In today’s student blog contribution, Collette discusses what we can learn from excavation and other archaeological recording techniques like drawing elevations. — Kate
Today some of us were excavating, some were doing stage 3 pits and some were drawing and planning the walls that were exposed of the house we are looking at. I was drawing the east side of wall 1 which is where the construction of the house may have started. It is important for these walls to be drawn because it shows us the construction of the house. The plans and drawings are used for comparing other plans to other sites, the way the building was constructed and finding the purpose of the building.
The walls of this structure are made from stone which indicates potential social status of the people living in the house. Back when this house was built which was in the 19th century, it was a luxury to have houses made from concrete because it was expensive while most structures were made from stone. Therefore, the walls of this house indicates that this structure was a house and that this family may have been middle class in terms of status.
It is also important to understand how these walls were built in order to understand the logic behind the workers constructing the building. Different methods may be used for different buildings as well as certain materials are more expensive than others therefore, the workers may have been trying to construct a building safely while using the resources they had.
Houses that belonged to the more wealthy may have been made from concrete which demonstrates the differences in methods and materials when building homes and other structures. We also use these plans to see if we can construct buildings today using the same methods and materials they had back then.
Here’s Wayne’s impressions of the field school experience to date, and his insight into the relationship between the traces preserved in the archaeological record and how we can reconstruct past human behaviours and experiences. — Kate
This place doesn’t have an address, just a reference number. We, archaeology students, were introduced to it in pictures that were more than 100 years old. It wasn’t the focal point, just a bystander caught in the background of important buildings, in Nassau Mills.
As I first approached the fenced area, its remains simply displayed as low rows of organized stones. The previous work of other students had partially revealed some of its features, but there were missing pieces. A more careful observation showed these weren’t just neatly piled stones, but the work of skilled craftsmen. The walls ran straight, their thickness fairly uniform, their corners precisely perpendicular. One section was recessed with a large stone jutting out, as if it was a welcome mat. Could that be a doorway, into the former owner’s house? The visible walls seemed to be where my eyes and attention focused, but they created closed spaces that had provided shelter to its inhabitants. Somebody, or several somebodies, used these empty spaces. The obvious question is: How?
As archaeology students learning field techniques, it was going to be our task to help uncover more information about this place, and who called this home. After several hours of careful shoveling and scraping away soil, a new section of wall and a corner started to appear. This additional section gave shape to another part of the remains that had stayed hidden since the upper portion had withered away.
Mixed into those scrapings, retrieved with respect and care, were little pieces of people’s lives, hinting at how they lived. Square and round nails, a broken metal file, a few pieces of broken tableware, an 1852 coin, and bits of glass were uncovered or retrieved from the screened soil. Finally, parts of a child’s “tea set” surfaced.
It surprised me that in only a few days, I was starting to gain insight into some details of this house’s history. It causes me to wonder what I have similarly left behind in my existence that might reveal that I lived somewhere. I can only imagine that my lost or discarded items are less likely to become an archaeological puzzle, as this early settlement house in Nassau Mills, Ontario, is for us.
Is there someone reading this that had grandparents, familiar with the area, that could give a family’s name to this old home?
Here’s a post from Sarah, who tells us why she and other archaeologists are so interested into looking through someone’s broken bits of trash! — Kate
Sometimes when people ask me why I’m studying archaeology, I tell them it’s because I like looking through old garbage, just to see people’s reactions. It might seem shocking, or odd, but a large part of archaeology is looking at material remains that other people threw away. You could even say archaeology is the study of trash.
Why study garbage? What’s the point? Aren’t there bigger, more exciting things to dig up like pyramids? Actually, a lot about who we are as families, individuals, and members of society can be found out by looking at the things we throw away.
Take dinner time for example. The plates, cups and cutlery people use can tell about their culture and socio-economic status. One could imagine that the Queen eats off of different plates than the average university student.
