I am looking forward to Monday's Carnival of Genealogy, to be hosted by Lee Anders at A Matter of Life or Death. The topic is genealogical blunders—something I really have no experience with. The closest I can come is this:
A few years ago, I was out scouting for cemeteries in Oxford County, Maine—a part of the state known for its lovely scenery and poor road maintenance. I had located several promising graveyards beforehand, and plotted my course in the Maine atlas I keep duct-taped to my steering wheel. The yards lay in two adjoining towns with no tarred road between, but the map showed an unpaved shortcut that would save me fifteen miles.I set out in my 1991 Geo Prizm to follow the shortcut, but soon discovered that the road was not so much a road as a series of ruts, moose wallows, and very pointy rocks. After driving half a mile, I determined that the 1991 Geo Prizm is a vehicle ill suited to off-road travel. After another half mile, I decided that I would never see civilization again. I steered with one hand and with the other scribbled my last will and testament in the dashboard dust.
The road offered no opportunities to turn around, but I had no intention of turning around. To turn around would be to admit defeat, and a real man will never admit defeat while there is still a chance of failing even more spectacularly.
After miles of slow, jaw-crunchingly bumpy driving, I saw signs of hope. First a hunter's cabin, then a summer camp, and finally a year-round home. I wept and kissed my atlas as the road turned from dirt to tar. I saw a sign to my left. Looking over my shoulder as I drove past, I read: "Road Closed."

Thank you for the plug, Chris! The story ain't none too bad either. Actually, as usual, it made me roll with laughter, and I appreciate that part of it too.
~ Lee