Unearthing the Past

In the corners of this shadow box are metal snaps from clothing,
and fragments from what was once leather boots (metal eyelets for
laces).

M.L. Cordle is a digger as well as an artist and writer. She digs in the ground and
preserves her history. These are items that span back to the late 1700's. Clockwise,
starting at the top: hand cut nails, part of a carbine lamp. Next: red clay figurine,
porcelian doll (one inch in height). Below figurines: 1893 Indian Head Penny. At six
o'clock: Fragments of clay pipes, one of which appears to be stonewear (the oldest).
Above pipes: Lead pencil (not a fragment, actually worn down to about an inch) which
has a brass clip with a patent of 1916 and the company name - Eagle Pencil
Company, New York. Still retains what was left of an eraser, and the lead. It writes!
Came out of a loamy soil, clay and sand based. Still wears yellow lead paint which is
completely astounding. See below for other details on remaining artifacts.

The red fired clay could predate the porcelian by quite a few
years. Could even be Native American as many Indian artifacts
have been unearthed at this site, including arrow heads,
fragments of pottery, and calcified bones.

Ahh, the pride and joy, folks! This is M.L. Cordle's 1893
Indian head penny. It was exhumed from the earth at
approximately three feet down. In that particular dig, she
also unveiled one of six clay marbles.

Best specimen found at this site in regard to eating utensils.
Most were coroded to great extent. This spoon retained
every detail including the patent date of 1912, and the flower
pattern along the stem.

Various forms of clay pipes have been found at this site. Among the fragments
found are red clay (top), stoneware, lead glazed earthenware, white clay. Also
found: hand whittled mouth pieces to these pipes.

"TO MY MOTHER'S MOTHER"

The day you died I was in the middle of being twelve years old
Wasn’t there to hear your last breath or feel your skin wax cold

I remember the funeral though, and what they thought to leave
On your wrist, just a bandage beneath the hem of your sleeve

I cling to the memory of your hands instead
Even in death they are not dead

They beckon me come, to sit close to the truth
Emory boards, Rosebud salve, and my youth

Trailing memories, days passed never still
I file your fingernails, forever I will

© MLC 10/06 - Photo: Deb Harmon

"BROKEN GLASS"

Broken glass
Because you died
Scattered along the side of the road
It glistens like one thousand diamonds
Reflecting one thousand facets of your soul –
And I know you!

A vacant chair
Because you’re gone
Accepts others, but still is yours
And will become an heirloom
Passed on while you linger in the midst of us –
And I remember you!

Sacred ground
Because you lived here
House has disappeared, evidence churned from soil
It pieces together a history
With a secret that lives in me –
And I mourn you!

I am never quite alone
Because I feel you
In death you surround me, such a sweet embrace
In recognition of the life force
That never dissipates –
And I am solaced.

© MLC 6/04 - Photos: Deb Harmon

"EVERY PIECE"

My heart is a puzzle
Based upon the design of history

Every piece my shovel unearths
I pluck up eagerly, and find space

You once breathed, but now absorb
And every piece I hold
Adds to this collective process

What mysterious metal, turned green with time
This coin from 1893
You were thirteen years old

And oh, what is this in a broken comb
But a strand of your life

This whittled bridge to a banjo
Will they hear, as I do, an old man’s talent?

Gnarled fingers, and the nimble ones of a cheek bright girl
Pluck, pluck, plucking, that old English melody

Every marble
Represents an Appalachian childhood

Every broken dish and cup
Beans and pork, and black coffee

Someone’s belly
Someone’s mouth
Someone’s toil

Every piece
Becomes a piece of me
Becomes a piece of you

Together and apart
We exist

Merely a silver cord
Betwixt us all

© MLC 4/06 - Photos: Deb Harmon

"MOUNTAIN GIRL"

Wisp of sweet cream grass
Curl of leaf on yonder ridge
The breeze is an Appalachian singsong
My heart, a bridge

Old five string banjo
Pressed lock of hair
These rotting pages
This vapor of care

Daughter of these rivers
I flow betwixt the hills
My path a native channel
My song, as distinctive as the Whippoorwill’s

I am the baby of a new garden Fear Not
Elizabeth, Victoria, Virginia endure
I taste like a Northern Spie apple, or a Pumpkin Sweet
I am mixed and I am pure

You can set me apart from my mountains
But you’ll never set them apart from me
They are home to my fathers and my mothers
A thread in every memory

© MLC 10/05 - Photo: Deb Harmon

"DIGGERS"

Indeed, you love this ground as much as I do
The feel of the dew upon parched skin
The basic allure of dirt under feet
To some it is pointless, to us diggers sweet

From a similar bone we are carved
We comprise marrow and strength
And we sense the decay in these tools we share
Upon shoulders weary, our treasures we bear

With shovel and blade, we slice into layers
Get to that throbbing vein of faith
Kindred spirits in a foreign land, this is true
But we are a pair, this me and this you

Our loot we share not
And yet the pieces we withhold from each other
Do not change a bit
The fact we fit

Separate we live in a single world
Our thoughts, soft and unspoken
Few would recognize the ties that bind
In you I find

© MLC 7/05 - Photos: Deb Harmon

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