What's Goin On?

I’m uncertain about the wisdom of joining the mob of talking heads this morning following the latest abominable nightmare involving a crazy person and firearms, but wisdom is not necessarily my strong suite.  I should also preface this by noting that I am a hunter, and own a number of firearms.

I tend to view things through an historical lens, and look at precedent and data to evaluate likely futures. It’s what archaeologists and historians do and are supposed to do.

This happens regularly here in the US.  Have a look at this summary and map http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2012/07/mass-shootings-map to get a sense of what’s been happening here since the early 1980’s.  There’s more information than a person could possible absorb in this resource from the Shorenstein Center http://journalistsresource.org/studies/government/criminal-justice/mass-murder-shooting-sprees-and-rampage-violence-research-roundup   There’s a lot of collected data here, but I’d like to focus on a couple pieces of information. First, these mass murders are largely the work of young to middle aged men with mental illnesses of various kinds. Second, 75% of the firearms they used were obtained legally, and the overwhelming majority of the weapons involved were semiautomatic handguns and semiautomatic assault rifles. These data suggest that a rational public response here is to enact laws and regulations that provide for better mental health care and limit access to the most commonly employed weapons. That is the cold, analytical, and simple perspective on the problem, and absent contradictory data, it’s unassailable. There is nothing to argue about. Period.

But of course it ain’t that simple is it?

Currently, one of the most pervasive political ideologies in this country holds that government is by nature repressive, restrictive, intrusive, expensive and, yes, evil. In the same view the private sector is enabling, vigorous, expansive, and entirely good. 

Again, an unemotional and purely analytical perspective would suggest that the public and private sectors are just two different parts of our economy and society. Each is good at some things, not so good at others. Each has a role to play in our society, and each interacts with the other in various, constantly evolving, and mostly complicated ways.  

I bring this up, because my posited “rational public response” would involve spending government money (i.e. tax money) and passing and enforcing restrictive laws. It therefore runs smack up against a popular, if largely mythological, political ideology. It just won’t fly in 21^st century America.

So what is likely to happen? 

There will be a week or two of hand wringing and cries for gun control and better mental health care as we bury 20 children and 6 teachers in Connecticut. Then a number of political leaders, mostly taking campaign money from the NRA or afraid of NRA money going to their political opponents, will say we should proceed with caution and respect and defend the 2^nd amendment in our deliberations. The deficit will be used to regrettably note that we simply can’t expand provisions for mental health care at this time.  The TV pundits will chime in with much more strident shouting about government intrusiveness and big spending.  In a couple-three months, it will die down, and all will be as peaceful as the small new graves waiting for spring in the foothills of the Berkshires. Sometime in 2013, some crazy person will do something horrible again somewhere else and the cycle will repeat itself. 

I write this as the shortest day of the year approaches in the northern hemisphere, and the many festivals that celebrate the return of the sun begin. All these celebrations focus on humanity’s hope for a better year and a better world, and I think I will too.  If there are reasons and conditions that push us toward repeating our mistakes, there are others that push back. If you take the long view, the archaeologists and historians view, a shift in our society toward rationality and enlightenment is evident. 2012 America is a better place than 1950 America, which was a better place than 1930 America, and so on. We do, in fact, learn from our past, if slowly and haltingly. It’s one of the things that make us human.  Maybe sometime this century or next, our descendants will look back at how we care for the insane and how we regulate the distribution of firearms and wonder how the hell we could be so ignorant and cruel. My God, I hope so…

I wish you all happiness and peace at the Holidays and the turning of the year!

The Island Chronicles: Coda, Why We Do It

Day 30

Today was our last day out here, and I came to a momentous decision.

I was out by the west edge of the parking lot, all alone, prying up the heavy base of a weatherport with a 20 pound iron wrecking bar. The Chief pulled up in his ancient Toyota, clearly flustered and exorcised, and began a loud and profane rant berating me for asking for a week of leave after 30 straight days of work.  As I stood there staring at him while he snarled and yelled in my face, I gradually quit listening, and smiled at him.  This made him yell louder, but it no longer mattered. A great weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

I had decided to murder him.