And what ultimately happens to these plates and cups? Some might accidentally break, or maybe they’ve just gotten old and dirty, and they end up in the trash. Even though they are in the garbage, the information about the people who used the items is still intact and able to be uncovered by archaeologists. It is like somebody in the past is opening up the door to their lives and saying “Hey! Come in for dinner!”
For three days this past week, Mary and I excavated the midden (trash pit) on the field school site. After getting through the fairly uneventful “fill layer” on top of the midden (loose soil that was added after the site was abandoned) we hit an enormous pile of garbage from the 19th century.
We found nails, cans, intact bottles, animal bones, pieces of ceramic pipes, hundreds of pieces of glass from containers, and lots and lots of broken plates and cups all jumbled together.
We found some interesting designs on some of these ceramic plates and cups which can tell us about the people of Nassau Mills. One of these is transfer print, a design for ceramic that uses a type of stamp to imprint a specific image onto the ceramic.
Transfer print was developed in England in 1783 and was popular in Europe and North America for most of the 19th century. The most common colour for transfer print was cobalt blue, and a popular style of this colour was called Blue Willow (which we found in our trash pile).
Blue Willow was a Chinese inspired design that was popular in England ’til about 1814, though its influence lasted a few decades longer in Canada. In our midden, we also found a wide variety of other transfer print dishes, such as blue, dark green, lime green and pinky/red coloured ones.
These different colours show different changes in transfer print innovation and style, and are very useful for dating a site to specific years. They’re also extremely pretty.
The ceramics at Nassau Mills show the adoption of changing styles over time, and how the Peterborough area related to the greater world-wide European cultural climate.
There’s almost something magical about it; I can dig underground and find the dinner plates that somebody used in their everyday lives in the 1850s. It allows the imagination to run wild. Were these the “good” china for company? Did someone eat their birthday cake off this plate? Was this cup smashed by accident or on purpose? In reality, it is impossible to answer these questions. However, remembering that the people who lived at Nassau Mills interacted with objects that we use in our lives today makes the site a little more human.
We can’t meet face-to-face with the inhabitants of Nassau Mills, but we can dig through their garbage, which I think is the next best thing.
Here is Nic’s blog post, which weaves together the works of Benjamin and Sebald, the idea of the angel of history, and how archaeology is essentially a process of reconstruction of abandonment. — Kate
An angel brought me to the Ontario Field School this spring. That angel is the one Walter Benjamin saw with ‘horrified fixity’ while gazing upon a painting by Paul Klee. This is the “angel of history” whose
“face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is brewing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. This storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.”
This is a famous passage from Benjamin’s Thesis on the Philosophy of History from 1940, and it is an image which creates a vision of time and humanity in opposition to the material determinism present in modern Western thought. For many authors and historians living in the wake of the horror of 20th Century Europe it captured the meaninglessness and chaos hanging in the air as the rubble piled high in the streets. It was his last published written work. Benjamin was a Jewish refugee hiding in Vichy France at the time and in June as the Wehrmacht entered Paris with a warrant for his arrest Benjamin fled to Spain with hopes of reaching the United States.
He carried with him in his briefcase a manuscript of the Thesis, and another unknown manuscript, which has never been found. After the Franco government in Spain cancelled all travel visas and trapped escaping refugees he rightfully feared being sent back to France where arrest and deportation to a concentration camp awaited. On the night of September 25th at the Hotel de Francia in Portbou, Catalonia, he committed suicide with an overdose of morphine.
One European author in particular influenced me to look through the eyes of Benjamin’s angel of history. W.G. Sebald devoted his short writing career to unearthing and steeping in the rubble of humanity, the ruins of great undertakings, and the personal aspirations and tragedies of esoteric and seemingly universal dimensions. In his world the dead are always returning to us and as a German emigrant born in 1944 he fixated on the “archeological excavations of the slag-heaps of our collective existence” in resistance to illusory or determinist thought about the past and present. Few public figures have done more to allow Europeans, and especially Germans to confront their own past.
