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 19th-20th
century and 18th-19th 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…
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