I would use the wrecking bar of course, for the satisfying, hands on brutality of it. I would then hide his corpse in an old steel barrel I had found on the riverbank. There was a chance it might not fit, but FD had left the chainsaw in the job trailer, so I could make it fit.

I calmed down of course. It dawned on me that I would not thrive in a penitentiary.  In the sex-for-cigarettes economy, I fear I would find myself on the supply side.  It also occurred to me that the Chief’s ill temper was not entirely a product of his limited suite of social skills. In part, it came from the stress of trying to provide some modicum of protection and consideration for the Commonwealth’s archaeological sites.  There is no shortage of daunting and frustrating problems; a tiny budget and staff, weak laws and regulations, an uninformed and disinterested public, greedy and shortsighted project sponsors and program managers, corrupt and ambitious politicians, a Byzantine and unsupportive bureaucracy. It’s also very hard to make a persuasive argument for preservation when your buried heritage suffers from an ailment euphemistically known as “Mesa Verde Syndrome”.  In much of the Eastern US, and in many other parts of the world, some of the largest, most important and most spectacular archaeological sites have no visible evidence above the ground. From huge Susquehannock settlements, to Ice Age Indian encampments, to Civil War battlefields, there is no cliff side pueblo to marvel at. There is, instead, a cornfield or a patch of woods, or a parking lot. The archaeologist and preservationist must conjure up vanished worlds and people from a field of beans. As often as not, the public yawns, looks around a little, and walks away.

It would frustrate a saint, and as I have said before, the Chief ain’t Mother Theresa.

So I deliberately squatted down, and placed the wrecking bar flat on the pavement, then stood up, turned my back while the tirade continued, and walked to the fringe of woods at the edge of the parking lot, where I struck a trail that led down to the river. He didn’t follow me into the woods, which probably saved both of us from real trouble. When I came out about 15 minutes later, I had cooled off and he was gone.

The very last task for us to perform prior to leaving the island for the year is to hand shovel a small dumptruck load of sand atop the 6 mil plastic liner we have put into the block. The sand will cushion the excavated surface from the gravel and asphalt to follow. Most of the staff is now engaged in cleaning and putting away the mountain of tools, equipment, soil samples, charcoal samples, field notes and artifacts we’ve used and generated in the last month.  This year shoveling the sand falls to Miss J, one of our permanent staffers, and to me. Right after lunch we attack the sand pile with shovels and a wheelbarrow. It’s good, honest, and somewhat mindless work, and it takes us two or three hours on a cool, bluebird October afternoon. As we shovel, we talk about this year’s project, about Miss J’s impending wedding to AW, about the November election, about our profession. The pile steadily shrinks, and almost before we know it, it’s gone.

Miss J lights a cigarette, puts one hand on a hip while leaning on her shovel and says,

“Well! The sand’s all.”

“Huh? All, what?

“You know…All!”

She explains the term. Her family came to Pennsylvania in the great wave of German Anabaptists that arrived in the port of Philadelphia in the early 18^th century.  The odd turn of phrase means the sand is all gone, and it’s an expression endemic to Pennsylvania Germans. She uses the phrase, and other ethnic expressions, with pride. She’s not a Mennonite, and she doesn’t drive a buggy or wear a bonnet, but she knows who she is and where she came from, and draws strength from deep roots in this landscape.  

Me too. My Dad’s people came here from Ulster in the decades following the Battle of the Boyne.  They have been in the South Mountain country of Cumberland, York, Adams and Franklin counties, where I live now, ever since.  Those generations of flinty, clannish and combative Scots Irish people were very different from the college educated 21^st century author of this journal, but make no mistake, I am of them. When I find determination, adventurousness, love of kin and poetry and music and whiskey in myself, I am drawing at least some of it from them.  I am anchored here.

