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
18th 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 18th 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!
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