I didn't choose archaeology - Part 1
I have to be honest. I didn’t actually choose archaeology. It chose me.
If I had known enough about it, I might have chosen it. We were a great match. It took a couple of archaeologists to figure that out for me, though. Without them, I would likely have walked on by.
I thought archaeology was all about the edges of the Mediterranean and other places I could never afford to travel. I thought it was all about the dusty back rooms of museums. I doubted it was all about Indiana Jones. At least I got that part right.
I had been away from the academic scene long enough to be unaware that archaeology had become scientific and that it lived side by side with environmental studies.
I’m a tree hugger. I’ve always been a tree hugger, even as a kid, before the term was coined. If I wasn’t sitting in, walking in, or camping in the outdoor world, I was reading about it or drawing it or letting it work its way into my writing. So it was natural to lean toward environmental studies when I returned to college in midlife.
This wasn’t my first venture into the hallowed halls. I’d been there twice before: once at 17 when everyone else was telling me what I should study and again as a young mother in my twenties when I decided to pursue what I thought I should study. The first time I lasted two and a half years at a big Midwestern state university, until a boy came along and offered me the opportunity to do concert sound with him in California. Rock ‘n’ roll here I come! That was quite a life and quite an interesting learning curve. When I left it, I found another Midwestern guy, got married, had a baby, got a dumb boring office job, and went back to school. Hey, at least I was still in California (with a pretty decent partner this time) and right next to the Pacific Ocean at that. I stuck that educational venture out for quite a few years, part timing it, going for the BS, until the babies came. Yeah, babies. Multiple. Eight of ‘em.
So I took an 18-year detour. Really, it was quite an adventure. It was a wonderful thing and my kids have taught me more than any college course ever has about a whole lot of stuff that really matters.
Our family tried to do a little bit of rural California homesteading. We raised a lot of farm animals and some food. We had a small orchard of fruit trees. It was fun. We went at it with all we had. Then the bottom fell out financially. We lost the farm. Ah well, we had each other. And no money. Do NOT let anyone tell you that homesteading, even with an outside income, is a good idea in southern California. Even in the formerly notoriously cheap high desert. Chances are - your mortgage lender will sell your account to some bank in Texas that won’t give a shit about your reasons when your payments are late and really won’t want to work with you to get things back up to speed. As I see it, those fucking Texas bankers like nothing more than to take your little California homestead away. So do think twice about any kind of homesteading in southern California. Unless you’re floating in pools of your own money. In which case I’ll have a hard time believing you want to raise a bunch of kids and goats…
Anyway, that’s the sad part of the story. The happy part is when the mom goes back to school and meets archaeologists. And gets a job (Yea, kids! Money! Food! Ice Cream!). And goes to grad school. And gets a better job. I’m not gonna get rich as an archaeologist. Too late for that - all those windows are closed…but still…work that is worth doing with people I like…things sure could be a lot worse.
If I had known enough about it, I might have chosen it. We were a great match. It took a couple of archaeologists to figure that out for me, though. Without them, I would likely have walked on by.
I thought archaeology was all about the edges of the Mediterranean and other places I could never afford to travel. I thought it was all about the dusty back rooms of museums. I doubted it was all about Indiana Jones. At least I got that part right.
I had been away from the academic scene long enough to be unaware that archaeology had become scientific and that it lived side by side with environmental studies.
I’m a tree hugger. I’ve always been a tree hugger, even as a kid, before the term was coined. If I wasn’t sitting in, walking in, or camping in the outdoor world, I was reading about it or drawing it or letting it work its way into my writing. So it was natural to lean toward environmental studies when I returned to college in midlife.
This wasn’t my first venture into the hallowed halls. I’d been there twice before: once at 17 when everyone else was telling me what I should study and again as a young mother in my twenties when I decided to pursue what I thought I should study. The first time I lasted two and a half years at a big Midwestern state university, until a boy came along and offered me the opportunity to do concert sound with him in California. Rock ‘n’ roll here I come! That was quite a life and quite an interesting learning curve. When I left it, I found another Midwestern guy, got married, had a baby, got a dumb boring office job, and went back to school. Hey, at least I was still in California (with a pretty decent partner this time) and right next to the Pacific Ocean at that. I stuck that educational venture out for quite a few years, part timing it, going for the BS, until the babies came. Yeah, babies. Multiple. Eight of ‘em.
So I took an 18-year detour. Really, it was quite an adventure. It was a wonderful thing and my kids have taught me more than any college course ever has about a whole lot of stuff that really matters.
Our family tried to do a little bit of rural California homesteading. We raised a lot of farm animals and some food. We had a small orchard of fruit trees. It was fun. We went at it with all we had. Then the bottom fell out financially. We lost the farm. Ah well, we had each other. And no money. Do NOT let anyone tell you that homesteading, even with an outside income, is a good idea in southern California. Even in the formerly notoriously cheap high desert. Chances are - your mortgage lender will sell your account to some bank in Texas that won’t give a shit about your reasons when your payments are late and really won’t want to work with you to get things back up to speed. As I see it, those fucking Texas bankers like nothing more than to take your little California homestead away. So do think twice about any kind of homesteading in southern California. Unless you’re floating in pools of your own money. In which case I’ll have a hard time believing you want to raise a bunch of kids and goats…
Anyway, that’s the sad part of the story. The happy part is when the mom goes back to school and meets archaeologists. And gets a job (Yea, kids! Money! Food! Ice Cream!). And goes to grad school. And gets a better job. I’m not gonna get rich as an archaeologist. Too late for that - all those windows are closed…but still…work that is worth doing with people I like…things sure could be a lot worse.