The Stone Age camps of Native People anchor all of us in deeper water. If we could step back into their world, there would no doubt be shock at how different they looked and sounded and behaved and thought, but there would also be surprise at commonalities large and small. One of the artifacts from the Island is a stone point or knife that has been resharpened and touched up until its blade is half as wide as it originally was. In my jeans pocket is an old Barlow pocket knife that belonged to my grandfather. I keep it sharp, and it is now half worn away from lapping against a whetstone.  I have something in common with this man who camped out here 3500 years ago, a commonality we’d both recognize from examining each other’s pocket knives. We’re not so different him and I; we’d have much to talk about.

One of the problems the preservation and study of archaeology has is a societal insistence on valuing everything monetarily. Archaeologists and preservationists have caught this disease like everyone else, and we tend to tout the value of heritage in terms of tourist dollars, TV ratings, website hits, twitter followers, and so on.  In my opinion, this masks and can even undermine the real value of understanding and caring for the past. Heritage is important because it connects us across time and space, and connects us to places and to each other. It lets us see the challenges and triumphs and failures of our predecessors, and affords us a chance to learn from them. An honest and wide eyed look deep into our heritage can only lead to the conclusion that far more important than our politics or our ethnicity or our technology or our beliefs is our humanity. The lives we lead and have led for millennia on this strange, blue and lovely planet are woven tightly together by common experience, by our care and love and hope for our children, by our respect and admiration for our elders, by our delight in a blue sky or a nice meal or a story well told or the arms of our loved ones.  We are informed by our own and by everyone else’s past; it’s a gift too dear to value in dollars. It’s a gift worth working for a solid month to share.

Miss J and I gather up the last of the tools and odds and ends, and put them in the truck. After a last look around, we drive away from the Island for the last time this year. Later this afternoon, a truck will come for the job trailer. Shortly thereafter, the city will repave the excavation block, and tomorrow morning people will be parking on it.   If they don’t notice the fresh asphalt, they’ll never even know we were here.

My deepest and most sincere thanks to the many staffers and volunteers and kids who worked at and visited the City Island project. It would not have happened without you!

The Island Chronicles Part 9: Closing Ceremonies

Day 25

In appreciation of the volunteers and staff, Queen B, the Director of our Bureau, arrived on the Island at 6:30AM with several dozen doughnuts and a couple of coffee cubes from Dunkin Doughnuts.  She had also arranged for a catered luncheon that would close the public excavation for the year. She pulled her van up to the Savage’s encampment, intending to leave the breakfast goodies with him until the rest of us started to drift in around 7:00. While a fire was kindled in his fire ring, and there were other signs of activity, she didn’t see him. Assuming he was perhaps indisposed in the port-o-jon, she wandered out to the edge of the riverbank to absorb some of the grandeur of dawn on the mighty Susquehanna, which is a mile wide at Harrisburg and very beautiful.  As she took in the sights and sounds of the great river awakening on an autumn morning, she heard a splash and her gaze fell on the flats just above one of the bridge pilings a short way downstream.  There, in knee-deep water stood Mr. Savage. He was facing west, which was a blessing for Her Highness, because he was entirely as God made him.  He was engaged in shaving his head while humming a jaunty tune and enjoying his bracing morning ablutions. 

Unlike Lot’s wife, Queen B did not turn into a pillar of salt, but she was clearly traumatized and expressed her outrage to me when I arrived.  I calmly replied that he had been doing that every morning since he arrived as far as I knew. I explained that early joggers sometimes spotted him from the bridge deck high above and on occasion hurled down imprecations and expressions of shock and disapproval.  He was known to reply to the worst of these calumnies in a variety of surprising and colorful ways.  I also told her there was no point in trying to do anything about it at this point, since he was leaving for home tomorrow morning.

