Archaeological Dig by Sienna Taggart

Archeology or Archaeology
/ˌɑːkɪˈɒlədʒi/

noun. the study of human history and prehistory through the excavation of sites, and the analysis of artefacts and other physical remains.
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The wind blows and whittles away at the earth. Invisible tendrils leave behind dust to settle and coat the forgotten layer upon layer in powdery particles. Waning images compress and shift backwards. Growing. Aging. The years urgently press onward. Neglected, burial occurs.

Time can be forgetful. A struggle to remember the minor details of what went before the NOW. Trivia elapsed by the major events—graduations, weddings, births, the BIG stuff. The routine mumbo-jumbo of LIFE—traffic, a song on the radio, washing dishes, soap suds circling round, round, round; the first sip of coffee in the morning, conversations at the dinner table, and getting ready for bed. Repetition. Tiny particles floating in an overcrowded room.

Unearthing. A dig to excavate the natural strata of time, a sieving through, working the dirt loose. Only then can has-beens be procured and gently brushed and polished to become significant once again—iron, photograph, the bathtub in the ugly gray house. A retracing of footpaths. The roots of an upbringing.

 

Catalogue #    Artifact Description

1                             Photograph    

An artifact discovered amid stacks of photo albums dating back to the 1940s. A 4×6 cut. Edges still sharp, despite the dust, preserved from years in the dark. The photograph contains the black and white image of a grandmother and her grand-daughter. A candid. Black ink scribbled on the back reads Nana & Sienna.

circa. 1998

White chair. Blue jeans.  New shoes—black and shiny. The vegetables, freshly washed then, dripped their droplets onto terracotta tiles, water seeping into the grout. Fine grains absorbed and darkened. The colander was silver and caught the afternoon light which poured through the window. Streaks of gold and yellow on cream paint. I recall jumping from the white chair and liking the way my shoes clipped and clapped against the tiled floor. And wrapping my arms around my grandmother’s legs, holding my cheek against the rough fabric of her jeans, her familiar scent in my nose—sandalwood and patchouli.

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The photograph brings to mind solid matter. An accumulation of material. Flour on rayon skirts, smudged by the wiping of forgetful hands that go to reach for the phone. Blue beads. Strings. Glass, wood, and lapis lazuli. Rethreaded again and again. Stretching and dangling from one too many washes and snags on laundry baskets, door latches. The grabby fingers of six grandchildren.

 

Catalogue #    Artifact Description  

2                             Iron                                      

 

Item found in a three-bedroom house on Danny Drive.

The iron. White plastic handle, worn and chipping. A silver soleplate, darkened in areas from too much heat; impressions left by melted buttons, burnt fabric, and congealed starch. The cord frayed, the rubber warped, the plug bent. Indicators of ample use.

circa. 2000

My third birthday. A favourite dress. Steam hissed into the August air and slipped past the propped-open back door. The iron glided over the dress, the little silver flowers embedded into emerald fabric sparkled against the heat. I leant forward, watching the wrinkles go smooth, the creases crisping.  An opening of pores, the whiff of vapour—thick and metallic. The pain . . . a burning and bubbling of flesh. Melting layers. Pink candy floss in the sun. The way my mother’s worried hands hovered over my blistering knee. Her fingers cool as she clasped my calf to wrap the wound. Later, the bulky bandage loosening from sweat, leaked plasma and sticky ointment down my leg when I jumped on the green dragon jumping-balloon. Up and down, up and down, up and down.

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Iron. Heat. The fibers of the gauze, softening against the creases of skin. A healing touch. Sensory perception triggered by an object. Yet, all I remember now are my mother’s hands.  Nails clipped short, palms lined and calloused and soft. Strong hands. Grasping. Laboring. Hands to pull and push. Hands to hold. The feathered-touch on a sleepy forehead.

 

Catalogue #    Artifact Description 

3                             Bathtub                   

In the master bathroom of a six-bedroom house, a corner Whirlpool bathtub with a moulded seat. Recently painted walls hid the image of a hand-drawn mural—a nature backdrop in vibrant reds, greens, and golds. Moisture had seeped beneath the paint, creating pockets which swelled and expanded to craft misshapen butterflies from calcium deposits. The brim of the bathtub’s ivory acrylic enamel scratched, leaving the edge rough—exposed.

circa. 2006-2011

Fingers and toes pruned in warm, swirling water. Grass stains. Twigs in hair. Grit from bare feet, settling as a riverbed. Five small children in a bathtub —six if you counted the one boisterous golden retriever puppy (we always did). Three in the water and two on the precast seat was the rule.  An ideal site for private tea parties, mermaid adventures, and bubble shenanigans, (for grown-ups) a pack of hooligans in a calm space. Plastic cups. Rubber ducks. Lapping bathwater on slippery skin and knobby knees. The fairies on the wall peeked out of acrylic bluebells and tulips, and watched us play as their gold-dust wings gathered the moisture in the air. Layers, skin, lathers. Stages of development. Swelling reverberations of a nightly gathering of sisters and cousins. Rituals of tea tree oil on cotton balls, milk and honey lotion, and matching butterfly night-gowns.

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Ten years down the line, the five children now scattered, I wonder about the ugly gray house. Beautifully hated. Loved. The end of an era.

Irrigation Sunday.
Weeping Willow.
Eleven cats.
Eight dogs.
Sunroom
Bare-feet.
Ghosts.

FOR SALE.

Sold.

 

[Ed – Sienna Taggert is a year 2 English and Creative Writing Student. This was part of her end of semester submission.]