In his first published work The Rings of Saturn, an autobiographical character awakes in the Norwich Hospital after undertaking a walk through coastal Suffolk county. His quaint late summer walk through the English countryside becomes a kaleidoscopic viewfinder through the physical and metaphysical stratigraphy upon which his feet traverse. As he saunters on his vision leads him in and out of a chaotic mix of destruction and regeneration present in small snippets of history. A plaque, a ruin, a turn of phrase once used, all keyholes into a dream-like state, where the dream is humanity. Through this process he is overcome with a “paralyzing horror” which awaits within “the traces of destruction, reaching far back into the past, that were evident even in that remote place.”
Through his eyes the ruins of Dunwich, a great English port from the middle ages which collapsed into the sea, is connected to the deforestation of England over millennia through fires and the production of charcoal. This leads to a rumination on Western civilization that “combustion is the hidden principle behind every artefact we create. The making of a fish-hook, manufacture of a china cup, or production of a television programme, all depend on the same process of combustion. Like our bodies and like our desires, the machines we have devised are possessed of a heart which is slowly reduced to embers.”
Such a view of history and humanity is not simply a melodramatic appeal as a literary device, but poetically connects our personal realities to a broader movement of time. In a civilization entranced in ideas of progress and technological determinism, these traces of destruction are often obscured or rejected entirely, as one can attempt to bury a traumatic memory. After excavating the rubble what remains is what some have seen in Sebald and Benjamin’s work as a vision of creaturely life, one of daily toil and repetition, forever swept up in the storm.
While visiting the Hope Mill in order to view a functioning saw mill I felt this vision of the angel, of creaturely life blend with why I was here learning about the process of archeology in Ontario. As we were on the side of the country road about to pack into our vehicles, James stopped everyone for a moment and got us to look at a barn or shed right next to the road. It had visibly decayed over time in contrast to the living, resuscitated, much older Hope Mill and its appearance evoked the smell of the animal excrement you could imagine filled the structure.
I remember James trying to get us to visualize what it was used for, the potential human toil that would go on in and around the structure and the clues and materials which could lead you there. But most importantly, in order to access this creaturely life one had to first imagine the “process of abandonment” through which the structure had travelled in layered form into our moment. What struck me is the immensity of the process of abandonment in comparison to the usage. It can be a much longer period of time than the initial usage but it is also hidden from view as abandonment runs contrary to dominant, more easily accessible ideas. In order to access it and sort through the wreckage that is
hurled at our feet I expect you have to employ a practical vision and try to recreate the unbecoming through these traces of destruction. As I was searching for the north rock wall corner of our Nassau Mills structure I was digging into this abandonment, into the work of a bull-dozer operator hastily preparing a sports field for a university soon to be built.
Since I am new to archeology as of this field course I don’t have very much to say about the intricacies of the process itself, which Kate, James and Marit have so personably laid in front of me. But what I have been struck by is the reliance and development of your own vision, of seeing in 4 dimensions, of being able assemble and disassemble, to rotate, to age. To access the mind of someone performing an action, which has lead you to a clue of their existence, and then returning, moving on, always making whole what has been smashed.
VIDEO: “Assembling, counting, forwards, backwards” by Nic van Beek
Throughout the 6 weeks of the Field School I found myself lost in rumination as I troweled into the stratigraphy of our ‘deserted’ Nassau Mills house structure. When finding a harmonica in a clinker pile of charred debris I imagined the life of the person who may have sat there trying to master the instrument. The people they tried to impress, the sound that may have emanated from it after years of practice, the endless nights and sunny moments of song swept away into a plastic bag, labelled and boxed onto a shelf. It sounds morbid, but for me this space is somehow open and freeing, bringing on a feeling similar to what George Simmel in 1911 described as the “profound peace,” which surrounds a ruin.
