Working in archaeology has served to expose me to a number of amusing, or at least memorable, events. Nothing akin to Indiana Jones’ adventures, but odd. Like the time I went with one of my archaeology professors, Dr. Grant Hall, to see about some human remains a farmer unearthed. Dr. Hall had received a call from a farmer, Ed, who told him he had found three human skulls pretty close together while he was plowing. So, Dr. Hall, three of his graduate students, and myself drove an hour west, off the Caprock and back on it again, to go see three skulls presumably belonging to a Native American burial. We were expecting the ground to be peppered with fragments of skeletal remains (broken by the plow), or prehaps flakes from making stone arrows and knives and some burned rocks from cooking features--run of the mill archaeological site stuff. And we expected to see three skulls sitting on top of the soil (or maybe on Ed's front porch). We got out there, met the land owner, Ed, who was wearing ragged trousers, a baseball cap, and was missing a few teeth, and sporting, quite proudly, a four inch scare across his brow which he later told us was due to a "terrible accident."
Ed recounted the finding of the skulls: "yep', he said, "I was plowing along with my 17" plow, deeper than I do usually, cuz, see, I wanted to git to some fresh soil, you know, turnin' the field over, and then I saw this white thing roll up and saw the eye sockets. well, that was a bit of a surprise, I tell you what. But I kep' on goin cuz I wasn't real sure it were a skull and I turned around at the end of the field here and plowed back this-a-way, and I git to where I saw the first skull and I turned up another. Well, now I was really kinda jittered, but I kep on goin' and I took another turn and around the same place, I turned up a third skull. Well I jist jumped out that tractor and ran and called the Sheriff cuz I didn't know what to think and they asked some questions and told me to call you."
We couldn't see the site from the driveway but it sounded like a burial ground. Exciting stuff. So, we pile into the back of Ed's truck and drive down a dirt rode and drive across the field and stop. We hop out. Dr. Hall hands us some pin flags and says "Now, don't pick anything up, just mark it." I had about twenty flags. We start walking out to where the land owner was pointing saying, "it's jist over here." I am not seeing anything on the ground, but I am not worried because there will at least be the three skulls to indicate a site, . . . right? We get over to where landowner Ed, insists he saw the skulls. We look around on the ground, nothing around, no fragments, no skulls.
Dr. Hall asks, "Where are they . . . the skulls?"
"Well," says Ed, "they got covered back up as I was plowing. You know," as if we'd been farmers all our lives, "They just turned over with the soil, they can't be too deep under."
Ah! We will have to dig a bit. So Dr. Hall goes back to his car and gets some shovels and a screen and in the mean time he sends us out to mark all the artifacts we can find on the surface of the field around the area. There was absolutely nothing, amazingly nothing, it would be hard to imagine such a lack of material remains. Dr. Hall returns, hands out shovels, arranges us students ever so many meters apart and says to us to "dig a 50 cm square pit, I'll tell you when to quit." I dig and he says to quit at a clay level, about 2 feet deep, with nothing in it. I start digging a new hole . . .and another hole . . .so all us students are are digging, Dr. Hall is digging, we dig ten . . .fifteen . . . thirty pits, all in this one area where Ed is dead certain he saw the skulls. Dr. Hall mutters under his breath about some psychological study of how easily people are mistaken by what they remember and yet are sure they remember exactly what they claim. I'm thinking, great, we're digging in the wrong place. We dig for about two hours and we're tired and blisters are appearing on our hands then one of the grad students has a "good" idea to use pokey sticks- a long rod with which to find pots-an old looters trick.
Ed says, "I have some iron rebar rods that'll do the trick".
Dr Hall replied, "we'd sure appreciate using them."
I'm thinking Dr Hall ought to speak for himself and where the hell is the water and why does the sun have to shine so bright? So Ed brings us a bunch of rods and we poke around in that farmers field for a couple more damn hours and my muscles are hurting, and my hand are blistering in new and improved places, and we are not finding jack and we ought to have a long time ago if anything were there and then I notice ole' Ed, who had finally started helping us an hour before, starts moving down the field about 30 or more yards and starts poking around. Hmmmmm, I think, not so sure about where he saw those skulls anymore. I glance at Dr. Hall, he's gives me a "we're in hell and we can't get up" look.
