Category: fun things

The Union for International Cancer Control (UICC) designated February 4 as World Cancer Day. It’s a day dedicated to raising awareness of cancer (including prevention, early detection, and treatment) and supporting fundraising efforts for cancer research. I’ve had numerous friends and relatives with cancer, including some who overcame it and some who did not. That’s true of most of us, isn’t it? It’s a terrible disease, and especially tragic when it can be avoided but isn’t. (Don’t smoke! Wear sunscreen! Get your kids HPV vaccines!) And if you can, donate money to a worthy organization such as the American Cancer Society today.

Image credit: NIH Image Gallery [Public Domain], via Flickr

The mirror of Venice

Years ago, on our first trip to Europe, Morgen and I tried very hard to visit as many sites as possible on our “must-see” list, which meant very short stops and lots of travel time. Venice was one of those obligatory stops, and we were both very sad to leave after only a few days, during which we had managed to see just a tiny sliver of the city. I was impressed by the canals, the architecture, the churches, the museums, and the omnipresent music (everywhere we turned, some little chamber orchestra was playing Vivaldi)—as well as the friendly and accommodating locals. We had no real plan other than to wander around and see what there was to see—which was a shame, because with a bit more foresight we might have planned a visit to nearby Murano, the suburb responsible for keeping Venice’s finest gift shops stocked.

The Spittin’ Image

Murano is a cluster of five small, closely spaced islands in the Venetian lagoon, less than 2 miles (about 3km) north of the city of Venice. Murano’s islands, like those of Venice, are linked by bridges and separated by canals; in fact, nearly everything about the town seems to be an extension of its much larger neighbor nearby. That in itself makes Murano an interesting and picturesque place, but it’s best known for its legendary glass craftsmen.

Glassmaking in Venice dates back to at least the 10th century CE, and possibly as early as the 5th century. But by the late 1200s, the production of glass objects was the city’s major industry. Not only did Venetians produce lots of glass, they also made glass of the very finest quality. And the city’s leaders went to great lengths to protect the profitability of this industry and ensure the city’s dominance in the glass trade. A 1271 law prohibited the importation of foreign glass or the employment of foreign glassworkers. In 1291, yet another law required that all furnaces used for glassmaking be moved out of Venice proper and onto the islands of Murano. The usual reason given for this move was to minimize the danger of fire, as the city’s buildings were mostly wood. But a more likely explanation was a desire to keep the city’s glass craftsmen sequestered in a single, more easily monitored location where trade secrets could be prevented from finding their way into the wrong hands.

This theory is borne out by the 1295 edict that Venetian glassmakers may not leave the city; those who attempted to leave were threatened with grievous bodily harm. On the other hand, people who worked in the glass trade were at least rewarded handsomely for their efforts. The Venetian government accorded the artisans special social and legal privileges that gave them status rivaling that of the moneyed aristocracy. This carrot-and-stick motivation worked, and glassmakers passed on their secrets to their offspring for generation after generation—giving Venice a near-monopoly in quality glass products throughout Europe that lasted for centuries.

Murano glassmakers traditionally created pieces that were primarily functional rather than decorative—but with such skill and artistry that the distinction often blurred. Though they were best known for their blown glass work, they also had special expertise in making mirrors and developed a number of innovative techniques, particularly involving colored glass.

Refilling the Glass

By the 17th century, though, Murano began to lose its mojo. A combination of political changes in Venice and technological advances elsewhere resulted in greater competitive pressure, and the Murano glass trade waned, nearly to the point of extinction. In the mid-1800s, Murano glassmaking underwent a renaissance, thanks in large part to the efforts of Antonio Salviati, a businessman who specialized in selling the glass tiles used to refurbish Venice’s many mosaics. This trend was later boosted by the tourist industry, which has kept Murano’s glassmakers busy ever since.

Today, Murano glassmakers produce stunningly elaborate art pieces that sell for outrageous sums, as well as smaller decorative articles, including jewelry. But although these are the flashiest products, Murano factories also turn out mirrors, lenses, glassware, and other conventional glass items. In a town legendary for its artwork, Murano glass is the clear leader.

Note: This is an updated version of an article that originally appeared on Interesting Thing of the Day on April 8, 2005.