After the usage of a structure or a space ends something else occurs. As Simmel continued in his essay The Ruin “it is as though a segment of existence must collapse before it can become unresistant to all currents and powers coming from all corners of reality.” As a structure is abandoned it is no longer used as directly in accordance with the rules outlined in ideology or in law or otherwise, and enters into a space in some respects sheltered from the storm. Avoiding a kind of ruin mysticism is important for a rational approach to archeology, but through the actual materiality of the site you can enter a world of imagination and observation in relation to the past which rivals, and in my mind supersedes, any imaginative potential of the future.
Finally, for me the meaning of physically digging deep into the past also stems from a horror show in which I was immersed while completing my undergraduate degree in History. I had the opportunity to work on the Montreal Life Stories Project where I recorded, organized and viewed the life stories of people who had come to Montreal from situations of genocide around the world. Some of the stories and details I heard in these life stories still flash up involuntarily in my mind as people would spend up to 5 hours trying to excavate their own memories and make sense, or simply convey, the things they had witnessed and the subsequent trajectories of their lives.
For me it centered history in a moral frame and divorced technological development or progress from any kind of humanist trajectory. When early in the field school we found a commemorative Nazi pin from a May 1935 seafaring rally in Hamburg this world flashed up. I could imagine Benjamin in September of 1940 travelling with his briefcase towards the border only to find his own demise. I could imagine my Oma, as she described to me, hiding with our family in the cellar of their village home as nightly air raids shook the ground. I could imagine the owner of the pin throwing it into the bushes, out of fear, out of shame, or just to be rid of it and leaving it for us to find this trace of destruction reaching far back into the past.
Today’s student blog is by Brianne, and relates her reflections about her field school experience this year — Kate
With field school ending, and having procrastinated writing this blog post to the very last second I’ve decided to end with some observations and random thoughts I have encountered throughout the past month.
You Might Make a Good Archaeologist If:
-Gardening is a meditative pastime opposed to a chore
-You don’t hate washing dishes
– Puzzles are less frustrating than they are amusing, and you don’t give up halfway through and put the puzzle back in the box before it’s complete
-You enjoy turning chaos into order and generally get satisfaction out of organizing things
– You like photography or keeping a detailed journal of your daily happenings
-You enjoy drawing or sketching nature (aka rocks)
-Enduring various types of weather makes you feel connected with the earth (or in our case you just really, really like rain)
– You like yoga ( as I’ve come to learn, everyone refers to the many digging positions as “archaeology yoga”)
– You have an interest in cartography or map making
– You enjoy field trips and adventures/excursions to super cool places
– Worms, slugs, grubs and ants while maybe not lovable, don’t fall under your category of fears
While the field of archaeology is realistically more complicated than this list may lead you to interpret, the point is that archaeology encompasses so many different interests and facets of life. Anywhere from osteology, forensic anthropology, or environmental archaeology, all the way to archaeoastronomy.
The versatility of archaeology is one of the things that makes it so great, especially for anyone with a lot of interests. A question I get a lot when I tell people that I’m studying archaeology is “what kind of job will you be able to do with that degree?” Or “are there any jobs in that field?” And I think one of the reasons for this is that people don’t realize archaeology isn’t restricted to digging a hole in the dirt. Archaeology is a very broad field with numerous specializations (and specializations within those specializations). In reality, digging is only one of many lengthy stages in an archaeology project. While this field school was a stage three excavation and did focus on the excavation/digging part of archaeology, it did open my eyes to all the work and preparation that needs to be done before getting to this stage as well as all the work still left to be done after artifacts have been recovered and catalogued.
Coming into this course I had zero field experience, making me extremely excited but also very nervous, because no one wants to find out halfway through their degree that they don’t like the program they’ve been studying. Looking back on the past month, I’m very happy as well as relieved to say that this field school has been one of the best experiences I’ve had at Trent thus far. I would highly recommend this course to anyone wanting to explore archaeology as a possible career path, especially if they are unsure like I was about how they would enjoy archaeology in practice. This small glimpse into the world of archaeology that the field school has given me makes me excited to see where the field of archaeology takes me next.