More poking, poking, poking, praying, praying, praying. Then, I look up and Dr. Hall is over there talking to Ed and Ed goes off to his house and Dr. Hall informs us Ed is going to replow the field. We take a break, drink some sodas. Dr. Hall says, in his wisened, experienced, story-telling tone of voice, "I've been on some wild goose chases in my time" provides us a dramatic pause and continues "and now ya'll have, too? He cackles. We curse him and all his children. Ed returns with his tractor and he plows and we walk behind looking at the soil as it's turning, trying to spy any damn bones at all. Nothing, an hour of this and nothing. Ed expands the region of interest to encompass a large amount of the field. Nothing. I am walking along, tired from walking and standing, my feet sinking into the soil, so soft, I could sleep here, rest, want to rest.
FINALLY, We give up on the plow and FINALLY, Dr. Hall decides we've done the best we can do and we ought to go home now.
Ed asks, "are ya gonna dig this weekend?"
You could almost hear the students thinking on excuses on why we won't be able to make it, but to our relief Dr. Hall says he doesn't have time. We get all the equipment rounded up and pile into Dr. Hall's station wagon. He starts again in his "I remember when" tone, telling us about his worst experiences - the time he tangled with poison ivy and how it covered his arms and legs and "when the rash started down my chest and stomach, I went to the doctor!" he also said he now knew what he should have asked that farmer before going out to investigate his claim . . .
"I should have asked, Ed, are you crazy?"
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Getting to Ginny
It could be that she’s so easy-going and accepting. Or, it could be that I’m just plain ornery. Either way, I used to find myself pushing the limits of Ginny’s patience time and time again. What a glorious friend to laugh off my playful attempts at irritation.
Diet Coke in a Can
I was sitting atop Ginny’s narrow bed sipping a diet coke one late winter afternoon. Plain old diet coke – before the days of caffeine free and vanilla and lime flavoring! Two huge pane glass windows overlooked a stretch of grass soggy from the melting snow. Naked yet hopeful trees lined a winding creek which was nothing more than run-off from the parking lot adjacent to the dorm. The cloud-less sky was beckoning blue, and I was antsy to go somewhere.
Wendy and Ginny were involved in something rather important, or so it seemed because they wouldn’t respond to my wanderlust pleading. There were books open and papers spread across the desk. There was music; there always was.
I began tapping my coke can against the wide window sill, first in rhythm with the music and then annoyingly out of sync. The details of what followed are not clear. Ginny probably has an accurate description! I do remember that I was driving everyone nuts including myself, but I refused to stop until Ginny begged me to stop (I think…). For some reason, Ginny wouldn’t lower herself to beg and so I continued. (I realize that there is absolutely no deeply insightful reason for this story. It is just one of those memories that cause me to belly laugh and long for the simple hours.)
At some point Wendy left the room. As with so many of my endeavors, I became bored with my own game and stopped the tapping. When Wendy returned, I switched strategies for a win and claimed that Ginny had pleaded for me to stop.
“Tell Wendy the truth,” Ginny kept saying over and over. I didn’t admit it then, but now the truth is out.
Diet Coke in a Can
I was sitting atop Ginny’s narrow bed sipping a diet coke one late winter afternoon. Plain old diet coke – before the days of caffeine free and vanilla and lime flavoring! Two huge pane glass windows overlooked a stretch of grass soggy from the melting snow. Naked yet hopeful trees lined a winding creek which was nothing more than run-off from the parking lot adjacent to the dorm. The cloud-less sky was beckoning blue, and I was antsy to go somewhere.
Wendy and Ginny were involved in something rather important, or so it seemed because they wouldn’t respond to my wanderlust pleading. There were books open and papers spread across the desk. There was music; there always was.