Image credit: Vassil [CC0], from Wikimedia Commons

My feelings about carrot cake could best be described as indifferent. I find it entirely edible. I don’t really…understand it, I guess? I can’t quite imagine the circumstances under which someone came up with the idea. Like, you’ve got the makings for cake, and you just want to punch it up a bit. Of the hundreds of ingredients one might choose for that purpose, carrots would simply never occur to me. They’re kind of boring, and just an odd flavor and texture choice for cake. There are certainly vegetables that would make a worse choice—green beans, fennel, and broccoli, to choose three random vegetables I’m happy to eat on their own, would go less well in cake. But surely there are even better alternatives, like literally any fruit, or any of numerous spices, or (to state the obvious) chocolate? However, if you have to eat carrot cake, today’s the day.

Image credit: Elitre [CC BY-SA 4.0], from Wikimedia Commons

The strange ritual of marmot meteorology

On February 2 of each year, everyone in the United States (and in numerous other countries) who reads, listens to, or watches the news is guaranteed to encounter at least one story about Groundhog Day. The stories will be exactly the same as the ones from last year, the year before, and every year for more than half a century. At around 7:30 A.M., Punxsutawney Phil emerges reluctantly from his comfy quarters in a small Pennsylvania town and, with a crowd of tens of thousands watching, either sees his shadow or doesn’t. The crowd, now informed as to whether or not they must endure six more weeks of winter, celebrates for a few hours and heads home.

The news stories repeat, for the umpteenth time, that this ritual has been going on since 1887, though it has been a public event only since 1966. They often point out that the rodent called “groundhog” (Marmota monax) is a type of marmot also known as the woodchuck or whistle pig. They also, without fail, mention the 1993 romantic comedy staring Bill Murray and Andie MacDowell in which Murray’s character gets stuck in a bizarre time loop that forces him to relive Groundhog Day thousands of times in a row. The stories may even reiterate the obviously false official proclamations that there has only ever been one Punxsutawney Phil all these years (despite the fact that a groundhog’s average lifespan is only about 10 years in captivity and half that in the wild); that the predictions are not rigged in advance; and that Phil is always correct.

Profit from the Prophet

I’d like to tell you how interesting I think this all is, but here at Interesting Thing of the Day we have higher standards. Let’s face it: this story has gotten kind of old. If this odd ritual occurred less frequently—say, every seven years—then perhaps it would be more interesting. If that which is predicted were of greater moment—say, a nationwide famine or bumper crop—that would be much more interesting. And, of course, if there were some ineffable scientific or metaphysical principle on display—say, a genuine 100% accuracy rate—that would be very, very interesting indeed. None of these things, alas, is true. This silly event is just for fun, and few people bother to pretend otherwise. After perusing dozens of websites, though, I was able to piece together a single factoid that makes me go “Hmmmm”—but it will require some explanation. The factoid is this: Phil’s predictions are statistically significant—the odds that they’ll be wrong are far greater than would be the case if they were completely random. In other words, bet against Phil every year, and over the long run you’ll turn a tidy profit.

As you may have guessed, it’s not quite that simple. The legend gives us two options: the groundhog sees his shadow, in which case winter will last another six weeks; or the groundhog does not see his shadow, in which case spring will arrive soon. Clearly, there are other possibilities. Winter may last for another five weeks, or four, or seven. The temperature may rise for a week but then fall again. Or it may hover in that ill-defined gray zone between “winter-like” and “spring-like” for weeks on end. How exactly does one determine definitively whether, or when, “winter” has ended (apart from looking at a calendar)? And supposing we work that out, how do we judge the results? If Phil predicts six more weeks of winter and there are five, was he right or wrong? What if he does not see a shadow but spring does not arrive in full force until three weeks later? Obviously, this indeterminacy enables groundhog fans to spin the facts in any way that pleases them.

Nevertheless, numerous news organizations, in a heroic attempt to create novel content about this ritual, have applied a variety of logical and meteorological standards in order to tease meaningful statistics out of the past century-plus of prognostications. The results—depending on how and when the calculations were performed—show that Phil has been right, on average, between 25% and 45% of the time. (For example, a recent review of the data just since 1988 gave Phil a 45% hit rate, whereas another one from a few years back pegged it at 40% and a journal article from 2001 estimated only 28% accuracy.) That, if you ask me, is a truly extraordinary negative correlation. Considering it’s the weather we’re talking about, I’d take those odds.