Trevor brings us his perspective on learning surveying and mapping during the field school. — Kate
When thinking of archaeological work the first thing most people think of is probably digging. While this does make up an integral part of the process, there is far more to it than that. I didn’t realize it before starting the course, but archaeology involves a lot of surveying and mapping. The work is tedious and some people might find it boring and repetitive but I find it quite satisfying.
Mapping involves both surveying and drawing in the field as well as digitizing the hand drawn maps in the lab. Within the first week of the course I had learned how to use a theodolite and total station, which are surveying tools used to measure distances, angles, and elevations. At first, it was difficult trying to set them up properly on the tripod, making sure they were perfectly level and centered precisely over the known datum point, but I eventually got the hang of it. Using these I could precisely measure the coordinates of any point on the site and transfer those points onto a paper map. I also learned how to draw smaller, more detailed maps using planning frames. To me, the planning and problem solving that goes into trying to find the best way of ensuring these maps are as accurate as possible is the most engaging and intellectually stimulating part of the whole archaeological process. In addition to this field mapping though, I also learned some basic digital mapping. It’s a little less engaging than mapping in the field but it’s perhaps more satisfying once it comes together since it produces and very clear visual representation of the layout of the site which we can then use to interpret the structure of the architecture.
The map above shows the outlines of the rocks along the top of the walls of the structure. With this, we can clearly see how the overall structure is shaped and we can make inferences about it based on this. For example, we have speculated based on our maps that the overall structure is a large rectangle with a smaller rectangle in the middle which we think is a small basement or cellar underneath it. The main advantage of having the map in digital form is that we can add layers corresponding to different depths beneath the surface which gives us a visual representation of the site at multiple points along the progression of the excavation. We can also tie specific regions of the map to the digital catalogues of the artifacts that came from them and quickly and efficiently compare the assemblages of artifacts of different regions. Having this visual representation of all the data makes interpreting the site very intuitive. I hadn’t gotten to that point yet with my map, but that would be the next step and it’s something I’m very interested in learning more about in the future.
Before taking this course, I had no idea just how important mapping would be to the archaeological process, nor did I know how much I would enjoy it. If there’s one important thing I can take away from this experience it’s the knowledge that I love surveying and mapping and that I want to do more of it. Knowing this will help to guide my choices throughout the rest of my time at Trent and beyond.
Here’s an interesting interweaving of philosopy and archaeology contributed by Bjorn. Making connections is definitely a most essential part of the practice of archaeology. Thinking about why and how we make those connections in reconstructing the past is a vital part of the process. — Kate
Over the past two weeks I had been ruminating over what I could write my blog post about. So I decided to combine archaeology with another academic interest of mine and that is ancient philosophy. One of the things that drew me to archaeology in the first place is its room for cross disciplinary inquiry and creative thinking. Aside from the hours of field work, cleaning, and cataloguing, what I have observed about archaeology especially after taking this field course, is that archaeology is about making connections. Making sense of things with an often sparse and incomplete picture of the past requires resourcefulness and deep thinking on the part of archaeologists. In a sense, archaeology attempts to reconstruct past realities through the merging of the material and the intelligible.
The philosophers of ancient Greece obsessively thought about the concept of reality and how matter and ideas were related. The most famous and my own favourite philosopher, Plato, put forth the influential concept of the forms. Which, if we recall our intro to philosophy courses in High School or University, puts forth the notion that the physical realm before us is not truly reality. Rather the physical world with which we interact with our bodies is a shadow, or image being projected by the real, realm of forms, also known as the realm of ideas. in dialogues like ‘The Republic’, Plato describes the forms as perfect, unchanging concepts or ideals that transcend time and space. In this dialogue, Plato uses the famous allegory of the cave to describe how things we see in the physical world are not real, but projections of ideals from the realm of the forms. Which in his allegory he compares to light from a fire, projecting shadows of objects onto a cave wall in which the observer sees the shadow but is unaware of the actual object beyond his or her grasp that is being projected onto the wall. I feel I should keep this summary of Platonism, brief and simple for the sake of blog space and interest, so I will cut to the chase with how I believe this relates to archaeology.
