“I first dug superficially … and came to collections of human bones, at different depths, from six inches to three feet below the surface. These were lying in the utmost confusion, some vertical, some oblique, some horizontal, and directed to every point of the compass, entangled, and held together in clusters by the earth. Bones of the most distant parts were found together, as, for instance, the small bones of the foot in the hollow of a scull. …”
This grisly scene was recalled by Thomas Jefferson in 1781 in his classic Notes on the State of Virginia and describes his excavation of an ancient Indian burial mound near his home at Monticello. It also validates his place in history—among all the other things for which he is remembered—as a founder of modern archaeology.
It is noteworthy to report, then, that having once dug, Jefferson himself is now being dug. More precisely, his estate at Monticello is being dug in an effort to discover those sherds and splinters of the past that can illuminate the kind and quality of life at Monticello during Jefferson’s years there. The work is being done under the aegis of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial Foundation, which purchased the estate from Jefferson Monroe Levy in 1923 (see “The Levys of Monticello” by Mary Cable and Annabelle Prager in our February/March 1978 issue). Foundation spokesman Matthew V. Gaffney tells us about it:
“Under the direction of William M. Kelso, Monticello’s resident archaeologist, work has centered around the vegetable garden and adjoining Mulberry Row, Monticello’s ‘industrial center.’ It was here that Jefferson established shops for nailmaking, blacksmithing, weaving and joinery work. In all, a total of 19 buildings stood along Mulberry Row during its most flourishing period from 1796 to 1804.
“Colonial and early United States coins, porcelain and the tools and products of early Monticello crafts have been among the items unearthed since the excavations began in June, 1979.
“Below the garden wall, the orchard and vineyard areas envisioned by Jefferson will be re-created. According to Kelso, ‘Soil stains from rotted tree roots coincide with Jefferson’s orchard plans regarding individual tree locations. This will make it possible for trees, including apple, pear, quince, and nectarine, to be planted in the original grid configuration.’ Archaeological work throughout the garden area will make it possible for Jefferson’s original paling fence to be reconstructed. An essential feature of an early nineteenth-century garden, the fence was ordered by Jefferson to be built with pales ‘so near as not to let even a young hare in.’ Soil stains from the rotted fence posts have indicated the course of the fence line, and variances in the intervals between posts have pinpointed the original gate locations.
“Archaeological work will continue to provide insights into Thomas Jefferson and Monticello over the course of the next two years. The project is being funded by the Thomas Jefferson Memorial Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities.”
ROLLING ARTIFACTS
We are, among other things, a nation of museums, museums enough, it seems, to satisfy just about any whim or interest, no matter how arcane. Just riffling through the fifty-four hundred entries in a recent edition of The Official Museum Directory, we came across the following: the Tumbling Waters Museum of Flags (Alabama), the Musical Instrument Museum (Minnesota), the Museum of Systematic Biology (California), the Museum of Dentistry (California), the Raggedy Ann Antique Doll and Toy Museum (New Jersey), and even something called the World’s Smallest Museum (in Texas, oddly enough).
And it will soon be necessary to add to this list one more item: the National Museum of Roller Skating. As we noted in “Roll Around,” an article that appeared in our June/July 1980 issue, roller skating as a popular sport began in the 1860’s when James Plimpton invented the four-wheeled “rocking skates” which enabled the wearer to control his movements (with practice). After that, roller rinks abounded, and recreational roller skating became a pastime for millions of Americans—and today includes such permutations as roller discos and the Roller Derby.
That is a respectable spread of history, and to commemorate it the Roller Skating Rink Operators Association and the United States Amateur Confederation of Roller Skating, both headquartered in Lincoln, Nebraska, in 1980 came up with the notion of creating a museum. It will open formally in Lincoln on April 14 (James Plimpton’s birthday), 1982, and will include, according to Roller Skating Business magazine, “skates, boots, plates, wheels, toe stops, accessories, costumes, uniforms, periodicals, books, films, music, photographs of industry leaders and competitive personalities, patches, decals, posters, post cards, rink and competitive memorabilia—all the elements of our history that should be protected for future generations.”
THE HANDWRITING ON THE WALL
The history of the American labor movement has more than its share of fascinating stories, but not many of them are tinged with the supernatural (Joe Hill really did die, after all). But now Bryan Miller, a former Associated Press reporter, passes along the following Gothic tale:
“While touring the eastern Pennsylvania town of Jim Thorpe, a photographer friend and I encountered rumors about its ‘famous’ Carbon County jail and the ‘amazing’ phenomenon inside. As we poked around further, local folks repeated the legend with varying degrees of authority, although no one could verify it empirically.
“The story, in brief, was this: In the 1860’s and 1870’s many Pennsylvania coal mines were scenes of bloody conflict between English and Welsh mine owners and the militant fringe of an inchoate coal union known as the Molly McGuires. Murders and arson were commonplace, and in the 1870’s the mine owners hired Pinkerton agents to infiltrate the union and implicate the alleged leaders. A group of miners was arrested in 1877, four of whom were convicted of murder and hanged on July 21 in the Carbon County jail. A fifth, Tom Fisher, was later convicted and sentenced to hang on March 28, 1878, for the murder of mine superintendent Morgan Powell.
“Fisher vehemently protested his innocence right up to the moment he was hauled out of his cell. As the legend goes, when the prison guard came to take him away, Fisher reached up and pressed his hand against the cell wall, leaving behind a sweaty handprint. He vowed that the handprint would remain forever as proof of his innocence. After the execution, jittery guards tried to scrub the print from the wall. It would not come off. Then they tried painting it over. It came through the paint. They painted again. Same result. The warden then ordered the cell boarded up—and it remained closed for the next 102 years.
“My friend and I were intrigued, to say the least, and determined to verify the tale. At first, we were denied entry into the jail, which still houses prisoners. We tried every possible means, finally calling the warden himself at home during his Sunday dinner. He gave us permission, and we went inside. A burly, suspicious guard confirmed the handprint story and agreed to take us into the cell, which had not been opened in memory. We had to walk through the open courtyard, which was filled with prisoners, and, while everyone watched nervously, we pried open the old door. Inside the dusty, cobweb-latticed cell, with its nineteenth-century wooden toilet and disintegrated mattress, we saw the handprint. Faint but clearly identifiable, it remained high up on the whitewashed wall. My friend snapped some photographs as the guard proudly posed, then we bid farewell to the excited prisoners and scurried out.”
Alas, this moody and fascinating story has to be somewhat tempered. The handprint is indeed visible, but the cell has not been boarded up since Fisher’s execution. According to one of the jail’s correctional guards, Don Mans, for years Boy Scout tours liked to come through on weekends, and the curious could take a look whenever they chose. Now, though, access is a little more limited: it seems that an influx of young women in tank tops was upsetting Carbon County jail’s corporeal inmates.
