Last year with COVID limiting travel and socializing, the French girlfriend and I bought an above ground pool. I’d been resistant to the idea, wondering if we’d use it enough to justify the costs and upkeep efforts. To my pleasant surprise, we certainly did! The summer warmth found us swimming every day, or when I worked, in the evening. I was the most buff I’d ever been!
As fall set in, the thin-walled pool, like the amphibian it was, mimicked the outside temperature, and by late September our swimming days were past. Our friends with their inground pools kept up their enjoyment for another month, with expectations to be back in the pool by mid-April. Recognizing the value of those extra months, we decided to replace our above grounder with the deep dug pit.
The beginning of last month, the first week of March, the excavators came with their amazing coke-machine size Toyota claw. Tearing down our fence and crushing our lawn, they took away the unwanted above-ground piece and began the deep dig with their steam shovel. The French Girlfriend and I watched from the porch, mint julips in hand.
This story actually isn’t about the pool, because two hours into the dig the excavation came to an abrupt stop. The hole digging supervisor guy called me down to the work site. Trouble. The machine had uncovered some rotten wooden boxes.
“What are those?” I asked.
“I’ve seen these before. Dollars to donuts it’s a Biloxi Indian burial site,” the pool-guy said. “You’re right off the river here,” and he pointed, as if I didn’t know we were right off the river. “The tribe often buried their dead near the banks, the ground being soft and easy to work, you see.”
“What now?”
He waved at the guy manning the shovel to back off. Turning to me, he said, “We notify the authorities.” He pointed right at my heart. “Don’t touch anything.”
Pulling out his phone, he punched in a number and raised the instrument to his ear. “Gus? Yeah, it’s me. Got another burial site.” He gave out my address.
Putting his phone away, he informed me, “They’ll be out tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, stay out of the pit.” He took a step away before turning back and glaring at me with what he must have thought was a serious look. “I’m telling you again. Don’t. Touch. Anything.”
I ran to catch up to him as he strode away towards his truck. “Hey! What about my pool?”
He paused long enough to answer. “Usually, the government finishes up in a couple of months. Then the university guys come. If you’re lucky maybe by July. We’ll let you know.”
Five months? I went back to the porch and talked it over with the French girlfriend. We sipped our drinks a bit more, and after a refill … or two … decided we should go down and check out the skeletons. Of course.
Changing into our gardening shoes, we made our way down into the hole. We could make out four separate sets of bones in mud-filled caskets of deteriorated wood. The three adults and a child all had jewelry, the largest with a golden necklace adorned with a huge turquoise stone. I picked it up and placed it around my neck.
“What do you think?”
Clapping her hands, she said, “Eet ees magnifique!”
She reached forward and stroked the amulet. As she did this, a fog appeared, settling around us. I felt a momentary disorientation, and then the fog lifted.
The French girlfriend and I sat cross-legged on the shore of the Biloxi River, watching a group of native Americans frolicking in the water, fishing, and dancing. One young girl ran up to me, calling out in a native language. She pointed at my amulet and laughed.
The next thing I knew, we were back in the pit.
“Do you believe what just happened?” I asked the F.G.
She gave her little French trill of a laugh. “Ooh, Fee lipe. It ees only an A-preel Fool joke.”
And indeed it is.