In everyday life we interact with material objects, and generally we understand their uses. When I show the word “Cellphone”, an image may appear in your mind of what a cellphone looks like and what it is meant to do, you have an idea of this physical thing. In archaeology, we are removed from the world of the past as we are living in the present. Thus the marriage of idea and matter does not occur as naturally to the uninitiated observer, especially the farther back into the past you go. So I’ve been toying with the notion that as archaeologists, we are often purposefully reversing the roles of Platonic reality. Instead of the ideal, intelligible realm projecting the material, we work in reverse, using matter to project a reality with which we have no natural, waking connection to. By understanding the physical properties of an artifact, archaeologists can infer much about its use, when it was created, and its role in a time long past. An example in our own lab experience would be our cataloguing of ceramics. Compiled resources on the history and use of certain ceramic techniques give clues to their age and use. Especially in historical archaeology like this, we also use small material fragments to restore and reconstruct these materials back into one complete artifact, turning the physically formless back towards a faithful representation of its ideal reality. We use our own intellect to reconnect the material (artifacts) to the realm of ideas, making the past more real.
To get another perspective on this notion, we can look to another great ancient philosopher. The later Neo-platonic philosopher of the third century AD, Plotinus, expands further on Plato’s concept of the forms and presents a cosmology in which “The One” (like the realm of forms) emanates outwards to project things like the universe and matter.
To Plotinus, this is how reality operates, however, due to us being bound in a physical body, we see an inverted perspective of this cosmology.
Instead, we naturally see matter as the central underpinning of reality, and all else emanates outwards from it. Now Plotinus sees this perspective as a negative one and associates it with the “fall of the soul”. However when removed from his cosmology and applied to the science of archaeology, the inverted perspective is perfect for making sense of the past. Material culture emanates a past world which emanates past lives and past intelligence. Whether you agree with Plotinus’ mystical, and confusing metaphysics or not, I believe his inverted cosmology provides a great diagram as to how the process of archaeology brings the past to reality, working from matter towards the intelligible.
I have no conclusion or grand insight as to how this philosophical connection can be applied to the work of archaeologists. However I found it to be an intriguing exercise in understanding for myself the purpose and intrigue of archaeology, and what it means to reconstruct the past. I tried to make this as concise and brief as possible so I apologize if I glossed over some concepts, but I will provide a link below if you are interested in learning more about Plotinus. I hope this provides any who may read this with some interesting ideas to think about and have us draw more connections between archaeology and other fields! After all, that’s largely what this is about, making connections.
For a great intro into the cosmology of Plotinus, see this video from Dr. Eric Steinhart:
Today’s student blog post comes from Selena Barre, and illustrates what happens to artifacts once we have dug them up! The most important part is taking these artifacts and situate them in the broader context of space, time, and human behaviour. — Kate
As we get into the later stages of investigation at our site, we’ve found a lot of artifacts. Many of us have been spending our days sifting through masses of clean ceramic and glass sherds. In lab, we can take our time to examine each small sherd carefully and – if we’re lucky – some may even fit together (like the spittoon)!
While sorting through massive piles of glass from context 6, Kate pointed out a particular pattern on some manganese-tinted pieces (a chemical present in the glass that gives it a purple tint). As you can see in pictures below, it’s a vine and leaf design, possibly with some berries. We decided to set them aside, and I got lucky in recognizing a piece of a base that refitted. It has embossed lettering! Individually, the lettering on the two pieces was not clear enough to track down this maker, but with the pieces together the name “T.A Lytle / Toronto” is visible.
