{"id":195,"date":"2012-02-12T11:29:00","date_gmt":"2012-02-12T11:29:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blog.sandralangston.com\/?p=195"},"modified":"2012-02-12T19:23:52","modified_gmt":"2012-02-12T19:23:52","slug":"underneath","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blog.sandralangston.com\/?p=195","title":{"rendered":"Underneath"},"content":{"rendered":"

Traces of the past and clues to the present are hidden just below the top layer of the soil. \u00a0The surface yields clues to recent events as well, and because of this, I am always looking for more, eyes to the ground. \u00a0I might have been a tracker, and I know if someone, or something, has passed by recently. \u00a0Wet trails in the dewy grass, \u00a0small paw prints, \u00a0a pile of warm feathers left by a fox. \u00a0A darker patch of soil. \u00a0Trash and treasure are \u00a0both hidden, \u00a0but \u00a0near, waiting for discovery.<\/p>\n

One spring, as I marked out rows in the garden, my heavy hoe kept bouncing back up at me instead of sinking in the soil. \u00a0Strange. \u00a0 I spied a pinkish smoothness, and hooked my hoe under it to pull it out. \u00a0A root? \u00a0It was a scary thing to find underground, and my thoughts sidled spider-like toward all things Mafia. \u00a0 It was about three feet long and rubbery, fresh. \u00a0The dogs were suddenly attentive as the cow’s trachea came into the light of day. \u00a0How did it get there? \u00a0 A canine trophy, carefully buried, to be enjoyed later.<\/p>\n

I found a five-cent coin, dated 1885, \u00a0in my vegetable \u00a0garden. \u00a0It was \u00a0badly corroded and hardly legible. \u00a0\u00a0The Lira was originally divided into cents, with one hundred of these comprising one Lira. \u00a0\u00a0At the twilight of the currency, fifty-thousand Lire might \u00a0fill \u00a0half your car’s gas tank. \u00a0 \u00a0I thought of the poor farmer who lost it; \u00a0 it must have been disheartening, so long ago.<\/p>\n

A tractor pulling a large \u00a0plow scraped up some terracotta tiles; \u00a0roof tiles, larger and flatter than the curved kind used in recent centuries. \u00a0 I know from my experience with excavations that where there are roof tiles, \u00a0there are often tombs. \u00a0 \u00a0In fact, Greek tombs were commonly made from \u00a0these. \u00a0 \u00a0 The countryside where we live was divided into neat plots of land in 500 B.C., and people often buried their dead close to home if they weren’t grand enough, or near enough, to be included in the organized necropoles closer to the ancient town center. \u00a0Up the hill from this \u00a0area there is a large area of \u00a0rich \u00a0dark soil, and an extensive \u00a0jumble of broken pot shards. \u00a0It represents the farmhouse that belonged to the occupants of this parcel of land, and so it would follow that family burials would not be far away. \u00a0 Around \u00a0the broken tomb \u00a0I found a beautiful and simply-painted lebes gamikos, as well as pieces, broken long ago, of other ceramic objects. \u00a0 \u00a0The pot is not nearly as old as my lithics are, \u00a0some of which \u00a0date back as far as twenty thousand years, \u00a0but it had been lying in its forgotten grave for five hundred years by the time Christ was born. \u00a0It is a sad fact that \u00a0the advent of mechanical farming has led to a swift and relentless \u00a0fragmentation of all antiquities which lie \u00a0in the uppermost layers of soil. \u00a0A large plow can reach as deep as five feet and damage or obliterate all it comes in contact with. \u00a0And there are also bulldozers, and a thing which is called a ripper, which describes its effect poetically.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

River stones lie beside the roads, this having been the site of swiftly-moving water \u00a0millions of years previously. \u00a0All of the stones are rounded and smooth, but once in a while I will find one which has the shape of a cork from a wine bottle, larger at one end and narrowing in a pinched arc toward the other. \u00a0I imagine how it was shaped, trapped in an eddy of the stream, turning dizzily, rubbing continuously against its brethren which surround it on all sides. \u00a0 Ground to a distinctive shape over years, these stones are an illustration of persistence, and movement, and transformation over time.<\/p>\n

One Spring day as I was hacking out crab grass, I moved my wedding ring onto my smallest \u00a0finger, the better to grasp the handle of my hoe. \u00a0 As I was throwing the weeds away I accidentally tossed my ring away as well. \u00a0Hours of searching produced no results, and within the week my husband and I went and picked out another one for me to wear. \u00a0Years later, again pulling weeds, I found it again, shining in the newly-turned earth. \u00a0Now I have two, should I ever need a spare.<\/p>\n

This is the dwelling place of giant toads, some as big as broiler chickens. \u00a0They are reserved and single-minded, as they search for insects in damp places, and often hide in corners of the yard where weeds have grown tall. \u00a0We are careful when mowing the grass not to tip the machine up and lower it onto these weedy islands, as two have come to a tragic end in this manner. \u00a0One day I found a dead toad, poor soul, and I buried it in \u00a0a secret corner of the compost pile. \u00a0A year later I \u00a0gathered its bones and bleached them white. \u00a0I keep them for use in my art, and fondly \u00a0remember their original owner.<\/p>\n

Following the sheep paths which criss-cross the edge of our\u00a0 fosso, \u00a0<\/em>there are bits and pieces of ceramics and glass, rusted iron agglomerations and bones. \u00a0You must watch your step close to the edge because you can fall twenty feet to the stream bed below if you are careless. \u00a0Along this edge I spied a small crusted object, a glint of blue and yellow paint. \u00a0Pocketed, carried home and washed, I found \u00a0I had two joined pieces of a century-old puzzle, \u00a0pieces from a vase which had been broken a hundred years ago. \u00a0Mended carefully with strips of lead, these were threaded through small holes in both sides of the break, \u00a0metal laces in a ceramic shoe. \u00a0 It must have been a favorite, and the loss of it must have seemed unacceptable to its owner, such a long time ago.<\/p>\n

My shelves have space, openings available to display new finds. \u00a0 I often wonder what random bits of our lives, \u00a0hundreds of years hence, will be carried home and treasured by our descendants in their wanderings.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

“untitled,” \u00a0 \u00a0wood, paper, bone, shell, Mylar, beeswax, oil, brass \u00a0 11 x 7 x 2 inches, \u00a02009<\/p>\n

(above) \u00a0“Sotto San Costantino Albanese,” \u00a0oil on canvas, \u00a014 x 14 inches, 2004<\/p>\n

<\/div>