Seeing the Creek Through an Old Beer Can, By Chelsea Cox

Anyone trained in the art of excavation has a habitual tendency to stare at the ground. Although I have given up my trowel for fecal samples and SAF formula, the archaeologist in me still yearns to know the mosaic of natural processes and human activity that has come to shape what we now call White Clay. Who was navigating this river before European settlers arrived? How different did this place look then? Did the same species of birds fill the air with the melodies of their daily conversation? When did this place become a protected state park anyway and what has taken place during the time in between?

Normally, questions such as these are the spark that motivates exploration, manifesting in countless test pits and more sifted dirt than you can imagine. Today however, my adventurous and inquisitive demeanor was the driving force, leaving me with a multitude of topics demanding further examination. Since it was my second time journeying into the woods this week I figured I could allow a little free spirited investigation of the area that surrounded my contemplation station.

Uninterested in the manicured and maintained trails I bounded straight into the forest, hoping to track animal prints in the snow that was now rapidly melting. The vanishing precipitation created more problems than erasing footprints however, the earth was absolutely saturated. Searching for higher ground that retained any structural integrity proved hopeless. But that’s the other great thing about archaeologists, we love dirt. So I went about my business, maneuvering enough to avoid becoming totally submerged, all the while scanning for tracks I could identify. Eventually my gaze fell upon something shiny and unnatural, yet not totally out of place; anticipated even, if only for the fact that there are so many signs stating its strict prohibition. A beer can, a very stubby beer can. Two stubby beer cans, I noted as I did a double take. Impressed at the tenacity of the previous owner(s) desire to drink in the stillness of the middle of the woods, I had to probe further. Then again, maybe I was just being nosey.

Neither had been crushed. They had very unique triangular pull top openings. Coincidently, this was the same type of can I frequently slurped down after a long day of digging out at site in the heat of the Wadi Hasa desert; I hadn’t seen them anywhere since. Their shape and design suggested they had been sitting undisturbed for a while. Surprisingly they were not rusted in the slightest. Aluminum’s chemical properties make it naturally resistant to oxidation, unless exposed to a harsh and wet environment. Maybe its anti-aging properties were the result of a chemical coating, I speculated, reminding myself not only of all the snow we accumulated this winter but also of Delaware’s infamous humidity index. Its label was in almost perfect condition.

“It’s a Rolling Rock?” I thought with confused familiarity as I plucked one up from its resting place. Just last night I had taken one out of my fridge. The attractive vintage design mixed with the 16.99 price tag made Rolling Rock the obvious choice for college students that can no longer bring themselves to buy Miller or Budweiser. I had a feeling the can in my hand was the real deal.

I let my imagination wander. Some forty years ago in the 70’s, a couple of long haired, hippy high-schoolers came to this exact spot to throw back a cheeky cold one camouflaged by the forest, hidden from any disapproving eyes. I wondered what became of them. Were they still in Newark? How many people came across these beer cans since they had been tossed and forgotten on this soggy piece of White Clay?

My thoughts lingered on the agency of the beer cans as well as their previous owners for several more minutes. Then, according to procedure I documented the artifacts in situ and collected them. Jazzed with this unanticipated find and wanting to get the answers to the multitude of questions that were already plaguing my brain, I started home.

Still hopscotching through the swampland, my focus was married to the forest floor. It was just when I finally reached sturdy ground that a distinctly spongy rock came into view.

“No way is that slag,” I protested, “I’m in the middle of White Clay!” Examining the material closely confirmed my predicament. Slag is an industrial by-product created from the smelting of metals. It is an artifact of colonial towns, not the forest. So what was it doing here? Iron Hill? Paper Mill? That apple cider factory I noticed for the first time on my way in? I tried to run through all of the historical industries in the area that might explain its presence. Nothing. More perplexed than ever I scooped up the bulbous by-product, which was supporting its own little moss colony, determined to find answers.

It must of been a sight to all those who happened to be on Creek Road as I fumbled out from the tree line, arms brimming with a bunch of really old and obscure trash. A mature couple passing by actually stopped to thank me for cleaning up the park. I blushed, feeling the need to justify what they saw as a good deed. As we got to talking the man suggested that the slag was the result of the railroad line that had been converted into Pomeroy Trail. I knew the walking trail had been named for the old railway, but it had never occurred to me that it ran all the way up through the park. Nonetheless, it was exactly what I needed to place the artifact in a larger context.

Several hours of research later, I was beginning to make sense of my collection. As it turns out the Pomeroy Railway ran more or less directly over top of White Clay Creek. It was a failed attempt at reducing construction costs. The logic was to follow the flattest grade of land. What they hadn’t anticipated was the 65 bridges necessary to traverse its banks along the 26-mile rail. Consequently it became known as the “railroad that should never have been built”. Construction began in 1868 with the inaugural trip occurring on May 1, 1873. A cow belonging to John Dorsey was struck by the passenger car, nicknamedĀ  the “Pumpsie Doodle”, and was decapitated in the process. The railway seems to have been wrought with misfortune from the very beginning. Economic depression and competition from the automobile industry resulted in the abandonment of the line in 1939. The funny shaped rock I recovered was use to form the trackbed on which the railroad ties were laid, making it at least 140 years old.

Information regarding the ancient Rolling Rock cans was much more sparse. The official website had zero information about the history of the brewery, except of its creation which coincidentally occurred the same year the Pomeroy Rail was shutdown. After comparing labels with Etsy accounts that advertised the sale of vintage brews, I surmise that the can was produced in the 1970’s, revealing its age at roughly 40 years old. The only other information I could find was that the brewery was no longer owned by and produced at Latrobe Brewing Co, PA because it had been sold to the massive corporation, Anheuser-Busch, in 2006 for a cool 82 million dollars. Production was immediately moved to New Jersey, sparking a nationwide boycott of all Anheuser-Busch products.

Days of Destruction Days of Revolt brings to light the cold and faceless machine of capitalism. The author Chris Hedges claims that no one is immune to its exploitations and it would appear that he is correct. Two random objects illustrate two separate stories, one of overtly greedy economics and another of a long forgotten industry, both found on a spontaneous journey through what we like to think of as a quaint nature reserve right in our own backyard.

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