A quick Google search is often enough to find all kinds of information, and T.A Lytle is no exception. The company operated, as advertised on their bottle, out of Toronto. Mr. Lytle was an Irish immigrant who had first found work in Canada at a vinegar factory, and apparently he took to the trade because a few years later he created his own company in 1882. They had a factory (still standing!) on Sterling St in Toronto and sold vinegar, pickles, preserves, catsup, club sauce, and maple syrup.
All these products would have been essential in a turn-of-the-century era worker’s household like the one we are investigating. In times past, and in rural areas, many people would have made their own pickles, jams, and sauces. Preserved foods were essential for making it through the difficult Canadian winters. However, these were labour intensive processes and easy to get wrong. Processing fruits and vegetables would have been a long and difficult task to begin with. As well, mistakes could be costly. Bad jam, for instance, can harbour the bacteria that cause botulism – a seriously toxic illness. It is no surprise that people would have turned to factory made products to save themselves not only the labour but also the risks of home making preserved food.
Returning to our example, which we know was produced by the “pickle packers” at T.A Lytle’s factory, one might wonder what specifically it contained. Though we have many pieces with the same pattern, only the bases refit. That leaves us with the base as the best clue to the bottle’s size and shape. It is less than 10cm in diameter. Based on the curvature of the other sherds of glass we have, it seems likely to have been a tall, sort of narrow bottle. This means it was probably not for pickles, but perhaps for one of T.A Lytle’s sauces or other liquid products.
There are some pictures of examples of T.A Lytle’s bottles that had maple leaves in a similar sort of design. These bottles would have contained maple syrup, as indicated by their exterior. The design that looks the most like ours is one from a bottle that has been identified (on the internet, anyway…) as containing lime juice cordial. Although this bottle is from a different manufacturer, a similar product was reportedly produced by T.A Lytle & Co. Nowadays, lime juice cordial is used most commonly in cocktails, but it was originally invented to give to sailors to prevent scurvy on long sea trips! It was often mixed with a ration of rum, which probably gave it its original association with drinking. This drink seems to have caught on with the general population, because this particular Rose’s brand lime juice cordial has been produced commercially since 1867 in the U.K and the company is now owned by Coca-Cola.
While the pattern on our sherds seems to resemble the lime cordial bottle, we don’t have enough to be certain. Without an exact match, my guess is as good as yours as to the contents of this particular bottle!
One of the best parts of the field school is having the chance to experience many different facets of archaeology. Some people quickly learn they love the technicalities of excavation, while others become enamoured of surveying and mapping. Still others discover their true interests lie in the lab, or with certain kinds of artifacts or time periods. Here’s a peek into Emily’s experience in this year’s field school. — Kate
As the field school comes to a close, it’s nice to take a look back at what I’ve learned. Over the course of the program I’ve had the opportunity to learn about archaeological techniques in both the field and in the lab. When most people think about archaeology, they think about the excavation process – where artifacts are removed from the ground. Of course finding artifacts is important, but an equally important aspect of archaeology is organizing and cataloguing artifacts so we can make sense of what we’ve found. In order to do this, we must be familiar with the types of artifacts found at our site.
In the first week of the course Kate and Marit gave us a lesson focusing on the types of glass, ceramic, and other artifacts we would be finding. While I enjoyed learning about these material types (and being able to identify them in the field and in lab), the thing I most enjoyed working with were the animal bones found on site. Since I haven’t had the opportunity to take a course focusing on human or animal bones yet I was excited to learn everything I could during the field course. As it turns out I think I’ve learned quite a bit!
Kate is amazing and identified every bone I showed her, telling me which animal it probably belonged to and what bone it is. In my limited experience with bones in a biological anthropology course I took, I had a tough time siding bones. Kate showed me how to side ribs during the course, and I was really excited when I got it! I also learned how to identify bird bones, which are hollow unlike mammal bones, and was happy about that too! I’m excited to continue learning how to identify bones in the future!
Animal bones found at a site can be used to understand the people who lived there. While not all of these applications are relevant to the Nassau Mills site, I enjoy learning about what certain artifacts at a site mean – specifically bones!
