whereas his father was nearly bald. Alan claimed to be interested in historical archaeology; his father, a cultural anthropologist, didn't see the reason for digging when "there were documents to tell you what happened," as he so often told me. More than anything, Alan generally looked uneasy and hyperaware, where his father had a much thicker skin.
I remembered the famous criticism of a fictitious archaeologist and silently applied it to Alan Crabtree: The poor kid couldn't dig his way out of a box of kitty litter. I sighed. I had done my patient best to remind him what was supposed to happen when he was working. Taking a deep breath, I tried again.
"Hey, Alan? Looks like you're getting a little low over on that side, by a couple of centimeters. You'd better bring everything else down level with that before you go any further. Then you can take the elevations and start a new level, if you have to, but it's getting away from you now."
Alan sighed and looked down into the messy little ditch he was digging for himself. He'd heard it all before and it still wasn't taking. He didn't look at me, and I wondered whether he'd heard me.
"Okay," he said finally.
"Just try to remember what we talked about last week-- you dig a few centimeters down, evenly across the whole unit, you sift that, write about what you see. If you get that rhythm going, that will help keep track of what you're finding.
"I know, I'll try again." He stood back and tried to see where to continue.
"Great," I said, ignoring his testy tone. "Why don't you work on cleaning up that level, and then trim those balks back--don't bother saving any of the artifacts out of the cleanup; they're no good to us if we don't know what level they came from"--I shouldn't have to be telling him this; it was something a freshman would have mastered--"then I'll come back and go over your notes with you."
"Okay, whatever."
Maybe because he was just sick of my pestering, he still refused to make eye contact. Tough, I thought.
Alan took a deep breath and, holding it, began to follow my directions doggedly. He was still holding his breath as I walked away toward the other cluster of units that were positioned to identify what might have been in the fort's interior.
Not for the first time, I cursed the ego of a father who would keep his kid in a place where he had no talent. I wondered again what department Alan might have chosen if his father hadn't been an anthropologist and determined to have a son follow in his footsteps. Rick made it plain that he thought I was trying to play Alan off him, but nothing could have been further from the truth: I would have given anything to keep myself out of the middle of their dysfunctional family mess.
I continued down the slope, off to the east where Dian had abandoned her own unit to help Rob do some mapping. I could see their two heads close together and I hoped they were talking about the coordinates they were ostensibly taking.
"Hey, Em, we've got some bad news for you," Rob called out. "We've got a---"
"If you found a skeleton," I cut him off, "bury it and don't tell me about it." I was joking of course, but human remains required us to stop digging and notify local and state bureaucracies. They were a real nuisance, legally speaking, in spite of the wealth of data they represented.
"No, nothing that bad," he replied. "That feature we've been mapping so carefully?" He held up a small bluish bottle. "Nineteenth century."
"Well, it happens." I looked at the bottle and its side seams. "Yep, that medicine bottle didn't come over on The Endeavour in 1605." I looked at the unit and said, "Well, it looks like you've still got a ways to go before you get down to where Meg is. You can still get some undisturbed seventeenth-century remains if that's as deep as that little pit goes--what is it, a planting hole? I wasn't real hopeful about that, though. It's still a little high. Keep at it." "Yes'm."
I eyed Dian. "I bet Rob can dig the rest
I remembered the famous criticism of a fictitious archaeologist and silently applied it to Alan Crabtree: The poor kid couldn't dig his way out of a box of kitty litter. I sighed. I had done my patient best to remind him what was supposed to happen when he was working. Taking a deep breath, I tried again.
"Hey, Alan? Looks like you're getting a little low over on that side, by a couple of centimeters. You'd better bring everything else down level with that before you go any further. Then you can take the elevations and start a new level, if you have to, but it's getting away from you now."
Alan sighed and looked down into the messy little ditch he was digging for himself. He'd heard it all before and it still wasn't taking. He didn't look at me, and I wondered whether he'd heard me.
"Okay," he said finally.
"Just try to remember what we talked about last week-- you dig a few centimeters down, evenly across the whole unit, you sift that, write about what you see. If you get that rhythm going, that will help keep track of what you're finding.
"I know, I'll try again." He stood back and tried to see where to continue.
"Great," I said, ignoring his testy tone. "Why don't you work on cleaning up that level, and then trim those balks back--don't bother saving any of the artifacts out of the cleanup; they're no good to us if we don't know what level they came from"--I shouldn't have to be telling him this; it was something a freshman would have mastered--"then I'll come back and go over your notes with you."
"Okay, whatever."
Maybe because he was just sick of my pestering, he still refused to make eye contact. Tough, I thought.
Alan took a deep breath and, holding it, began to follow my directions doggedly. He was still holding his breath as I walked away toward the other cluster of units that were positioned to identify what might have been in the fort's interior.
Not for the first time, I cursed the ego of a father who would keep his kid in a place where he had no talent. I wondered again what department Alan might have chosen if his father hadn't been an anthropologist and determined to have a son follow in his footsteps. Rick made it plain that he thought I was trying to play Alan off him, but nothing could have been further from the truth: I would have given anything to keep myself out of the middle of their dysfunctional family mess.
I continued down the slope, off to the east where Dian had abandoned her own unit to help Rob do some mapping. I could see their two heads close together and I hoped they were talking about the coordinates they were ostensibly taking.
"Hey, Em, we've got some bad news for you," Rob called out. "We've got a---"
"If you found a skeleton," I cut him off, "bury it and don't tell me about it." I was joking of course, but human remains required us to stop digging and notify local and state bureaucracies. They were a real nuisance, legally speaking, in spite of the wealth of data they represented.
"No, nothing that bad," he replied. "That feature we've been mapping so carefully?" He held up a small bluish bottle. "Nineteenth century."
"Well, it happens." I looked at the bottle and its side seams. "Yep, that medicine bottle didn't come over on The Endeavour in 1605." I looked at the unit and said, "Well, it looks like you've still got a ways to go before you get down to where Meg is. You can still get some undisturbed seventeenth-century remains if that's as deep as that little pit goes--what is it, a planting hole? I wasn't real hopeful about that, though. It's still a little high. Keep at it." "Yes'm."
I eyed Dian. "I bet Rob can dig the rest
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