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franksolich
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« on: July 16, 2008, 05:25:29 am » |
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As of Wednesday morning, the rigging still remains atop the William Rivers Pitt, although the accompanying truck is back in the big city. The drilling apparatus is perhaps the most minimal sort of equipment in this part of the state, and there isn't much call for it, larger equipment usually being needed, so the well-drilling company just took the truck, leaving all else here until the hot chick decides she's done all she can do.
The drilling, such as it was, started circa 7:30 a.m. yesterday (Tuesday), and was stopped about lunchtime because of the oppressive heat and sun, which I myself had long ago fled. The idea was to come back after supper, when it gets cooler again, and to finish, but then about this same time, the area got deluged by monstrous thunderstorms, and so the hot chick, her friend from town, the neighbor, the two young grandsons of the old guy, and I just sat on the front porch, watching the rain and dining on Valentino's pizza brought in from the big city, and sipping on beverages of choice.
The novice soil scientist had collected over 400 soil samples, putting such each of such samples into three little containers, the containers being stashed in Thermos coolers. Not that they need to be kept cool or anything; only that Thermos coolers are oftentimes a handy way of storing and moving such things.
She told me the deepest penetration was circa 72 feet, but don't quote me on that; I think that's what she said, but am not 100% sure. The William Rivers Pitt, despite its enormity, is nothing like seven stories high; it began at the bottom of a deep ravine in 1875, and by 1950 had only just begun to tower above the top of the ravine.
About three feet down, she had begun encountering what appeared to be decayed wood and wire, and after some feet of that, she reached the pure swine excrement. It makes sense; when the barn burned down in June 1950, most likely the burned ruins were dumped in the most-reasonable place, atop the William Rivers Pitt.
Of course, she was drilling and collecting, not analyzing, and so was just guessing about things. After she's done here, she's going back to Maryland for the rest of the summer, and then in the autumn she'll get around to analyzing everything. It all has to be done by April 2009, so she has plenty of time.
Also, even after she's done here, she plans to come back, in case something new or interesting arises; words that gave me much refreshment, because remember, she is a supporter of the worthier Democrat candidate for president, much embittered by the Hate and intolerance of the Obamaites. She's not likely to vote for John McCain, but I want more time to subtly encourage her to not vote for president at all.
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The town inebriate had shown up very late Monday night, and set up the drilling apparatus as specified; since it's small apparatus, it didn't take more than an hour, after which he bedded himself down on the couch here, much to my surprise. He wanted to hang around to watch this operation.
About 5:30 Tuesday morning, the soil scientist and her friend from town arrived; and then in short order, the neighbor, the diesel deliveryman (who wanted to watch), the old guy and his two young grandsons, the retired banker and his horticulturalist wife, and the ancient elderly gentleman who used to mow the grass here, and his wife.
Everybody stood around drinking coffee, soda, iced tea, iced milk, whatnot, until about half an hour later, when the professor of the soil scientist drove up, to check on things before they got started. It was only a few minutes later that the professor of the prairie archaeologist and his student showed up, to do their own thing, checking out the terrain so that the student can start digging around here.
The professor of the soil scientist was a short frail little Hindu guy, perhaps 50 years old, who immediately embarked on what Margaret Mead and franksolich would describe as a primitive ceremonial rite of expressing territoriality or dominance, or both.
He impatiently trod around, insisting the drilling apparatus was not set up correctly.
"Who put this up?" he asked the assembled crowd.
The town inebriate, sitting on the steps of the front porch, lifted a quart bottle of Budweiser Light beer I had given him, and smiled at the little guy. The town inebriate, although wholesomely skilled in things mechanical, one must mention, is sort of scraggly and and scruggly and unkempt, much like the lying titty primitive or that that worthless freeloading bum the wily primitive.
The professor from India stared at the apparition.
"HE set this up? HIM? Well, it's all set up wrong."
Now, a professor of soil science knows something about drilling--more than the average layman--but the odds are that even a professor of soil science has not had the experience, nor the depth of experience, of drillers who have done such work for decades.
The ancient elderly gentleman who used to mow the grass here spoke up.
"It's set up exactly the way it's supposed to be set up," he told the little guy.
The ancient elderly gentleman suffered a minor stroke some months ago, and is halting of speech and movement. The professor stared at him, as if questioning his competence.
There was going to be an argument, and the sun was now blazing, and so I walked away, to the front porch, where the prairie archaeologist professor and his student were waiting; also, the horticulturalist wife of the retired banker came with me.
So we watched from the front porch; there was some sort of argument, all down there by the William Rivers Pitt getting involved, but the details were imperceptible to us. It was obvious the Hindu professor thought he was among bumpkins and country idiots, when in fact other than the two young boys and the town inebriate, the whole crowd was college educated, some from institutions finer and more prestigious than what had illuminated the professor himself.
For the record, the ancient elderly gentleman is a B.S. in mechanical engineering, University of Nebraska, and an M.S. in mechanical engineering, University of Colorado.
It went round and round and round, but the apparatus was not changed.
I have no idea what happened, but somehow peace was restored. The little man wanted some more details about the William Rivers Pitt, but the ancient elderly gentleman, who grew up here, didn't want to deal with him, and so the Hindu professor and the wife of the ancient elderly gentleman walked over to his motor vehicle, where he interviewed her for details; they seemed agreeable enough towards each other.
Shortly before seven, the professor took his leave, going off to another student's project 165 miles west of here, to check on that. And then the drill was started up.
The horticulturalist wife wanted to talk about the flowers here, which grow promiscuously and colorfully with little or no help from me. I am no botanist; science bores me, and generally I just let things develop in their own manner in their own time. And besides, the face was starting to burn and itch, and after thanking her for the compliments, I took off for the big city.
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When I returned several hours later, as already mentioned, the job had been mostly done, and everyone was gone. There was a note left me, telling me most of them would be back about seven in the evening, and so I retreated further inside the house, further away from the sun, and sat down to read a biography of the one-time mayor of Boston, Kevin White, prolifically wealthy in details about how Democrat big-city machines create "votes" out of thin air.
When everybody showed up again, I asked the soil scientist if she had managed, roughly, to "date" any samples she had gotten. I wanted to see a sample from circa the Dust Bowl era, 1930-1939. She went through her notes, and from that, reading labels on containers, showed me one such sample she "thought" might have been from that time.
I examined it closely, as if it was as if looking into the long-buried tomb of an ancient Egyptian pharoah. To the ordinary or unobservant or primitive eye, it might have seemed just a teaspoon of dirt, nothing at all remarkable, but to me, I was pulled back in time, looking at dirt that had not seen the light of day since Franklin and Eleanor were in the White House, and soda came in bottles, five cents per; a whole lot of images from the earliest years of Time and Life magazines.
There's a lot of history in pig shit, if one looks for it.
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