We anthropology students at Grand Valley learned early that using the term “arrowhead” was unacceptable, at least scholastically. At institutions of higher learning, those artifacts are called projectile points.
It really did make sense; points were found that came from arrows, of course, but also from spears and lances. I took a class called Field Techniques in Anthropology, one of the more favored courses in the very popular anthro department at the college.
A large part of the draw for students was the high regard in which Dr. Richard Flanders was held. He was fun. He was funny. He was both a serious academician and a very approachable man. It is not an overstatement to say that Dick Flanders was much beloved. He was a great presenter of information, and students were drawn to him. I took an intro course and came away just wanting to be around the guy. He was about 20 years older than most students, wore a goatee, and seemed equally comfortable in a suit or in jeans and a sweatshirt.
Much of the field work was done at a site called Blendon’s Landing, very near the campus of Grand Valley State College. This was in the late ’60s, when the school had not yet attained university status. Occasionally, field studies might involve a weekend trip.
One of these field trips was to go to Baldwin, about 70 miles north of the Allendale campus. We were all upper classmen. We were expected to arrange our own transportation, bring our own camping gear, and figure out our own feeding and refreshment (both liquid and herbal).
I don’t recall if I had an operable vehicle at the time of the Baldwin trip or not. There was a period during which my roommate and I had four cars and a motorcycle, and not one functioned. This may have been one of those times.
My roomie wasn’t taking anthro, but Jim, a friend that was in the class, had an interesting idea for getting to Baldwin. He suggested we hop a freight. It sounded intriguing. We were 22 years old at the time. I’d had a hitch in the military. I paid for school with the GI Bill. Jim worked. His job was with the railroad, what he always referred to as the Wyoming Yards.
“It’ll be great,” Jim told me. “We’ll catch a northbound. I’ll check the schedule, we go to the yards and get into a boxcar before the train starts moving. In in little while we’ll get to Baldwin.”
I’d hitchhiked extensively, but never had been on any sort of train. It sounded interesting. Either of us could have bought a bus ticket, maybe found a ride up with others in the class, or hitchhiked, but this had some appeal. Under light questioning, Jim admitted he’d never done this before. He assured me he could easily gather enough information to know when trains would be leaving. He was confident we could ascertain which train might be headed north; once we knew that, how hard could that be? I was game.
We went to the Wyoming Yards on the appointed day. Jim led me to a northbound track. We were stealthy; no one saw us. Jim said we were looking for an O&E boxcar. Open and empty. He selected one from the many possibilities.
“We want one that says ‘Cushion Freight’ on the side of it,” he told me, “they will ride easier. Let’s see if we can find one that has several inches of flattened cardboard on the floor — that’ll make it more comfortable than sitting on steel.”
This guy really knows what he’s doing, I thought to myself.
We found a boxcar that met all the criteria. We climbed in through the huge door on the side, and sat in back near a corner where we’d be out of sight. After a short while the boxcar lurched forward, and we were under way.
A few minutes later we were out of the yards. Jim said, “OK, nobody saw us. Now we can just enjoy the ride.” We moved from the back corner of the boxcar to the door. We sat at the edge with our lower legs dangling out the open doors of the boxcar. We started crossing roads. 36th Street. 28th Street. Burton, Hall, Franklin, Wealthy, Fulton, Bridge/Michigan, Leonard, Ann. Traffic was stopped, of course, with the gates down, bells were ringing, and the lights flashing. There would be traffic backed up, and we took delight in waving to the occupants of the cars and trucks as they waited for the train to pass.
This was long before the advent of cell phones, so it wasn’t like people were going to call anyone about us. We thought of it as our train, whose purpose was to take up north for our anthro dig.
Once we got out of town the crossings were farther between, and Jim and I just enjoyed the ride and the passing scenery.
A couple of hours later we were approaching Baldwin. Jim knew this, because he paid attention to mile markers. It began to occur to me that perhaps the train wasn’t scheduled to stop in Baldwin.
“Very unlikely,” Jim said. “I don’t think there will be any reason for the train to stop. We’ll watch for a hill. The train will slow down some when going up. That’s when we’ll make our exit.”
I used to ride the buses in Detroit. One could pull a cord to alert the driver when a stop was desired apart from a regularly scheduled stop. This wasn’t like that. There was no cord in our boxcar.