I began tapping my coke can against the wide window sill, first in rhythm with the music and then annoyingly out of sync. The details of what followed are not clear. Ginny probably has an accurate description! I do remember that I was driving everyone nuts including myself, but I refused to stop until Ginny begged me to stop (I think…). For some reason, Ginny wouldn’t lower herself to beg and so I continued. (I realize that there is absolutely no deeply insightful reason for this story. It is just one of those memories that cause me to belly laugh and long for the simple hours.)
At some point Wendy left the room. As with so many of my endeavors, I became bored with my own game and stopped the tapping. When Wendy returned, I switched strategies for a win and claimed that Ginny had pleaded for me to stop.
“Tell Wendy the truth,” Ginny kept saying over and over. I didn’t admit it then, but now the truth is out.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Memories
I’m so afraid of losing memories. Memories of carefree, intense, passionate youth. It’s happening – old memories replaced by newer ones. Heaviness of life covering over the hopefulness. Reality sinking dreams of the awestruck heart. And I want to grab on, railing against the loss. I want to live again through these memories. And all I can do is want, because time doesn’t wait.
Running the tunnels of my mind seems to be a constant past-time. Images pop into view, a bit hazy like old photos. I touch them gingerly and move on, hoping I’ll be able to find my way back somehow.
A Wendy Moment–
I had done something terrible to someone I loved madly. So deep was the hurt in both of us – he crept away and I was left with dramatic physical and emotional effects of what I’d done. My shoulders and neck burned with tension. My throat was so constricted that I was unable to swallow food. I woke up repeatedly in the night, choking for breath, my heart beating irregularly. My eyes, darkened by grief and lack of sleep, were heavy and dull. There was no one I trusted to share this burden with – until Wendy.
I was sitting on the lower-level steps of the university’s student union, waiting by the series of glass doors leading to the bus stop. Wendy slipped up behind me and sat down. I don’t remember her saying anything. She just looked at me. Perhaps she touched my arm, and I saw assurance and acceptance in her eyes. I asked, “Can you keep a secret?” She nodded. (And probably made some smart-ass remark! But, I value sarcasm, so I was sold.)
And out it spilled. No tears that I remember. Just a deep sense of relief; no more going it alone. I don’t recall what words of wisdom she shared – though I’m sure she did because Wendy generally likes to tell people what to do, especially me. ;-)
I knew at that moment that we would be holding-fast, loving-boldly friends forever. She is still the tender keeper of my secrets.
Running the tunnels of my mind seems to be a constant past-time. Images pop into view, a bit hazy like old photos. I touch them gingerly and move on, hoping I’ll be able to find my way back somehow.
A Wendy Moment–
I had done something terrible to someone I loved madly. So deep was the hurt in both of us – he crept away and I was left with dramatic physical and emotional effects of what I’d done. My shoulders and neck burned with tension. My throat was so constricted that I was unable to swallow food. I woke up repeatedly in the night, choking for breath, my heart beating irregularly. My eyes, darkened by grief and lack of sleep, were heavy and dull. There was no one I trusted to share this burden with – until Wendy.
I was sitting on the lower-level steps of the university’s student union, waiting by the series of glass doors leading to the bus stop. Wendy slipped up behind me and sat down. I don’t remember her saying anything. She just looked at me. Perhaps she touched my arm, and I saw assurance and acceptance in her eyes. I asked, “Can you keep a secret?” She nodded. (And probably made some smart-ass remark! But, I value sarcasm, so I was sold.)
And out it spilled. No tears that I remember. Just a deep sense of relief; no more going it alone. I don’t recall what words of wisdom she shared – though I’m sure she did because Wendy generally likes to tell people what to do, especially me. ;-)
I knew at that moment that we would be holding-fast, loving-boldly friends forever. She is still the tender keeper of my secrets.
