That you will be seen is a lesson brought home to me sometime back when I was exploring hills partially bared by construction of a new Wal-mart in Vicksburg. I was hidden from view (I thought) near a tree line when I spied a fox that had obviously been uprooted from his living quarters by the heavy equipment. More than half the hair had been skinned from his tail; he was altogether a sad sight that would have evoked sympathy from anyone. I’m an animal lover, and when I beheld the bedraggled fox, I naturally felt pity.
“Hi, fellow,” I called to him. “Poor guy. You’ve had a rough time of it, haven’t you?”
The fox, thirty yards away, paused and turned. He was listening to me!
I continued. “You’re hurt. Why don’t you come over here, and I’ll carry you to a Vet and get you well. Okay?”
The fox took a few steps in the opposite direction, then paused again. I actually felt that he knew I was a friend and that he was considering my offer. “Come on, old boy,” I called, “I’ll not hurt you. I just want to help you. I’ll get some medical attention for you, and then I’ll turn you back out in the wild. Okay? You’re a gorgeous old fox, aren’t you? Come on, big boy. Come to me.”
Another step, another pause.
“What a beautiful fox you are! But you’re hurt. Let me help you, buddy.”
A movement in the corner of my eye attracted my attention. There, not twenty yards away, was a relic hunter who had removed his earphones. He stood giggling, his detector at his side, as he observed my conversation with the fox.
Needless to say, I hauled ass, hoping, as I practically ran around the hill and out of sight, that the fellow hadn’t recognized me, and praying further that I never ran across the guy again.
Nowadays I try to make darned sure no one else is around before I make a complete fool of myself.
Most homeowners will cringe at the suggestion that they allow you to dig holes in their immaculately maintained hybrid Bermuda grass lawns, but if you’re able to gain permission, the rewards can be significant.
The first experience I had with digging up lawns came back in the eighties when a fellow employee mentioned to me that his in-laws, who lived along a road within the city near and behind Confederate lines, had unearthed an artillery projectile as they plowed their garden near their house. My interest, of course, was immediately aroused; I sought and gained an interview with his in-laws, whose house, I soon learned, had been surrounded by Confederate tents back in 1861-63.
In my ensuing conversations with them, the in-laws, aware of my interest in relics of the War, graciously offered me the artillery shell they had discovered in their garden. My tongue landed squarely between my feet when they brought it out; the “shell” was a beautiful ten-pounder Parrott chill nose bolt, complete with perfect sabot – one of the rarest of Union artillery projectiles. I thanked them profusely, then boldly asked permission to dig up their lawn.
Now, you know I had more sense than to ask to dig up their lawn. Instead I told them of my love for relic-hunting, of my deep respect for our Confederate ancestors and the artifacts they left behind, of my desire to save those artifacts, which were corroding away in the soil, soon to be lost forever, for the benefit of posterity, and that I was a Presbyterian – honest, God-fearing, and honorable to a fault, that I used a tiny, thin-blade knife to dig tiny holes that were immediately covered once the relic was saved, that the lawn would be better when I finished than when I began, that someday the relics would occupy space in a grand museum, and that perhaps their names would be inscribed indelibly and associated forever with these wondrous remains from our army, that time was of the essence and that I needed to get started right away rescuing the historic remains…
No, not really. But I would have, if the in-laws hadn’t merely answered my first request with “Sure, go ahead. You can’t hurt the lawn.”
Shortly I discovered why I couldn’t “hurt the lawn,” to wit, the Confederate soldiers had evidently camped in the area for such a long period - broken pottery and bricks apparently used for cook stoves or fireplaces littered the area – that the ground was packed densely such that grass could hardly take root. Regardless, I was very careful to cover and tamp each hole I dug, and to remove and discard any trash or foreign material I noticed; I truly left the lawn in better condition than found.
Wow! For over a year I periodically searched that lawn for relics. Minie balls and musket balls were everywhere. Buttons. Gun parts. Cavalry implements. Coins. Personal items. Common buckles. Then came the day I stood staring disbelieving into the palm of my hand at the tongue portion of a two-piece CS buckle I’d just dug. No, it wasn’t the common round-tongue CS two-
piece. It was the jackpot – the extremely rare rectangular-tongue two-piece CS belt plate.Strangely, I discovered no more artillery shells in the area. Perhaps a Confederate soldier had recognized the rarity of that chill-nose bolt and picked it up from the battlefield for a closer examination back in camp.
I’ve mentioned the lot on Cherry Street that produced many cavalry items. Another, on Drummond Street, caught my eye as well. I learned it was owned by an individual with whom I was not acquainted; he, however, was very generous when I called him, insisting that I hunt it anytime I wanted. In the ensuing days I determined that another cavalry unit had camped u
pon it, for it produced many relics similar to those found on the Cherry Street lot.My own home on Drummond Street, together with the lawns adjacent to it, gave evidence of War activity. My neighbor and friend Caroline Compton, a Vicksburg artist of national renown, happily allowed me to hunt her lawns next door. Between our two lots I dug several coins and relics of the War. On other lots in Vicksburg I have recovered the gamut of War artifacts, from state buttons to artillery shells to buckles, coins and bullets.
1 comment:
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