While we’re all very tired, we have much to be proud of.  Something like 2000 school kids, mostly sixth graders, have toured the project and who knows how many casual adult visitors have stopped by. We have been in the local and regional newspapers, and our on-line reports from the field have been widely viewed. In short we have introduced a great many modern Central Pennsylvanians to their predecessors and to the practice of archaeology. The excavation has recovered evidence of at least two episodes of historic farming on the Island (probably 19^th-20^th century and 18^th-19^th century), as well as artifacts and features from the Late Archaic/Transitional Archaic Period (ca 3500 years old), and at least one artifact from the Early Archaic Period (roughly 8,000 years before the present).  The information from the Tiger Trap has greatly clarified the history of the Island’s formation, and provided clues to flood and climate history throughout the river basin.   A sixth grade class from a local charter school, led by an incredibly energetic and dedicated science teacher, has held class on the Island a number of days.  They conducted some amazing experiments on the firing temperatures and techniques used to manufacture Native pottery that were the subject of local news coverage.  The crew and volunteers have all done their best for over three solid weeks, and it was clearly time well spent.

We have intentionally kept the visitation schedule light this morning, so we can get the final field notes complete and start to prepare the excavation for its annual entombment beneath the parking lot.  In the afternoon we will hold our annual luncheon, and everyone will get to go home early.  Most everyone is in a good mood, but not Miss E. 

She walks into the weatherport dressed warmly against the morning chill, and wearing a festive and seasonal hat her mother had knitted her in the shape and color of a pumpkin.  It is indescribably cute, but beneath that jaunty chapeau was a scowl that could curdle milk. She grabbed her hand tools and clambered down into the excavation block to begin working.  As I have noted before, she is mercurial, so I was delicate when I inquired if there was something wrong. She stood up, glared at FD, and said “Yes! SOME (Deleted) has locked up the potty, and nobody seems to know where the key is!” 

It’s amazing how much information can be conveyed by a blank stare. I just looked at FD, and he climbed silently out of the block, grabbed a heavy railroad pick that we use to break up asphalt and the like, and disappeared off toward the port-o-jon. Presently there was a single violent report that sounded like a shotgun being discharged. He soon returned, put the pick back with the other tools, and told Miss E that the potty was now open. She left, returning in a short while in a much improved state of mind. Neither FD nor I ever said another word about it.

Following a short tour for a small group of dignitaries in the late morning the luncheon for the volunteers and staff began at noon. It was a nice spread and we brought in a boom box for music.  I was able to provide a very special treat for these festivities. I am a fairly serious home brewer, and before the project began this year, I made a five gallon batch of a special India Pale Ale which I put into a soda keg. This IPA had, as one of its ingredients, a quantity of locally produced honey. Honey produces a fragrant and complex brew, and because of its very high sugar content, a whole lot of alcohol.  Soon many of the gang were merry indeed, none more so than the Chief. The Chief brought a 7/11 Big Gulp cup along for the occasion, consequently he was quaffing this potent snake oil by the quart. This of course affected his judgment.

About 2:00PM after most of the food and a lot of the beer had been consumed, FD, one of the few sober persons in the crowd, announced that it was time for a good sweat.  Accordingly the party moved to the reenactment area on the West edge of the Island where the sweatlodge/keyhole structure stood.  FD ducked into the port-o-jon and soon emerged in a pair of gym shorts and old sneakers. As master of ceremonies , he would enter the sweatlodge first, and get things prepared. Once the structure heated up, two or three more of us would join him.  Mr Savage had kindled a fire mid-morning and a quantity of river cobbles had been heating in the hardwood fire for several hours. They were now nearly glowing with heat.

Over the last couple weeks we had worked out a safe and reliable methodology for using the sweatlodge.  Once someone had entered the dark, low, bark covered structure via a small entry portal which required crawling on one’s hands and knees, the entry would be covered with a slab of bark.  The occupant would then call for stones. These would be carefully removed from the flames with a metal shovel (we tried wooden tongs, but found they burst into flames on contact with the super-heated cobbles). The stones were carefully rolled down the appendage extension of the keyhole structure, coming to rest in the central pit, where they radiated heat into the structure. Water could then be sprinkled on them to produce steam.  Fifteen minutes or so in there would produce a healthy sweat, and you could then crawl out and hop into the nearby river, emerging refreshed and renewed.

