

Yesterday, I talked with a friend who was reading about the “I Love Lucy” show on the Internet. Why she was searching for “I Love Lucy,” I don’t know, but it might be related to the fact that, like yours truly, this friend is currently unencumbered by the employment process.

She found an article on Wikipedia that answered her Lucy questions, but it also left her puzzled and confused. According to Wikipedia, there was a pornographic version of the “I Love Lucy” show, called “I Love Lucy All Over.” My friend asked, “Isn’t that amazing? But don’t you think we would have heard of it, if it’s really true?”

When she found the page, she bookmarked it, so she could show it to her husband when he returned home that evening.

You can imagine what happened. The page came up, with no reference to Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz’s pornographic films. And her husband thought she was crazy.

My friend isn’t crazy. The problem is with Wikipedia.

A Wiki is a web page that can be edited, at any time, by any person. As Barry says, “Any idiot could write an article for Wikipedia.” It’s very susceptible to vandalism.

A couple of years ago, a friend of my father’s, John Seigenthaler, discovered a biography of himself on Wikipedia that he says amounted to “Internet character assassination.” The article said, “John Seigenthaler Sr. was the assistant to Attorney General Robert Kennedy in the early 1960′s. For a brief time, he was thought to have been directly involved in the Kennedy assassinations of both John, and his brother, Bobby. Nothing was ever proven.”

For this close friend of Bobby Kennedy, such an accusation was sick, false, and malicious.

Seigenthaler discovered that he had little recourse. Wikipedia removed the entry, but other sites, such as Answers.com and Reference.com had already copied the spurious entry and were touting it as fact. Wikipedia and BellSouth, whose anonymous user had posted the entry, were immune to a libel suit over the matter.

Being a moderately famous retired newspaper editor, Seigenthaler raised a hue and cry in USA Today. Wikipedia and BellSouth didn’t lift a finger to help, but an internet activist named Daniel Brandt, who takes on outfits like Wikipedia and Google, used the IP address to trace the article to its source. The guy who wrote the false article admitted that it was a joke, saying that he didn’t think people took Wikipedia seriously. He apologized, and he lost his job.

The lesson here is not to wish Wikipedia was more reliable. The lesson, my gullible friend, is to take Wikipedia — and the web in general — at face value:

• It’s entertainment.
• Some of it is true.
• Some of it is not true.
• It publishes information that gets picked up by other sites, who think it’s all true.

Luckily for my friend, Barry showed us where old versions of Wikipedia can be found in the history section of the site. The entry on “I Love Lucy All Over” is here: http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=I_Love_Lucy&oldid=163671874

As Barry said, “You weren’t crazy — you really did read it. You were gullible, however if you believed it And if you went looking to buy the DVD on Amazon afterwards, you were REALLY gullible!

“Have fun, and don’t believe everything you read on the internet!”

Unreliable sources included Wikipedia.

Entertainment provided by the Uncyclopedia, the Content-Free Encyclopedia.