Free Rebel Betty by Carla Michaels

at the opportunity to spend more time with her. “Whenever you can get away, I would love the help.”
     
    Though he had not meant to suggest that she should start immediately, Lara excused herself and went back to the house. An hour later, the rumble of a Diesel engine brought his head up from where he’d been crouching.
    Lara was atop the Farmall, a small wagon hitched to the back. When she drew up at the base of the mound, he went to help her unload. She had loaded his water screen, along with coils of hose, its bright green plastic like the smooth undulations of a serpent. There was also a large industrial generator and a pump.
    Her cheeks were bright pink with exertion. “Maria is taking Kenzie and her grandson to the movies, so I thought I could get started.”
     
    During the next days, Thad discovered that working with Lara at the site was infinitely preferable to the quiet mornings by himself that had seemed so enticing. She was everything he could have desired in an assistant: bright, intelligent, and fun to be around. And unlike some of the volunteers he had dealt with over the years, she worked. Hard.
    Her bright, inquisitive eyes revealed a million questions about the methodology of his excavation, and he encouraged her to voice them. After that the stream of talk between them had few interruptions. While digging through the layers of soil, he explained about the different types of artifacts, evidence and soil stratification, and how the pieces they were collecting fit together.
    "Why do you write everything down so many times?" she said, seeing the bulging field notebook he used to record his findings before also entering them into the computer.
    "Documentation is the heart and soul of archaeology. Without it, we would just be looting."
    "So you think my dad was just looting by collecting the things he found?"
    Thad turned to look at Lara. Although she tried to conceal it, he could tell that the idea troubled her.
    "Of course not. This place is a part of the history of your family." The frown was still in place. Thad put down his notebook and waved her over. "Look at this," he said, pointing at the small white shard that he had been bagging. "What do you see?"
    "A broken piece of pottery."
    "Once it was cleaned off, do you think you could distinguish it from a broken cup that someone bought at the local thrift store?"
    Lara picked it up and examined the piece, bringing it close to her eyes in order to see it clearly.  It was thicker expected, and the outside lip had a pebbled texture, as though it had been roughened during the firing process. "Probably not."
    "Exactly. The documentation that we take will tell us where this object was found, at what level in the soil, and about the other objects found nearby." He laced his fingers together. "We can paint a full picture of the past by assembling all of these pieces. Archaeology is not about finding treasure, or adding another arrowhead to a collection. It's about the people who lived here, their lives and experiences."
    Lara pressed her lips together and seemed to have difficulty containing laughter. "Apparently you can take the archaeologist out of the classroom, but you can't take the classroom out of the archaeologist."
    Her teasing, and the hand she had laid companionably across his thigh, made him smile. "Teaching is something I love to do. You would be a good teacher too, Lara."
    She snorted, and returned to bend over the layer of earth that she was brushing away with a paintbrush, painstakingly exposing a darkened depression. "Hardly. I was a terrible student. I don't have the brains to be a teacher."
    He cocked his head in surprise. “You struggled in school? Why? You are obviously intelligent. Stop shaking your head at me, Larry; it’s my profession opinion, based on years of working in education.”
    “I am severely dyslexic, and when I was younger, I was one of those annoyingly hyperactive children who their teachers hate. I can’t tell you the