While we weren’t going at a high speed like a passenger train, we were moving along with some purpose. I was aware, from drivers’ ed classes, that train speed is easy to misjudge. Trains are huge, and they move faster than it appears. Maybe we were in a better position to assess the speed of the movement, I thought, as we sat in the open door and watched the land go by underneath our feet. I was starting to think that perhaps it would be fun to just forego the dig, and go where the train took us. Trains don’t cross the Straits of Mackinac; wherever we go, we’ll still be in the Lower Peninsula.
We got to a hill just outside of Baldwin. The train slowed. Jim really did know his stuff. But still. . .
We threw our gear off. We jumped, taking care to get out a little bit from the track. We rolled. We took on a little gravel. Some minor soreness resulted, but nothing serious. We would have high fived, had that been developed, but it was the late ’60s. We probably said, “Right On!”
We picked up our backpacks and hoofed it into Baldwin. The dig wasn’t until the next day. We bought some bread and peanut butter, some sardines in mustard sauce, and, of course, some beer. We passed by a little store, and, wanting to kill time, went in to see if they’d have books or magazines of interest.
What they did have on offer that caught my eye was a dish of small projectile points. “Arrowheads,” a little sign by the dish said, “50 cents.” I had an idea.
The little store had a flat roof, and behind the store there was a metal ladder affixed the wall leading up to the roof. We had our accommodations for the night. We may have gone into the Sportsman’s Bar for a couple of cool ones, until it got dark. Then we made our way back to the store, now obviously closed, and climbed up onto the roof, wearing our backpacks.
Peanut butter sandwiches. Sardines and beer. A vista of downtown Baldwin from our lofty roost. Pleasant conversation, and then a restful sleep. Life seemed good.
The next morning we climbed down off the roof and made ourselves conspicuous until some fellow students saw us on the streets of Baldwin as they headed through town on their way to the dig. We crammed into an already well-loaded car, and went out to the dig site.
Squares were marked off and people were digging. Doc Flanders was leading the effort, getting dirty and sweaty, working a shovel as hard anyone. Students appreciated that he labored physically right along with the rest of us, despite being the prof, and being older than the typical college kid.
No doubt there was some appreciation for the way the course was graded, too. If one showed up and worked, and visited the lab from time to time, the grade would be an A. The work was understood to be thirst inducing. The students were all (mostly) 21 or over; if a beer was occasionally enjoyed during the hot afternoon, or several beers in the evening, that was cool.
Jim and I grabbed shovels and worked along. There were whisk brooms and toothbrushes and little trowels available in the event that things got interesting.
Time passed. Work continued. Conversation was ongoing, with one smart ass — me — talking about making a major find; I was on the lookout for evidence of the heretofore unknown presence of a papyrus raft. That, of course, did not endear me to the more serious diggers. Or Doc Flanders.
Eventually it was time for everyone to take a break. As people drifted back to the camping area, I lingered at the dig site. Once I was alone, I made my move. Then I joined everyone else to sit down on the grass, have a cool one, and BS for a while.
After we returned, we recommenced our digging. A short while later, there was a find. A small projectile point was unearthed. This created some excitement. The digging slowed. Trowels and whisk brooms came to use. It became more focused and purposeful, while the anticipation rose. People gathered at the edge to watch as the diggers carefully, slowly, painstakingly went down a little further. Then there was a second find, a few inches below the point.
It was a receipt. It said, “Arrowhead $ .50, tax $ .02, total $ .52.”
It was from that little store in Baldwin, and it was dated from the day before. Some people were amused. Some were not. Doc Flanders was in that second group. I decided not to fess up. But I was the prime suspect, and there were no secondary suspects. Jim could have ratted me out, but he didn’t. Of course, there was no need to do so.
The rest of the dig was uneventful. There was a great time had by all at the Sportsman’s Bar in Baldwin that night. The locals were playing 8-Ball, partners, on the bar table, for pitchers of beer. They let two students, Joe and I, challenge the table. We won 11 consecutive games. We were heroes at our big table, as everyone seemed willing to pitch in and help drink all that beer.
Jim and I hitchhiked back to Grand Rapids the next day, taking the scenic route, and sleeping out on the beach at Lake Michigan on Sunday night.
And I was the first, and perhaps only, person to ever receive a C in Field Techniques of Anthropology.
