It's odd what I have turned to for solace in the last few months. It isn't (as I might have expected) recordings of choral evensong, or glossy "Masterpiece Theatre" productions. Late last fall, I watched the British show, "The Detectorists," about two absolutely adorable but hapless metal detectorists in the east of England who live to detect and, occasionally, dig. Then, during my animal-sitting gig over Christmas, I discovered "Time Team," the now somewhat dated British archaeology show, which I've been watching online. And the other day, I happened upon a book in the library, "The Dig," by John Preston. It's a fictional account of the Sutton Hoo dig back in 1939. What is the appeal here? There is almost no conflict, except the occasional, reasonably lighthearted professional difference of opinion as to where to dig. There is the landscape that I love, not only its surface, but the layers upon layers underneath, which I am utterly fascinated by. (When I visited Gloucestershire two years ago, I swear that I could almost "see" ghostly figures in Roman togas, the energy from that time period is so strong.) And lastly, at least on "Time Team," the diggers are having so much fun. They love what they do. They get so excited when they find something. They love piecing the pieces of history together, and it's an endeavor that hurts no one, and educates everyone. That's entertainment.
History being what it is, it's not a stretch to remember that in hundreds or thousands of years, someone with a shovel will start digging, and down a few feet they will find the icons of our generation, the plastic fast food signs, the automobile dashboards, the cell phones and skyscraper girders. They'll struggle to figure out what it all meant, and shout for joy when they make sense of it. But let us also hope that our generation is remembered more for the loving qualities that became our true icons when it mattered most.