Once he was settled in and sealed within the structure, FD called for the stones. Unfortunately, it was the Chief who had the shovel in his hands. The idea was to use the shovel to clear the rocks of ash and charcoal before rolling them into the lodge.  This required subtlety and dexterity that were probably beyond someone who had just consumed many liters of strong beer. The Chief dug into the fire, scooped up a great load of hot stones, ash, and flaming brands, then with much brio hurled them down the extension and into the lodge!

Three things occurred in rapid succession.

First, a sudden, deep and bone-rattling cough emanated from the lodge.

Next black smoke puffed through every seam between every slab of bark on the small dome like structure.

Finally, FD exploded through the north wall of the structure directly through the frame and bark, scattering splintered poles and bark slabs in all directions, and coughing as though he had contracted a consumptive disease.

Of course the assembled multitude burst into hysterical laughter, including the Chief. It soon became apparent that FD did not find this sequence of events quite as entertaining as the rest of us. When we could catch our breath some of us noticed that he had laid hands on a heavy stick, and armed with this fearsome cudgel, and with wood smoke still curling up from his hair, was advancing toward the Chief. He looked a lot like a depiction of Sampson with the ass’s jawbone that I remembered from grade school catechism. When the Chief noticed the peril he was in, he sobered up dramatically, and began a litany of heartfelt apology that ultimately disarmed FD and so likely avoided a full-on adult dose of whoop-ass.

Aside from smelling a bit like a cured ham, FD seemed no worse for wear and went home, as did the Chief and most of the others.  A few of the more sober technicians and I did a little cleaning up, and locked things up in the trailer. We then drank a last toast at the river’s edge to the end of a successful project.  We would report late the next morning and begin tear down.

In a week or so, beyond a fresh patch in the asphalt, nobody would be able to tell we were here.

Next Week, Last Entry…

The Island Chronicles Part 8: At the Breaking Point

Day 20

We have now been working almost three weeks straight, and the strain is starting to show. People are churlish and crabby. The field techs are sniping at each other. The volunteers are feeling unappreciated. The Museum Educators are tired of busloads of schoolkids and sick of playing tour guide rather than actually teaching. FD and the Savage are mad at me, each other, the Chief and most everyone else.  We really needed something to lighten the mood this morning and Mr Savage was only too happy to oblige!

Around 8:00AM the service technician arrived in his distinctive red and white tank truck to pump and clean the port-o-jon. His timing was good because it was filthy and nearly full. Upon inspecting the crapper, he found it locked up with a heavy chain and a big padlock. He apparently looked around and, not seeing anyone who looked like they could let him in, got back in his truck and started to drive off. At this point, Mr. Savage spotted him. Since the Savage actually lives on the Island, the condition of the potty is of special concern to him. Realizing that the guy was leaving without cleaning and pumping his only bathroom, Mr Savage burst from his tent in full regalia, and sprinted after the honey wagon shouting “HEY! HEY!” at the top of his lungs. The service technician heard the shouting and glanced in his rear view mirror. He quite sensibly assumed that he was about to become the first victim of an Indian raid in the Susquehanna Valley since the 18^th century.  Terrified, he floored it and turned sharply toward the entrance ramp to the bridge. Mr Savage tried to cut him off, but it turns out that moccasins don’t provide much purchase on smooth asphalt.

So it is that this morning the Savage became the first Indian in history to sustain a fairly serious knee sprain while chasing a shit wagon through a parking lot.

Young Mr. J drove him to the Emergency Room, and managed to keep himself from giggling until they took Mr. Savage back for x-rays. He came back with an Ace wrap on the knee to hoots of derision which he couldn’t do much about. It speaks volumes about his dedication that he rallied to limp out and talk to three busloads of school kids, all of whom asked if the Ace bandage was authentic 18^th century swag, and all of whom wanted to know how he hurt himself. Who knows what he told them.