Grounds for Dismissal

The myth of Groundhog Day is rooted in old Scottish and English rhymes involving Candlemas Day, which falls halfway between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox. According to the Continental tradition that gave rise to these rhymes, if the weather is cold and clear on this day, the cold will last; if it’s cloudy, the weather will soon turn. Groundhogs looking for their shadows are nothing but a convenient, folktale-friendly proxy. Supposing this story is somehow based in fact, it clearly must be a climate-specific fact. What may have been true centuries ago in Scotland, for example, may be all but meaningless in central Pennsylvania today. As a matter of fact, the very opposite appears to be much closer to the truth.

But then, from what I can tell, the presence, absence, or clarity of an actual shadow is sort of a moot point on Gobbler’s Knob in Punxsutawney on February 2. Phil provides his prediction in “Groundhogese”; the guy in the black top hat renders the official “translation.” More often than not, the verdict is yes: there was a shadow; six more weeks of winter. Giving Phil and his handlers the benefit of the doubt here, and supposing complete shadow-reporting integrity, we might guess that Phil’s startling inaccuracy is a simple matter of geography. Some of Phil’s counterparts, after all, such as Chester in St. Louis and New York’s Staten Island Chuck, boast accuracy rates of up to 85%. But there may be a more insidious explanation. I think Phil really does know the score but purposely lies, in protest for being dragged out of bed and into the cold. Either that or some human speaks very poor Groundhogese.

Note: This is an updated version of an article that originally appeared on Interesting Thing of the Day on February 2, 2005.

Image credit: Anthony Quintano [CC BY 2.0], via Wikimedia Commons

Yes, yes, I know, today is also Groundhog Day. (Wait, wasn’t it Groundhog Day just yesterday?) But there are more important things to think about today than a marmot and a shadow. Like food! In the United States, crêpes tend to be thought of as a fancy dessert food, but during the years I lived in Paris, I came to think of them more as cheap, ubiquitous street food—with either sweet or savory toppings/fillings. In any case, crêpes are delicious, super quick and easy to make, and appropriate for any meal. Enjoy one (or two) today—no matter how much longer winter is predicted to last.

Image credit: PxHere

The convenient, pocket-sized, battery-powered hoax

I like to think that I’m a reasonably open-minded person—neither credulous nor rigidly skeptical. When a friend of mine told me he saw ghosts, I didn’t try to convince him he was hallucinating; I believe that he had some sort of genuine experience for which the terminology and imagery of “ghosts” provided an appropriate description. I would be reluctant to say that what he saw were really spirits of the departed, but then, things are frequently not what they seem; lacking solid evidence one way or another, there’s no point in being dogmatic.

There are some things, though, that lots of people persist in believing in the face of serious counterevidence. I am speaking, of course, of the decades-old meme that you can keep mosquitos away by using a little electronic gadget that emits ultrasonic sound. Let me get straight to the point: they don’t work. They have been scientifically proven not to work again and again over a period of quite a few years. Yet somehow manufacturers keep making them and people keep buying them, because the claim that they should work seems so plausible (and because they get an astonishing number of fake 5-star reviews on Amazon). As a public service, then, I’d like to tell you the truth about ultrasonic mosquito repellers.

Animal Magnetism

I have always been popular with the girls—female mosquitoes, that is. I don’t know if it’s my charming demeanor or the irresistible smell of Earl Grey tea on my breath, but somehow, if there is a single mosquito buzzing around a crowd of a hundred people, it always manages to find me. My skin is quite sensitive to mosquito bites, too; they turn into big, ugly, insanely itchy welts that don’t go away for days. Fortunately, I live in an area where there are relatively few mosquitoes, but when I’m in, say, Costa Rica in the winter or Saskatchewan in the summer, mosquito avoidance is always a top priority. If I’m staying put, tactics like mosquito netting, citronella candles, and mosquito coils work well, but when I’m moving around there’s no good choice but to cover myself with some sort of mosquito repellent. DEET-based repellents, while effective, are greasy, smell horrible, and supposedly find their way into your bloodstream quite quickly, where they can’t be especially healthy. Newer, more natural alternatives are safer and less offensive to the senses, but it’s still no fun to smear the stuff all over my exposed skin (and keep reapplying every hour or so).

