As a child, I wanted to be an archaeologist, a student of past civilization. I look down alot when walking through plowed fields, love to dig in the garden in hopes I'll find a clay marble or coin, and revel in tales of golden riches in the depth of desolate, arid
lands. My Mom has a knack for finding tiny arrowheads and wee china dishes. I'm always looking and at the Farm, spent some time digging in the mortar-sanded soil around the Old House. It's a connection to the past...when was the last time this dirt felt hands sifting through it's being? Did a child ancestor lose this little metal duck a hundred years ago? What is the purpose of this odd piece of iron?
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