Lou’s View: THE DIG OF FAIRVIEW STREET
By Lou Bernard
As I write this, the COVID-19 lockdown is still going on. Just like everyone else, I’m going a little crazy. I’ve been at home with a kindergartener for weeks, and let me tell you, there’s only just so many games of Uno you can play. I have to give credit to my kid—For five years old, he’s been remarkably good about all this. I’ve been teaching him outdoor survival skills, which is about the most productive thing I’ve managed to do.
Just to keep busy—And I repeat, I can only stomach just so many showings of “Tayo The Little Bus”—I started an archaeological dig in my backyard. Because, why not? I know how to do it, and I may discover something good. Also, I can do it while drinking. (It’s safe enough to say I’m not handling this well.)
On the day I decided to do it, I pulled all my archaeology equipment out of the garage, where it had been sitting for a couple of years. Shovel, trowel, foldable shovel, spoons, brushes, sifter. Archaeology is not a fast process. In spite of what you see in the Indiana Jones movies, it’s slow and painstaking, and rarely even involves punching Nazis. I wouldn’t mind hitting a few Nazis, but considering the lockdown, I’d have to invite them over myself. It barely seems worth it.
So I started digging in my backyard along Fairview Street. You dig down a couple of inches, in neat squares, and then sift all the dirt—That’s how you find the small stuff. And then dig some more, in precise little grids. Like I said, it’s slow going.
My wife and I bought the place in 2003. Originally, the property was owned by Ellen Curts, a widow from Water Street. She owned most of my neighborhood. In 1881, Civil War veteran Harrison Yost bought my section of it, and built a house for his grandchildren. One of these was Ida Yost, who committed suicide on my back porch in 1905 by drinking acid. She seems to still be haunting the place; lately my son and I have done a little ghost-hunting in the house, as well. (Being a stay-at-home paranormal investigator isn’t easy.)
My dig is right in view of the porch where Ida died. In fact, I’ve been storing my equipment on the porch. So far, Ida seems to have no comment.
Based on old newspaper articles, I know there was once a small root cellar on the property for bootleg whiskey. I’ve been kind of hoping to find that. With any luck, there may still be some whiskey left in it. (I reiterate, I’m not coping so well.)
I’ve found a lot of nails, the older ones, all rusted. Probably from the time there was some reconstruction done in 1942. I’ve found a lot of broken glass—I’ve actually learned to be careful about broken glass. I was on a dig over a decade ago and got about a three-inch gash across one hand. So far, no serious injuries on this one. (I’ve also taught my son first aid. I plan ahead.)
My daughter pitched in one day, and found an old, rusty pocketknife. We’ve found a rusted razor blade. More glass from windows, lenses, and bottles. I commented that some of it could have been from the bottle Ida killed herself with. “You had to make it morbid, Dad,” said my daughter.
I’m still working on digging. You never know what I might find. I’ll go out for an hour or so and dig while my son plays on his swing. Right now, I think I’m down to about the 1930s, and still going. It’s kept me busy, which was the point.
And if I find anything really good, you never know, I may get a follow-up article on it. Though you’ll have to cut me some slack on the neatness—It may be typed while I’m drinking antique whiskey.