So one summer, I bought myself an ultrasonic mosquito repeller. The package claimed this tiny, battery-powered device was “safe and effective,” and I figured it was worth finding out if I could get relief without all the chemicals. When I took the device out of its package, the first thing I noticed was that it had not only an on-off switch but also a frequency dial. I thought that was odd; wasn’t it supposed to be some precise frequency that drove mosquitoes away? But perhaps I was just thinking about the device in a technologically unsophisticated way.

I took the repeller outside and went to an area that I knew to be popular with mosquitoes. I flipped the switch, and within a few seconds a mosquito approached me, hovering about a foot away. I slowly turned the dial from one frequency extreme to the other; the mosquito was unfazed. I thought it was perhaps a question of range, so I held the device as close as I could to the mosquito. Even an inch away, it had no effect. Finally the mosquito landed on the little black box in my hand and I decided the experiment had been definitively concluded.

Sales Pitch

The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency and numerous universities have performed tests to determine if or how well various ultrasonic repellers work. In most cases, the tests showed no difference between using the device and using no protection; in the least successful experiments, use of ultrasonic devices increased the number of bites. And the U.S. Federal Trade Commission has clamped down on manufacturers making unsupported claims about these products. So what makes people think they should work, and why don’t they?

Some animals are sensitive to sounds pitched higher than the range of human hearing; ultrasonic whistles are used when training dogs and circus animals, for example, and bats use echolocation to navigate and hunt. The theory behind ultrasonic mosquito repellers is that there is some frequency, or range of frequencies, that mosquitoes can hear—and find distasteful enough to stay away from. For example, some manufacturers claim their devices mimic the sound made by a male mosquito’s wings, the theory being that females who have already mated would try to stay away from them (though it turns out they do not). Others say their devices emit sounds at the same frequency as the wing beats of dragonflies or bats, the mosquitoes’ natural enemies. Unfortunately, the sounds made by dragonflies and bats have no effect on mosquito behavior in the real world. They don’t prevent mosquitoes from becoming lunch for their predators, and they don’t protect you from becoming dinner for the mosquitoes.

Ultrasonic mosquito repellers do one thing remarkably well, however: survive. They have maintained their uncanny ability to transfer money from the pockets of consumers into manufacturers’ bank accounts in the face of terrible odds. Alas, this is a meme that deserves to die. Save your money and rent a copy of The Sixth Sense or The Mosquito Coast.

Note: This is an updated version of an article that originally appeared on Interesting Thing of the Day on July 27, 2003, and again in a slightly revised form on September 5, 2004.

Image credit: Public Domain Files

Baked Alaska is one of a small class of magical desserts that are both hot and cold. To make a baked Alaska, you put a mound of hard ice cream on top of some sponge cake, cover the whole apparatus with a layer of meringue, and either pop it in an extremely hot oven very briefly, or use a kitchen blowtorch to caramelize the meringue. Either way, the ice cream stays cold and solid because the meringue serves as an insulator for the short period of time heat is applied. (Mexican fried ice cream gives you a similar effect with a different technique, and there are a few other clever ways of combining hot and cold in a single dish.) If you need to recover from Eat Brussels Sprouts Day, eating a baked Alaska is a dandy antidote.

Image credit: Isabelle Hurbain-Palatin [CC BY-SA 2.0], via Flickr

Taxidermy heaven in Paris

On a trip to Paris in 2003, a large number of transit and public utility workers were on strike. Strikes of this kind are extremely common in France; a week when no one is on strike would be considered strange. In any case, a lot of people weren’t showing up for work, either because the subways weren’t running or because they were participating in demonstrations on the streets. As a result, museums and other attractions were forced to scale back their hours of operation. After leaving the Musée d’Orsay early, we had some time to kill on the left bank, and we took the opportunity to look up a nearby shop Morgen had read about.

In Paris to the Moon, Adam Gopnik describes the five years he spent living as an expatriate in Paris along with his wife and young son. (Hey! I did that too!) One of their favorite places to go on rainy days was a strange and fascinating shop called Deyrolle on the Rue du Bac. Deyrolle could be described as a taxidermy shop, but that doesn’t begin to do it justice, and besides, taxidermy shops are not exactly a dime a dozen—especially in Paris.