Friday, June 04, 2004
Unearthing Archaeology
The three years at Texas Tech were a tumultuous time. Whereas I had previously been very sure that I wanted to be a physicist, I suddenly discovered it did not appeal to me and I was unsure about my future. I double majored in history and philosophy and loved both fields. I took wonderful history classes in European and American history – developing a love for Native American and Environmental history, but thoroughly enjoying my classes in the Protestant Reformation and Women in European History and the history of Science. Philosophy was equally thrilling and exposed me to ethics, aesthetics and logic. I was riled up by many a discussion and thought I would write a book about ethics and morals. I learned a lot about writing in history and philosophy (especially from one eccentric philosopher who commented sternly in my papers).
At the end of my fourth year, I took a Prehistory of Texas (archaeology) class. Extra credit for this class included an opportunity to go to Seminole Canyon state park and record rock art. The people who had gathered to record the rock art were members of the Texas Archaeological Society and came from a variety of backgrounds and were primarily in their 70s and full of life. We photographed and sketched the rock art on the canyon walls surrounded by the beautiful Transpecos desert landscape which was in full bloom. The joy effervescing from the people, the rock art whispering of prehistoric beliefs and lifeways, and the tremendous beauty of the desert overwhelmed me and I knew archaeology was for me. I went out on every possible volunteer opportunity to record rock art and excavate. That summer, I attended the Texas Tech Archaeological field school in San Saba county. I learned the basics of survey and excavation as well as how to maintain a field camp. Later that summer, I worked in Austin on the Burned Rock Midden Project, a lab job where I learned a good deal about artifacts and procedures. I graduated in May and immediately began my journey into the world of professional archaeology.
After I graduated, I immediately went to work for Texas Parks and Wildlife in Austin in their archaeology lab. I worked mostly with historic materials (lots of metal and glass) and found love and heartbreak in Austin. Only half a year later, I was hired for an excavation in Northeast Texas. The site turned out to be one of the largest Caddoan village sites ever found. That excavation took a year of my life, living in Longview, Texas. I made a number of friends, played a lot of pool, sung a little karoke, and learned a tremendous amount about excavating the stains left by the posts of Caddo houses and troweling very hard baked red clay. This Caddoan village site, the Oak Hill Village site, was located on Texas Utility Mining Company (TUMCO) property. It was originally thought to be a small site with a midden (trash dump) and not a significant site. It turned out to have over 40 structures and ended up costing TUMCO a lot more than they had planned . . . upon learning this, TUMCO unceremoniously told us to quit digging, pack up, and leave. Under Federal laws, TUMCO is required to assess the cultural resources on its property and to mitigate (dig) sites of any significance or to leave them undisturbed. With the ballooning costs of the excavation, TUMCO suddenly thought it would be better to fence the site off and leave it unexcavated. This was a knee-jerk reaction and about three months later they brought us back out to finish the excavation since the cost they had already put in would be paid for by the lignite coal they could extract.
But in those three months (in the heart of summer) I went to Kickapoo Caverns State Park in West Texas. This was a survey of all the parks property. It was rugged, rocky, hilly, and all the vegetation had thorns and claws. There were snakes and scorpions and ticks. We lived in a bunk house on the park and were surrounded by all sorts of insect life (like the kissing bug which carries a frightening parastite called e. cruzii). We also were surrounded by some extraordinarily colorful birds, vermillion fly catchers, painted buntings, vireos, hummingbirds, red and zone tailed hawks, vultures and more. We found caves with Mexican freetail bats who left en masse at dusk. We found the debris from making stone tools on the tops of ridges where the one could get a good look at the land and, at the confluences of rivers, we found large mounds of burned rock where people in the past had cooked up various plants and animals. We also found the heat scorching and did our best to get a days work in before noon. It was a very hard but very rewarding environment. Following that, I went back up to finish the Caddoan site—another 4 months or so of mapping post stains encircling hearths with 16-row corn.
