“Digging” in Greensville, SC

Back in the early 70s, my family used to pile into a beige, barge of a Pontiac station wagon and make our way from Chesapeake, Virginia to my grandmother’s house in Greenville, South Carolina, some eight hours away. Every trip we took was by car. Back then, car trips of this duration were common. Air travel was reserved for the rich and famous — of which we were neither. Five of us would make trek: Mom and Dad in the front. Me, my older sister Gena and older brother Mike had full command of the rest of the vehicle as long as I didn’t look at, touch, or breathe anywhere near my sister.

Road tripping in a 1967 Pontiac Station Wagon to Nana’s house in Greenville, SC

My mom cleverly used a makeup mirror affixed under the sun visor to monitor my every move. Her green eyes would dart between my father, the road, and then directly at me; always in that order and for what seemed like hours on end. If I appeared to look suspicious in any way, or if my sister falsely accused me of crossing some imaginary Maginot Line on the seat cushion, my mother would sternly call out: “I see you Greg, I see you.” Deep down the smart aleck in me wanted to say, “I see you too,” but the likely consequences of such a reply would not be sit well, especially after a proper spanking.

Visiting Nana’s house (my grandmother on my mother’s side) was, for the most part, happy family affairs full of southern cooked meals, scary visits to a foul smelling crypt of a basement to retrieve a random item for my grandfather, and slobbery kisses from three ladies who I remember as the “Anties.” I was told they were my great aunts and as a ten year old, I didn’t question the lineage. I do recall that one of the“Anties” had a leg shorter than the other. To compensate, she wore a clunky black platform shoe on one foot that had a silver metal brace that extended mid-calf over pantyhose as thick and the same color as medium grade sand paper. I still have nightmares of her hobbling my way with open, sagging arms saying “give me some sugar, sweetie.”

One evening at Nana’s, I was sitting on the living room floor under the watchful and creepy eye of a mounted deer head that my grandfather shot. I can still picture the entry wound on its lower neck, an inch-long scar of burnt fur. The house smelled like most grandmother’s houses: a queasy combination of baby powder, decaying furniture mixed with whiffs of bacon grease from morning breakfast.

My grandfather, Pops, sat in a well-worn, red-wine leather recliner that farted with the slightest movement while Nana traipsed between a bedroom, hall way and the living room grumbling about a misplaced item or maybe a forgotten dream. I don’t recall where the rest of the family was, perhaps hiding in the basement to avoid slobbery kisses from the “Anties.” Pops was making small talk and asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I said “archeologist.” Mind you, this was pre-Indiana Jones, pre-History Channel, pre-trips out west in the family Winnebago where we saw many fascinating artifacts from past digs. For some odd reason, I wanted to be an archeologist.

Praise and interest from my grandfather was quickly shot down by what I now refer to as the “Nana drive by.” Her negative comments ran the gamut: “That’s a dirty job.” Why would you want to spend your days digging in the dirt?” You know sugar, you’ll be forced to live in remote villages and will never make a decent living. “

Wow. Just, wow.

And, why did old ladies in South Carolina have this infatuation with the word “sugar?”

I felt deflated but was brought up not to speak back to elders. I didn’t plead my case to dig in the dirt and explore the world —to pursue a “decent living” not measured by money but by passion. What would’ve happened if I spoke up and defended this boyhood dream? I chose to remain silent. I chose to take her ‘advice.” From that moment on, thoughts of becoming an archeologist were buried, so to speak.

Today, I am captivated by stories in National Geographic about how people are still discovering lost treasures, but now I’m more envious of the writers rather than the “diggers.” They describe scenes in such detail that I can smell the thick, rich soil or feel the archeologists’ excitement as they pour popcorn chunks of rocks into a sifting screen hoping to find a connection to another time. Their words put me next to a proud pharaoh or a wounded civil war soldier taking his last breath.

This interest, maybe it’s more of a borderline passion for captivating story telling, has surprisingly satisfied my Indy-envy. Writing is a lot like archeology. Today, my tools are a curious eye and a high-powered laptop rather than a trowel or plumb bob. Writing a story is a constant search for the right word, the right description. There are long periods when I’m just digging for ideas and not uncovering a damn thing. Often, I get hot and bothered, and yes it can be dirty work. However, there are times when I uncover a creative gem or a nugget of an idea that turns out to the be immediately useful or valuable later on. But all would remain hidden unless I wasn’t hammering away on a laptop and looking at the world differently. Writing is an opportunity to discover surprising things about people and places, but more importantly, about yourself.

So Nana, guess what? I’m an archaeologist now, just not in the traditional sense.

One thing I’ve learned since from that fateful, one-sided living room conversation in Greenville, South Carolina some forty-four years ago is to be very careful about what you say around children harboring a dream or passion. A quick, thoughtless remark can and does have lasting effects. In short, choose your words wisely but be prepared to dig and dig for just the right way to share your thoughts and ideas.