Brenda introduced me to a cheap pastime.
The area in which her family farm sat was rich in Native American history. A sluggish
wetland called Baker’s Bayou was the center of much ancient activity. After a
farmer had plowed a field rains had come, one could walk around and spot artifacts
rising to the surface of the earth. We would collect specimens and store them roughly
by location. Later we learned that the major collection points coincided
roughly with bases identified by the state archaeologist's office. The effort produced
much fun at little cost.
I suppose collecting them was
insensitive, but by now they would have been pulverized into unidentifiable
bits of stone by the huge farming rigs.
Brenda’s dad, Julius, told us of
being a very young boy and talking to a very old former slave who said he could
remember the last Indian family that lived on the Bayou. One morning they had
simply disappeared during the night. Figuring placed the time somewhere in the late
1850s. An archaeologist acquaintance, who once helped us categorize our
collection, considered the ages and verified that the story could have been
true. I’ve thought about it many times over the years, the continuity of history
and all.
While we were walking the ruins of
a past civilization, I was working to control the nature of the next civilization.
It struck me as how little impact the ancients left on the land and how much power
we now possessed to enact change. Maybe the role of my profession wasn’t to
design paradise, but to ward off hell. It made me think.
In the meantime, Brenda taught, I travelled
the state, and, after a rain, we walked, hand in hand, over the remains of a
past civilization of people who had no doubt worked, loved, and dreamed of a
future. I suppose, perhaps, that one day some life form will walk over the remains
of our efforts to lead a meaningful life.
Wonder what they will find?
 |
| Cars probably. Lots of rusted old cars. |
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