At the end of my fourth year, I took a Prehistory of Texas (archaeology) class. Extra credit for this class included an opportunity to go to Seminole Canyon state park and record rock art. The people who had gathered to record the rock art were members of the Texas Archaeological Society and came from a variety of backgrounds and were primarily in their 70s and full of life. We photographed and sketched the rock art on the canyon walls surrounded by the beautiful Transpecos desert landscape which was in full bloom. The joy effervescing from the people, the rock art whispering of prehistoric beliefs and lifeways, and the tremendous beauty of the desert overwhelmed me and I knew archaeology was for me. I went out on every possible volunteer opportunity to record rock art and excavate. That summer, I attended the Texas Tech Archaeological field school in San Saba county. I learned the basics of survey and excavation as well as how to maintain a field camp. Later that summer, I worked in Austin on the Burned Rock Midden Project, a lab job where I learned a good deal about artifacts and procedures. I graduated in May and immediately began my journey into the world of professional archaeology.
After I graduated, I immediately went to work for Texas Parks and Wildlife in Austin in their archaeology lab. I worked mostly with historic materials (lots of metal and glass) and found love and heartbreak in Austin. Only half a year later, I was hired for an excavation in Northeast Texas. The site turned out to be one of the largest Caddoan village sites ever found. That excavation took a year of my life, living in Longview, Texas. I made a number of friends, played a lot of pool, sung a little karoke, and learned a tremendous amount about excavating the stains left by the posts of Caddo houses and troweling very hard baked red clay. This Caddoan village site, the Oak Hill Village site, was located on Texas Utility Mining Company (TUMCO) property. It was originally thought to be a small site with a midden (trash dump) and not a significant site. It turned out to have over 40 structures and ended up costing TUMCO a lot more than they had planned . . . upon learning this, TUMCO unceremoniously told us to quit digging, pack up, and leave. Under Federal laws, TUMCO is required to assess the cultural resources on its property and to mitigate (dig) sites of any significance or to leave them undisturbed. With the ballooning costs of the excavation, TUMCO suddenly thought it would be better to fence the site off and leave it unexcavated. This was a knee-jerk reaction and about three months later they brought us back out to finish the excavation since the cost they had already put in would be paid for by the lignite coal they could extract.
But in those three months (in the heart of summer) I went to Kickapoo Caverns State Park in West Texas. This was a survey of all the parks property. It was rugged, rocky, hilly, and all the vegetation had thorns and claws. There were snakes and scorpions and ticks. We lived in a bunk house on the park and were surrounded by all sorts of insect life (like the kissing bug which carries a frightening parastite called e. cruzii). We also were surrounded by some extraordinarily colorful birds, vermillion fly catchers, painted buntings, vireos, hummingbirds, red and zone tailed hawks, vultures and more. We found caves with Mexican freetail bats who left en masse at dusk. We found the debris from making stone tools on the tops of ridges where the one could get a good look at the land and, at the confluences of rivers, we found large mounds of burned rock where people in the past had cooked up various plants and animals. We also found the heat scorching and did our best to get a days work in before noon. It was a very hard but very rewarding environment. Following that, I went back up to finish the Caddoan site—another 4 months or so of mapping post stains encircling hearths with 16-row corn.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Coming Home is Weird
This morning I was thinking about how weird it is to come back home after being away so long. We have been back a little more than two years and still it's surreal at times. A friend of mine from school runs the daycare where I take my son. An old neighbor and pal of mine is doing subcontracting work for me and is going to start working in our office as an agent. A friend/mentor of mine picked up our friendship where it left off more than 15 years ago as if time hadn't passed at all. It's strange, but nice. Surreal, yet comforting. Coming home is good.
I fretted about the fork in the road and who knows how it would have turned out had I gone the other way, but once we made the decision, the other road ceased to matter. The possibilities seemed trite and meaningless. (Or the shorter version of that is "who cares, anyway.")
It's so good to love where you are.
I fretted about the fork in the road and who knows how it would have turned out had I gone the other way, but once we made the decision, the other road ceased to matter. The possibilities seemed trite and meaningless. (Or the shorter version of that is "who cares, anyway.")
It's so good to love where you are.
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