The Dead Zone

When we arrived at Deyrolle, we couldn’t determine if it was even open for business. At street level, there were large glass display cases on either side of the door; beyond that, a dark foyer. There was no sign saying “Ouvert,” no lights on, no people, no signs of life. In fact that last point should have been the tip-off that everything was normal. We tried the door; it opened. There was a creaky old staircase ahead of us, and we tentatively mounted the stairs. When we got to the top we were greeted by the reassuring glow of fluorescent lights, and the somewhat less reassuring sight of a moose staring at us.

I had always thought of taxidermy as a craft marketed rather narrowly to hunters wishing to display their prized trophies. At Deyrolle, no animal is too exotic, or too ordinary, to be stuffed. You’ll walk past lions, tigers, zebras, and a giraffe, not to mention a polar bear, a hyena, a badger, and a baboon. But you’ll also find every imaginable barnyard animal, as well as birds, deer, rabbits, and so on. The animals are scattered throughout the store as though they were customers, and they are for the most part extremely lifelike, sometimes eerily so. Some of the more exotic animals are for display only, but most are available for sale or for rent. That’s right: you can rent a dead zebra, elephant, or bear for your next party.

Take This Pet and Stuff It

The shop was founded in 1831 by Emile Deyrolle, and it moved to its current location—the former home of Louis XIV’s banker—in 1881. It is now owned by a company called Le Prince Jardinier that runs a number of specialty household goods stores. Most of the people who walk into Deyrolle are there mainly to browse, though the store does a fairly brisk business in mounted butterflies, beetles, and other insects, as well as rocks, fossils, and a variety of educational products. It is, however, a functioning taxidermy operation, and for a few hundred euros you can have your household pet stuffed when it expires. Deyrolle politely declines requests by humans to have their mortal remains stuffed and mounted; I heartily agree with the wisdom of this policy.

When we first visited Deyrolle, it looked as if it had changed little in the last hundred-plus years. Like its products, it seemed to be in a perpetually immobile yet lifelike state. But on February 1, 2008 (just months after we moved to Paris), a major fire tragically destroyed a significant portion of Deyrolle’s collection. With the help of numerous generous artists, the building and much of its contents were quickly restored, and the shop reopened in May of that year. It’s now a little bit…shiny for my tastes (you can see for yourself in a virtual tour on Deyrolle’s website), but still as weird and endearing as ever.

Current laws make it virtually impossible for a taxidermist to obtain the kinds of large, exotic animals that were once Deyrolle’s main trade (there are some exceptions, such as animals that died of old age at a zoo). That’s probably just as well; it’s a rather discomfiting notion given modern sensibilities about wildlife preservation. But the store is still well worth a visit for the sheer strangeness of it all.

Note: This is an updated version of an article that originally appeared on Interesting Thing of the Day on October 9, 2003, and again in a slightly revised form on September 28, 2004.

Image credit: saragoldsmith [CC BY 2.0], via Flickr

Brussels sprouts were high on my “yucky” list as a kid, although—as is usually the case—I hadn’t ever tried them. Indeed, I somehow managed never to consume a Brussels sprout until well into my 40s. When I finally found myself in a restaurant with Brussels sprouts on my plate, I decided reluctantly to take the plunge, and…oh wow. This is what I’ve been missing all these years? I was shocked. They didn’t taste anything like I expected them to. They were amazing. And I’ve been eating them ever since. (They’re especially good roasted, with a bit of olive oil, salt, and bacon crumbles.) Interestingly, I had almost exactly the same experience, around the same time, with sauerkraut—and cabbage, after all, is a close relative of Brussels sprouts (the former is essentially a miniature version of the latter). I will be eating more today!

Image credit: Marco Verch [CC BY 2.0], via Flickr

Nova Scotia’s notorious money pit

Canada’s maritime provinces may not be the first place you think of when you hear the words “buried treasure,” but for over 200 years, treasure hunters have had their eyes on tiny Oak Island in Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia. Over the years, millions of dollars have been spent—and at least six lives lost—in repeated attempts to excavate one of the world’s most infamous alleged treasure sites. What could be worth so much effort? Possibly an enormous cache of gold and silver, ancient manuscripts, or…nothing at all.

Can You Dig It?

The story begins in 1795, when a boy was wandering around on the island and found a curious depression in the ground. Right above this depression was an old tackle block hanging from the limb of a large oak tree, as though someone had used it to lower something heavy into a hole. Having heard stories about pirates frequenting the area in centuries past, the boy immediately suspected buried treasure. He returned the following day with two friends and began digging. A few feet down, the boys found a layer of flagstones; 10 feet below that was a wooden platform. Both of these markers strongly suggested the hole was man-made. They kept going, but by the time they reached 30 feet, they realized there was no end in sight and called it quits.

