Month: January 2020

Continued from earlier article, “The Road Out”

When we last left our heroes they had made the trek out to the edge of the marsh and they were sitting on the shell bed next to the river.

The shells in the shell bed were mainly oyster shells that had been bleached white by the sun. The river was a tidal river so the banks were completely over-washed at high tide and the shells would be tumbled and top shells replaced by others. If I dug down seven inches there were only other bleached shells. There was no mud base perhaps until much deeper. The shells were often exposed to the sun so all the shells in these top several inches were bleached white. The oysters shells were large most of them over six inches in length and some might have even reached a foot in length. Mixed in with the oyster shells were other shells of snails and small bivalves that lived in the marsh grasses and in the mud. And there were other stranger items as well.

I stood up and walked to the end of the 30 feet or so of bleached shells to where the bank sloped down into the marsh. I walked back, shuffling my feet to move the shells around so I could see what might be buried in the shells. I knew if I went along the edge of the island causeway from the mainland I would find items dumped to make the road bed, old broken plates, odd items of military accoutrements, and other scrap metal and rubble.

As I shuffled through the bank I overturned something that was brick red, but not brick shaped. I picked it up and examined it. It was a handle from a clay pot made of red mud from some upstream clay bed. It was obviously a handle and still attached to it was a small piece of the jug that it once supported. The shape and thickness of the handle had strengthened and protected the handle from whatever fate broke the pot. On the handle there remained some of the old glaze that had overlaid the pot after its firing. It was a bright yet translucent yellow, like the sunrise over the marsh on a hot summer day.

 I put the handle in my pocket and continued my search. I picked up a few of the snail shells and looked at their design and the coloration of the seams of the shell as they spiraled up from the opening to its peak. I dropped these small shells back onto the shell bed. They clattered as they hit and bounced to a standstill, caught in the cups of the larger shells. I picked up a large canine tooth from some creature. I looked it over and slipped it into my pocket.

Then as I pushed shells away with my foot I uncovered what I initially thought was a spear point. I was amazed at my good fortune, and I picked it up. It was about eight inches long. One end tapered to a point and other was broken off exposing the stone from which it had been made. I looked around to see if there might be other pieces lying among the shells. I did not see any. I looked back at my find and considered what it might be. The shape was certainly like a spear point but the item was nearly ¾ of an inch thick, and made of a soft stone. The soft stone had been likely been worked into a tool shape long ago. But what tool and for what purpose?

Liking my new treasure, I slipped it into my pocket along with the brick-red handle. My dog was still lying on the shell bed patiently waiting for me to be ready to move on to our next adventure. But first we had to re-cross the marsh. We stepped onto the boards. I turned and I took a final look back at the shell bed and the dark river flowing swiftly past. Then I turned back to our task of getting back to shore.

I kept those treasures for years. But all except the tooth are now gone. I can recall their shape and their feel in my hand. But I am no longer sure of what happened to them. I think I gave the handle to a friend who collected old bits of pottery. The fashioned stone artifact stay with me for long time. I would find it in a drawer periodically and take it out and wonder at it. I finally came to the conclusion that it was some sort of tool for planting and cultivating crops in ancient times. It might have been used for digging or a seed drill for planting seed. Its pointed end was rounded from years of digging in the soil, or being twisted in the earth to make a seed hole, or dragged through the loose top soil to make a small trench. But I have lost that old treasure.

It came back to my mind when I read an article about a man in North Carolina who had found a similar item. He had talked with people at a museum and they concluded it was a hand adz. It was also probably used in agriculture. A sketch of my memory of my stone artifact is sketched below.

I never recrossed the marsh to search for more treasures. But I have continued to pick up odds and ends when I walk along a river shore, or in the woods, and I pick items up and wonder what they might have been and who was the person that used them when they walked this same way.

The article mentioned may be found at: https://www.charlotteobserver.com/news/local/article238425048.html

When I was younger my family lived at Parris Island, South Carolina. Its in the area of the Palmetto State that’s known as the “low country”. Its low in the sense that it is covered with the marshes of the coastal tidal rivers. Islands large and small dot the landscape and at high tides are surrounded by the brackish water. The area is rich in teeming aquatic life. The banks of the rivers are marsh and sulfur rich mud. Marshes grasses and snails and tiny “fiddler” crabs fill the marsh area along with many other creatures. On my river, the area between the flowing water and these marshes were lined with empty oyster shells. These shell banks were wide and deep. If you dug down there were just more shells. All were bleached white by the South Carolina sun. Today, when I look at those rivers on Google Earth I see the same brackish water and the banks still have some white borders but it’s hard to tell if they are the shell banks that I recall.

At this time in my youth these shell banks were my goal. I wondered what treasures might lie there among the bleached oyster shells. But between me and those banks lay a hundred yards of marsh mud. The mud would support a fiddler crab, but if I set my foot on it I would sink up to my knees in the soft “pluff mud.” At the same time I was rewarded for my effort with the stench of rotten eggs/sulfur from small air pockets formed beneath the surface of the mud from the processes involved in the decay of organic matter. It was a truly distinctive odor.

Neither my dog or I liked the smell, but we were drawn to the marsh and the distant river bank. We had tried to slog our way out but it was exhausting for both of us. With each step I would have to full my foot free of the sticky, smelly mud only to sink back up to my knee with the next step. My dog would be up to his chest with all four legs stuck in the mud, but together we gamily slogged on. But we were not to make it. I had to lift my dog out of the mud and together get back to the solid land beyond the marsh grasses. I clearly remember the reception we got at home when we arrived dirty and smelling of the mud. We had to clean up in the back yard with the hose.

There had to be a better way. After much thought I came up with a plan using boards that I could find washed up in the marsh. Using several boards, I could build a walk-way that I could move with me out over the mud to the white shoreline beside the river. It required that I move the boards with me. I would place the first board and walking along it place the second board at the end. Then I would stand on the second board and pick up the board I have just left. I would carry that board to the end of the second board I was walking on and place it into position. I repeated this process over and over. It took me half an hour to cross 100 yards of sucking mud and reach the shell banks next to the river.

My dog would walk on the planks as well -sometimes. A couple of time he jumped into the mud to investigate something, and I had to pull him out. This was no mean feat as he was a full-grown pointer, and I was just in my twelfth year.

I was difficult work, including a few slips of my own. But we made it. ¹

We stepped out onto the shell bed. The shells shifted and crunched with each step. We had made it to the river. The brown swiftly flowing water was only a few feet away. As I walked towards it, the shells would shift and slid into the muddy water.

I stood and gazed out across the river and savored my success. Then I sat on the shell bed and looked out across the broad river. My dog sat down next to me.

To Be Continued in a follow-on article, “The Road Back.”

1-Years later I would read Larry Niven’s science fiction stories and his Tales of Known Space, which included a planet of this name. I would recall my walk across the Mud.