Chapter 31

“Right here,” Annabelle said. “I noticed a strange depression in the forest floor and sorta ... kicked away the needles around it. That was the first thing I kicked.” She pointed to a huge piece of lithic material. (Huge is determined by the eye or knowledge of the beholder, a pound nugget of natural gold is pretty big but a pound of natural emerald is HUGE.) It was conchoidal on one side and pretty long. The piece had a severe cortex of waste material left on the unused side of the artifact (When, in the process of replenishing ones tool bag, it is a well known fact that first come is first served is part of the process. The first people get the best material.) First user through an area has his pick of resources. A quality knapper uses quality lithics ... and knows what they look like. The man who fashioned the blanks knew what he was doing.

If I were a collector, those blanks would be worth a few thousand ... like a hundred each ... but I’m not ... the blanks were headed for the Smithsonian ... as soon as I had legal possession. A pot hunter I am not.

What I was truly interested in, though, wasn’t the lithics ... I was interested in the hole... (s). Looking out over the sun dappled surface of the pine-needled forest floor, I could see there were more depressions signaling more holes. A looker wouldn’t see them ... but an observer would notice right off; something was backfilled here. The blanks on the pine forest floor told me right off that the holes weren’t backfilled artifact diggings. No pot hunter would up and leave those blanks. Besides, most pot hunters don’t backfill ... they are as messy as it gets. Archaeological sites are a disappearing resource.

I went back to town ... not that town is all that far away. Sliding down Old Baldy ... that is a problem with the valley; Old Baldy is in the way. It’s like my Dad’s stories about living in the country and schooling; one room schoolhouses and winter weather; up-hill ... both ways.

We came out on Dover and headed for Gufstasons; that marvel of a five story hardware was built in the Teens and changed hands every two or three years. The stock from 1919 was mostly still there. People leased the building, stocked it with the latest and greatest, and went bankrupt faster than the Mayor changed cars. I knew there were GOOD shovels to be had. Sure ... for the same price one could buy cheap Chinese shovels ... why bother.

Three shovels and an axe and lunch later we were back at what seemed to be the most recent depression Four hours later ... we went for the police.

The police laughed, but we were insistent. We only got to dig the one hole. Forensics completed our work and the State Archaeologist got published.

Eventually, there were 37 holes, 62 bodies, three Chicago typewriters (tommygun), and assorted handguns. Every one of the handguns were traceable to at least one murder.

Time for dinner.

So ... back up Old Baldy ... whoever said a straight line is the shortest distance between two points was talking about something FLAT ... they had zero conflict with hills ... and sand dunes are the worst kind of hills ... slippery slidey sinky sand. It gets in your shoes and causes accidents. No matter what you think... 690 feet is tall and a long way to fall ... or roll.

Down Old Baldy to Dover and through the Village Green to the Antler.

The Village Green has a history; there used to be buildings all the way from the Antler to the theater ... wood buildings ... that burned down one fine night, so there used to be a drop from the sidewalk to the rubble that remained from the businesses that burned. Whenever I think of it ... I realize I was awfully small the first time I saw the junk. It was a lot like looking out the second story window at home ... a looong ways down. Some supposed ancestor of mine organized a clean-up and fill dirt from the dredging of the channel was tapered to the shore, grassed over, a gazebo built and the local orchestra gives concerts weekends during the season ... if nothing else, they are loud.