Several years later, having secured some financing and additional help, they returned, this time digging to more than 90 feet—hitting several additional wooden platforms on the way down. At 90 feet they found a stone inscribed with strange symbols they could not decipher. (Later, some would claim that the symbols were a cipher for “Forty feet below two million pounds are buried,” but that stone was soon, conveniently, lost.) Just below that was a layer of mud. Probing down into the mud with a crowbar, they hit another solid surface—perhaps another wooden platform, or perhaps a treasure vault. But when they returned the next day, the shaft had filled with 60 feet of water, which foiled all attempts at bailing. Shortly thereafter, they tried to dig a parallel shaft, thinking they’d get below the treasure and tunnel in horizontally—but this second shaft filled with water as well. The first crew of treasure hunters abandoned their dig.

In 1849, a second group attempted an excavation. Then another, and another, and another. Each time, treasure hunters made some intriguing discovery, but each time, their attempts to go deeper were frustrated—by flooding, cave-ins, accidental deaths, and other misfortunes. On several occasions, workers attempted to drill into the earth beneath the water that filled the pit, and the drills brought up some interesting fragments—a piece of gold chain here, some wood there…and a small scrap of parchment that had one or two letters written on it. The evidence suggested that below more layers of earth and wood was an empty space—a vault containing chests, perhaps with gold coins inside. But these were just educated guesses, because no one could actually get down to them. Some attempts to widen or deepen the hole—or to get at the treasure indirectly through other holes—caused whatever the drill bits had hit to sink even farther down. The diggers eventually realized that the flooding was due to two or more horizontal tunnels that ran to the shore, and had seemingly been dug as booby traps. Unfortunately, repeated attempts to block those tunnels also failed. By the early 20th century, so many large holes had been created that the original location of the so-called money pit was no longer certain.

Excavations using modern equipment in the 1930s enlarged the main hole greatly, but still nothing of value was found. In the decades since, various groups have made additional attempts to unearth the treasure, digging ever larger and deeper holes, and although more intriguing objects have been uncovered, there’s still no definitive proof that there is, or was, a treasure there. Following years of legal disputes about the ownership of the land and the rights to any treasure that may be buried there, agreements were finally reached among various parties with a financial stake in the site and the provincial government. Excavation work is ongoing, and has been documented on the History Channel’s series The Curse of Oak Island since 2014.

Getting to the Bottom of It

Over the centuries, dozens of theories have been advanced as to what the Oak Island treasure really is. One popular theory holds that it’s Captain Kidd’s fortune—or that of some other pirate. Another says it’s the lost treasure of the Knights Templar. Some say (based apparently on that one tiny piece of parchment) that it’s Shakespeare’s original manuscripts. Others say it must be the Holy Grail. Although proponents of each of these theories make persuasive arguments as to why they must be correct, a recurring theme is that any treasure hidden so carefully and protected so elaborately as to defy two centuries’ worth of determined treasure hunters must be unfathomably important.

Except that it apparently wasn’t important enough for whoever hid it to come back for it—or pass on information of its whereabouts to anyone else.

And that assumes there’s something hidden there in the first place. There might not be. There is some evidence to suggest that the original “pit,” as well as the tunnels that fed water into it, were actually natural formations, and that the wooden “platforms” found at various points were nothing more than dead trees that had fallen into a hole once upon a time. What of the tackle block? And the gold chain? And the parchment? And the stone with the mysterious message? Well, all these artifacts have disappeared, and even if someone produced them, it would be impossible to prove they came from the pit. They could have been planted; they could also have been imagined. At no point in the last 200 years was work on the site controlled or documented carefully as an archeological dig would have been. All we truly have are the reports of people who wanted desperately to believe they were about to find a fabulous treasure.

Perhaps some day, when the best technology has been brought to bear on the problem (or there’s nothing left of the island but a gigantic hole), the Oak Island Mystery will be resolved once and for all. But we may ultimately find that the only real money on Oak Island came from a TV show.

Note: This is an updated version of an article that originally appeared on Interesting Thing of the Day on March 23, 2005.

Image credit: Richard McCully [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons