Poetry

Privy Poetry By Eddie Brater.

The Privy Digger.

Upon the crest of day, through dew that soaks the shoe,
The Privy Digger, probe in hand, is walking straight and true.
He probes a line from house to fence, marking by his stride.
While ghosts of privy users past do in the shadows hide.

Their footsteps long forgotten, even by the stone paved path,
That lies a century under time, 10 inches under grass.
The Privy Digger sees the signs invisible to most.
From squares of greener garden to the dip of old fence post.

The click and clack and tap of probe to his ears tell a tale,
That Mother Nature over time endeavored to make pale.
With all thoughts caught between two worlds a century apart,
He lives the now in body sound, the past lives in his heart.

Copyright 2000 Edwin G. Brater lll

The Construction Site

The Construction zone was all littered with bone and glass sparkling under the moon.

The location, a sliver of ground near the river where track hoes had been trenching since noon.

The downtown Queen City where taverns were plenty and red lights cast their glow on the street.

Where in days of the past there had been found such glass as to make a digger's heart skip a beat.

The tall chain link fence was a small hindrance, we slid by it under a chain.

Then we spotted the trench and by only an inch we jumped in before being seen.

We peeked up and out to see the guard all about and checking things out with his light.

Then he got into his van and we could tell by his hand on his face he would be sleeping tonight.

Our headlamps did switch and lit up the trench with a glow through the subsurface pass.

And our eyes were then greeted our blood it was heated by the sparkling shards of glass.

The trench had been sliced through the privies so nice it could not have been better planned.

And the whole bottles winked in the light so distinct we just picked them up with our hands.

The first bottle I procured like a barrel was curved, it proclaimed in bold type "Greeley's Bitters"

Then while looking around I saw more on the ground and in the walls of the trenched out shitters.

For quite a while I stuck with that style and only picked up just the barrels.

Then the shape of a cabin changed my desire into nabbin' some cabins to go with the barrels.

We were nervous as hell with our booty so swell that we thought we should trek to the truck.

So we peeked up and spied and with joy then I cried cause the guard was still by slumber struck.

So like spiders so still we sneaked through the fill and hid all of our hoard in the truck bed.

And with fresh emptied box we sneaked back past the docks and back into the trench once again.

A Washington flask in my headlamp did bask in a cobalt as dark as the night.

A glass fish, then a pig I found in the dig , then a green cabin caught my sight.

As I wiped off the dirt 'twas my pleasure to flirt with a Harrison campaign flask.

Now how could I sneak with my knees now so weak, escape our final task.

With the box freshly filled with the bottles of skilled glass blowers from time out of mind.

We checked for the guard and then ran really hard toward the truck with our precious finds.

As we drove from the scene it was just like a dream and we started to laugh and cry and scream.

I felt so alive I could just barely drive as the moonlight did dance on our mood so serene.

A note about the poem above; It is fiction. It is meant to depict the countless loses of
historical bottles and artifacts dug from privy pits by heavy equipment and destroyed during inner city large scale construction projects, most all with no thought toward archaeological survey or salvage operations. For the last 8 years, with permission from the property owners and site manager, I have been in downtown Cincinnati on almost every major construction project, salvaging the remaining broken and intact bottles and artifacts, from the bottom foot or two of previously 15 and 20 feet deep privy pits. Most often, the entire pit is gone, loaded into a truck, and hauled away to a fill-in area. Of the hundreds of hours I have spent doing this, I have never one single time encountered any professional archaeologist on any of some of the most historically significant settlement period sites within the city. This is not any kind of opinion. This is a fact. I was there, and they were not. Pay them, or they will not show up. They went to college for this, after all, so why should they work for free ? This is fine, but it hurts history to stop those that are willing to work for free to find what items, and even data, that they can. The archaeologists are aware that if they dig for free and for the love of history, and try to recoup even the operating expenditures from the value of any items found, they probably would not even be able to pay for the gas it took to get there. On this, they are correct, so they stay at home. Besides, the way the system is set up, they are not allowed to pass any items on to the public, to be displayed and discussed and shared. They must place all items in "the common trust", where they are put into boxes and stored in some warehouse or museum basement. How is it any mystery that history suffers if the recreational digger stays home too ? They dig for the love of it, and of history. The recreational digger fills in many blanks in history. Operating dates of companies and merchants, the products they offered, the glass houses that blew their bottles, and many other facts are recorded and passed on. It is a natural, common sense, human right for Americans to be able to own their own heritage. It is the responsibility of the recreational digger to dig ethically, and forgo digging any known, non-threatened site of historical notoriety. Oh yeah, giving back and taking it to the people is a pretty good idea too !

A day in the life of a digger

Fresh probe tips and brand new tarps, our hopes were riding high.

We met on time and had a bite and thanked the bright blue sky.

We headed down to a part of town where in the days of yore,

The horse drawn merchant wagons plied their wares from door to door.

Our speed through town was slow but in our course we did not dally,

As we noted stone foundations while we traveled through the alley.

And then a house so picturesque did fill our window view.

A palace, built of yard burned bricks rose up from the dew.

A happy smiling face was from the kitchen window waving

And the dips along the alley surely hid what we were craving.

We probed a woody, then a stony, one was square, the other round,

Then we spread out bright blue polyvinyl neatly on the ground.

The day flew on with many laughs, camaraderie and good cheer.

While shards of bottle glass invoked a quickly hidden tear.

The darkness came without a single treasure from the soil.

The greater treasure, memories, fair payment for our toil.

American Digger

In cities across the Nation. In small towns across the land.

There walks a guy with a sparkling eye and a funny thing in his hand.

He's poking holes in the backyard. He jabs in his probe tip with glee.

He's an expert at finding rare glass that is hiding where nobody else can see.

They fathom their way through the eons. They travel through time at their will.

With preciseness of touch, feel for layers and such, and consistency of the fill.

They expose glassy darkness to daylight. They reveal that which sought to hide.

By their skill and persistence with friendly assistance, on the wings of the ages they ride.

They barter on odds not becoming. Trade their sweat for a booty of naught.

Then when good fortune smiles, and the glass comes in piles, dedication has paid for the lot.

The Privy diggers of America. And the freedoms by which they seek.

May your shelves sparkle true with that sweet aqua blue, and your pontils be many each week.

The Privy Diggers Wife

In all my days of digging glass,

I never thought the day would pass,

that I would find that special lass,

to tame my wilder ways.

And in this game I call my life,

Where digging bottles eases strife,

I'll love my Privy Diggers wife,

Until my dying days.

The privy digger's wife is prone,

To fixing cuts down to the bone.

She talks to him on his cell phone

While he is ten feet deep.

When he comes home with muddy clothes

She puts him in the yard to pose,

She then squirts him with garden hose,

Enough to make him weap.

The Privy Diggers wife she sees,

To show she truly aims to please,

She's glad to mend the torn out knees

On his brand new levi's.

She makes a lunch for him to take.

Reminds him to grab his rake.

Even takes the time to bake

Some cookies for the guys.

The Privy Diggers wife is strict.

Her apron notched with asses kicked.

Rolling pin all chipped and nicked

From laying down the rule.

And though she does it really nice,

She sends him off with stern advise,

"Diggin' deep aint rollin' dice,

Don’t tunnel you dern fool".

The Privy Diggers Wife is rare.

For Privy Diggers do they care.

And for this I say we should dare

To treat them all as queens.

For if we Privy Dig too much,

If we neglect that loving touch,

Our loss might be a sadness such

As we have never seen.

So love your privy diggers spouse.

Without her home is just a house.

A lonesome place for man and mouse.

An unfit way of life.

Remember that these girls are few,

Who let us go do what we do.

And you will have a partner true,

The privy diggers wife.