It so happens there have been other inquiries regarding Mr. Savage’s mode of dress.  He gives flint knapping demonstration while seated on a stump. Since he is wearing period dress, which includes a breechcloth, this can leave him somewhat exposed (as one of the technicians observed “Too much breech, not enough cloth.”).  I now have a letter in hand that was sent to the Executive Director from an incensed home-schooling mother who suggested Mr Savage should wear cotton briefs beneath his loincloth since “…his gentiles (sic) were visible!”  This has conjured up an image in my mind of John Smith exploring the Chesapeake in 1608 and tossing out three packs of Jockeys to the astonished Natives. Crafting a polite reply to this missive will probably have to wait until I have a day or two off.

Just after the last school kids have left the Island, about 2:00 PM, I am in the excavation block reviewing field notes, unit by unit. It’s tedious and painstaking, and best done with minimal disturbance. It’s also true that I’m tired and grouchy and need a few days off. . Thus when I hear a cheery voice call out “Hello Joe!” I don’t instantly acknowledge the greeting, which is unfortunate because it turns out to be the First Lady of the Commonwealth!  I recovered my aplomb as quickly as possible and return the greeting, but I needn’t have worried. She’s a genuinely nice person, and former teacher, who’s interested enough in this archaeology stuff that she makes at least one unannounced visit most years and knows FD, Mr Savage and I by our first names. She is accompanied by her security officer, a very pleasant, quiet and friendly State Cop who is about 6’8” and weighs about 300 pounds.  He was a stand out tackle at Penn State.  The First Lady is, I think, perfectly safe. 

Despite the fact that she and her husband are on the other end of the political spectrum from me, I can’t help liking her a lot.  Her interest in history and heritage is sincere and honestly come by. She is also aware that this program uses public money, and she’s been very vocal in her support for it. She’s also funny and smart and doesn’t hold with much formality, so you can forget that she’s an important person; a very rare trait in most of the political types I’ve known. I show her this year’s discoveries, and we talk about teaching six grade Pennsylvania history curriculum, and about our on-line field reports, and then she asks about FD and the Savage. I explain that they are in the living history area, and offer to walk her over.

Now FD is as tired as everyone else, and he recently had words with the Chief, so I know he’s not in a great mood.  As we walk up, we find him buzzing up some additional firewood with a chainsaw. His back is to us. Over the din of the saw I shout “FD!”, but he keeps going.  I shout again, louder, but either he can’t hear me, or won’t acknowledge me. The big cop starts to emanate an air of concern. I acknowledge him, hold up a finger to ask for his patience, and then walk up behind FD and poke him with a finger in the back of the shoulder. He pivots suddenly, the saw still running, and glares ferociously at me, then notices our visitor.

He instantly switches off the saw, smiles warmly, and becomes the very picture of graciousness. He shows off the two structures he and Mr. Savage have built, a roughly 20 foot square native house of poles and bark, and a smaller “keyhole structure”. The keyhole is shaped just like it sounds: a small round building about 8 feet in diameter, with a roughly two foot wide projection extending from it about 8 feet. The projection covers a small ditch.  FD explains that Native people may have used these as smokehouses and storage buildings, and that we’ve been using this one as a sweat lodge the last week or so. We then take her over to visit the injured Savage, who is also kind and funny, and gives the First Lady and her formidable companion each a projectile point he recently made.  The visit ends around 4:00, and the First Lady and her companion wave happily at us as they drive away. 

Before I walk back over to the excavation block to button it up for the evening, I turn to AD and point out that he’s been a little testy. He feigns surprise at my opinion, until I pointed out that the First Lady’s personal torpedo nearly stalled the chainsaw out in his skull. He finally sighed and looked at me, then opined,

“I guess I need a day or two off!”

“Me too! It’s a good thing we’re closing up in a couple days.”

Next week, closing ceremonies!