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…