I recall the talk in the parking lot the day of the dig. We set up squares and dug, first through the duff then through the next five centimeters, and the next five and the next five after that. We filled 5 gallon buckets full of dirt. My dad and I took and poured these over the sifter, which my Grandfather had made. The next week we came back, digging deeper into our square hole with our trowels, scraping against the granite rocks that made up the sandy brown soil of New England. The roots from trees constantly got in the way. Insects like ants and bees constantly pestered us as we worked. The sweat dripped down off of us, it was June and hot, the air sat stagnant beneath the leafy trees under which we worked. Pouring a bucket on the screen and shaking it not more than 10 times. Out of this brown mass of dirt an arrowhead fell out.
2 comments:
Chris,
I enjoyed this memory because it goes so much deeper than just archaeology and arrowheads. There's so much symbolism written into it. For an example, digging deeper and deeper and the insects that got into the way. Your piece definitely works because anyone would be able to connect their own life to the metaphor you have so easily created. In a sense, you have just developed the illusion of life through a hobby that's so significant to you, yet anyone that read this would be able to feel like, they too, were digging for arrowheads.
Nice work.
Chris,
This is very powerful. Your memory is so detailed and well put together. It really made me feel like I was digging with you. Your imagery is really good,"It was June and hot, the air sat stagnant beneath the leafy trees under which we worked." I can picture this and how hot it must have been, and the success you must have felt when the arrowhead fell out. Great Post!
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