One summer I participated in an archeology survey
along the route of proposed sanitary sewer lines.
My university received a grant to conduct the survey
on the south shore of Long Island.
The 1966 National Historic Preservation Act required
surveys for projects receiving federal funds, to identify
and help preserve cultural and historic resources.
Being skilled I made 6$/hr., minimum wage and work study
paid 2$. This I considered progress.

Hard to believe, sewers were not wide-spread in the 70s.
Progress generally meant development, but people were
becoming concerned with protecting groundwater and
surface water which were fast being polluted, and with
improving bay and ocean water by reducing the pollution
that resulted in large fish killing algal blooms.
The goals tend to conflict.

The federal government provided funds to promote
sewers and treatment plants as infrastructure projects,
jurisdictions had to “opt in,” similar to how things are now.
Many didn’t. People did not want to pay subsequent
operation and maintenance recurring costs and taxes.
Many did not consider sewers worthy progress.
As it is, 70% of Suffolk’s population are still on point source
cesspools, leaching fields, septic systems;
10% of Nassau’s north shore population the same.

I later ran into similar logic working for the USEPA.
People with wells in rural areas often did not want to be
connected to public water, even at no cost when wells were polluted.
They did not want to pay for what they received “free”
and argued (rightly?) waterlines encouraged development.
So we installed point of entry treatment systems (POETS)
on many houses, and constructed water lines to the rest.
We planned for POET maintenance and lab tests lasting decades,
whereas constructing the waterlines was a one-time expense.
A mixed bag. Not ideal but we considered it progress.
Neither the DOJ nor management wanted to get embroiled
in messy takings and seizures of people’s wells—
time and resource consuming “big brother” PR imbroglios.

Getting back to the sewer line survey, we only found fragments.
Not unusual because sewers were in the middle of streets
that were of course greatly disturbed, not undeveloped areas.

Indian structures were made of natural materials
above ground that quickly decomposed when abandoned.
Had the survey occurred prior to development would have
been a different story. Before there was progress.
After all, Indians flourished here—plentiful resources,
small and large game, fish, shellfish, birds, eggs…
Paradise?

As it was, I preferred working an unpaid weekend excavation
of what had been an Indian camp in a wooded area
overlooking a beautiful harbor. A woodland age camp
was discovered by property owners who saw a few quartz flakes
and pottery shards, and had the foresight to alert my university
and let us excavate—I remember their lovely white
clapboard house overlooked the water.

Indians built permanent settlements in the sheltered interior
away from exposed shores, so it was a fair-weather
summer camp of maybe several related families
that moved to the coast for the plentiful sunlight and fish.
Over several seasons.

I wasn’t first to notice, another student uncovered the small
carefully placed bundle of bones two feet deep.
A dog burial. Not a pet, per say, a loyal companion
cherished for guarding camp, giving warning, flushing out game,
protecting children—comfort and security.

Progress for them meant day to day, one day at a time—
practical and reverential.
Feeling the steady rustling wilderness, the warm sun
and still dark night before lives were wrapped in tears,
disease and abundant death stripped bones clean.

That summer I realized I didn’t want to be a professor,
my anthropology degree was otherwise not fruitful,
so I completed a second major in geology, another love,
though in this case lured by graduates who worked in oil and gas
for lucrative salaries and benefits like company credit cards,
cars and club memberships. Those were the days,
after the Arab oil embargo bit down hard.

Recently I tried to locate the Indian camp on Google
by identifying the house of the one property owner.
All was swept clean, replaced by large, squared dwellings,
tennis courts, manicured lawns, swimming pools, garages.
I guess that’s progress. Now so much harder to say.

All the beauty in the world does not completely erase
the trauma of history.
I digressed. So I digress, life is like that.
Today is clear and blue, neither history nor memory—
for a change.  I consider that progress, however limited.

Stephen Cipot
Happy Geologists Day, the first Sunday in April each year