An archaeologist learns about the past by digging down through layers of artifacts left behind and interpreting them to learn about people’s lives long ago.
Think of the exploration of the Philpott site by Richard Gravely and the Patrick-Henry Archeological Society of Virginia from 1965-1976, which unearthed a late prehistoric village in Henry County.
And it can be very recent history, such as a step-by-step recollection of what we did over the last few days, as we tackle the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink, and the shameful spillover on the counter.
Usually, we keep on top of the dishes, but every now and then the dishes and the laundry are sacrificed to life in the fast lane.
I don’t mean the kind of fast lane that society generally thinks of, especially when it comes to movies and such – jetting around the world, high-powered career, getting an evening gown fitted for a fancy charity ball.
I mean life in a standard family’s fast lane, where sometimes you just have so much to do and so many places you have to go to that home is nothing but a stop on the way to feed the pets, drop off these bags and pick up those bags, and at some point, return to go to sleep until the alarm blares early in the morning.
First, there’s work and school all day. Then there’s music lessons, dance classes, trip to the dentist, a broken part of the chicken coop to fix, a church event, a community event.
You’re only home for 40 minutes or so before you have to turn around and leave, so you rush through a fast and easy meal, then dump the dishes in the sink. It’s easy to think you’ll do them as soon as you get home, but once you get home, you run past them unseeing as you put in a load of laundry and change the litter box right before bed.
Thus, I was faced on Saturday evening with a kitchen in disarray. We had just gotten home from a day-long community service project. Not only did I not want to make supper in that clutter, but heck – the pots and pans I needed to make it with were somewhere in that mess!
It’s when I remove the dishes from the sink so I can rinse it out and fill it with detergent and water that I feel like an archaeologist uncovering the past.
On top are the bowls and pot from that morning’s breakfast. Oatmeal.
Set them on the counter and reach in for the next layer – pans and dishes from the sopes we had the night before.
Moving those aside reveals the remnants from Thursday’s supper, corn and squash and okra all from the garden. That was a good night.
With immense relief I see the last item in the bottom of the sink, bowls and beaters and the spatula from when my daughter made cannolis. For a moment I stare in wonder: How in the world had we managed a luxury such as cannolis when we’ve been so busy all week rushing in and out the door?
Some diaries are permanent, in bound-book form.
Some are temporary, such as what we come across when we finally get around to doing the chores.