A faunal assemblage can sometimes be used to determine what the environment was like when the site was occupied. This can be done because specific animals require specific habitats. This application would typically be useful for sites much older than the Nassau Mills site. Animal bones found at a site can also be used to determine subsistence strategies of the people who lived there. For example, a major indicator of an agricultural society is a large number of young male animals being butchered. Male animals would be killed to eat as soon as they were old enough, while females were kept to produce milk and offspring.
Although interesting, this application wouldn’t give us too much new information about the Nassau Mills site because we already have a large amount of historical documentation for this period. Even though the animal bones being found at the Nassau Mills site may not be the most important artifacts for dating and determining the significance of the site, I still enjoyed applying the concepts I’ve learned about in class to a real archaeological site!
Here’s a little view into one of the activities our students learn during the course of the field school. They learn how to lay in and excavate a 1x1m test unit, and fill in the accompanying documentation. This is an important skill to have, as it is used widely in cultural resource management (CRM) archaeology in what is known as a Stage 3 assessment. Here’s Sam’s take on his experience. — Kate
In an ideal scenario, an archaeologist would know exactly where a site is located and would immediately begin setting up excavation units and get to work at it immediately. As Trevor and I have found out through experience, however, such is very unusually the case. In our case, we were tasked with digging to find out if something was there at all, and to achieve our goal, we needed to establish a Stage 3 test unit, one of several to be dug by the field school’s students.
Out of the four stages (numbered one through four) of the archaeological work process, Stage 3 is perhaps the most important. This is where archaeologists establish exactly what they have (or, do not have) in the area they’re looking at, how important that site and its artifacts are, and how it should be conserved and protected. While we know of our site located immediately behind the Trent University entrance sign at Nassau Mills Road and Water Street, the open field to the east gave much less an indication of the archaeological material that may lie underneath it. Thus, Trevor and I were among the first students to set out to reveal the field’s underlying secrets.
With a pre-existing grid having been mapped out previously, we marked our own one-square-metre Stage 3 test unit with pegs, peeled back the sod and began digging. At first, things seemed to come easy: the soil was loose, and easily scooped away with shovels. We even found some small artifacts, such as some glass shards, ceramic sherds and a couple cut iron nails. By the time we got about 40 cm down, however, things got tough. The soil was suddenly filled with a thick layer of small rocks, and the artifacts quickly dropped off to nothing. Soon, between the unit’s increasing depth and the large quantity of rocks, we only found progress at the sharp end of a pickaxe and the blades of trowels. We kept up hope, however, as we’d found stuff at greater depths in other units we had dug up beforehand, and kept going as best we could.
Though our progress was held up for a couple days by some unfavourable weather and a familial obligation, we were back at it today at last (May 30). Determined to find something to show for our efforts, we surged forward and got through a solid (literally) 35 cm of soil over the course of the day. As we kept digging, the rocks only seemed to get bigger, growing slowly from fist size, to requiring two hands to lift, and finally being impossible to lift or dig around. After getting to a full depth of about 87 cm, we contacted a deposit of numerous large rocks that were impossible to lift out or excavate around further, even with trowels. With no more artifacts on the way down and nothing to show a site was there, it seemed like we had, quite literally, hit rock bottom.
While it might seem like we have little to show for our efforts and just wasted a bunch of time and effort, both of these could not be further from the truth. Sometimes, in archaeology, it’s what you don’t have, rather than what you do have, that makes a difference. Knowing something is not there tells you that it’s time to rethink your methods and try digging someplace else to find what you’re looking for. Though it may not seem like much, I find solace and satisfaction in knowing that this is an archaeological achievement.
I don’t know what we’re trying to find out here away from our main site, but if Trevor and I could at least confirm where it isn’t, I hope my fellow students have some better luck confirming where it is. Regardless, wherever I go to dig next, I know the allure of the unknown will drive me to discover what lies (or doesn’t) beneath our feet. That’s the draw of archaeology: you never know what’s hiding underground.