Archaeology Magazine - March/April 2000 - 32

"This

Aiii^t
On becoming

the

English

an archaeologist

in the 1950s

by Carol
first problem I had when I
arrived at FSU's Tallahassee campus in the fall of 1954 was finding the anthropology department.
Tne I had already told friends and relatives that the department was one of
the most important on campus. After all,
hadn't the chairman himself written to
me as I sailed out of high school declaring anthropology as a
major, Come to FSU,
on stationery wonderfully heavy, official,
and full of attractive V
symbols? Even his sig- »
nature, Hale G. Smith, I
sounded solid and dig- I
nified. Surely there was I
an AnthropologyHall to 1
match: centrally lo- 1
cated, covered with ivy, I
nobly designed, and full 1
of skeletons and pot- j
sherds. After much ask- I
ing and after staring at
useless campus maps, I
was directed by upperclassmen toward geology- after all, I was told,
doesn't anthropology have
something to do with dinosaurs? Finally,
patient upperclassmen suggested that I
check out the dining hall.
The Seminole Dining Hall stood at
right angles to Landis Green, a broad,
empty field in front of a dorm of the
same name. It was convenient for dinner, but where anthropology fit in was
anybody's guess. I went up broad stone
steps and into a darkish foyer with big
halls to the left and to the right. Over
all lingered that dim smell, anywhere
recognizable as an olfactory patina from
years of bad cooking and the death of
many appetites. Ahead of me was
another broad set of stone steps leading
to an even broader landing, across from
which a white door displayed "anthro32

Department"
at Florida

State

University

I. Mason

pology" in small letters. At last, the
promised land. The door led to narrow
steps, themselves reassuring, with
pieces of chunky statuary and odd tools
and weapons on the walls. Up and up I
went, into what was a large attic. "One
of the things you need to know about
anthropology departments," intoned
Hale

common concerns of university life. The
attic did not have offices. The large,
open space had been loosely subdivided:
a secretary sat at her desk just inside the
door, and Hale Smith was behind her to
the right in a chaos of papers, books,
and artifacts. To the left and across from
the secretary's desk was
Charles H. Fairbanks,
surrounded by bookcases,
typewriter, files, and miscellany. Beyond, tall
i dividers separated a
I small classroom space
I from a large workroom
I with sinks, paint, lumI ber, and tools; a high
drafting table belonging
to an artist-in-residence; storage facilities; and long tables.
H Box after box of arti-

Top,the «Htkormul a (twdewtwrtk
H. Fwrtwiki(outer); rfykt,
(wWítit-fkirt) amA
Fmrfxuifcí
HAlefr. SvMrtk
Wrtk«mietiti
((MtnjUtfeí)
MfífW(ckOOt
CA.
Antkor t( ((«tul oh tke trate «t rfykt. i
G. Smith peering at me over his wi
glasses, "is that they are always in the
basement or the attic. It has to do with
the expansion of the scope of science."
Looking back on it, I cannot conceive
an odder or more appropriate place for
that distinctly odd and wonderful
department. Perched high over the campus, it was disembodied, in a world of its
own, and only tangentially tied to the

facts lined the walls in shelves that
reached to the ceiling. It was not quite
the cool lap of science that I had fallen
into, but the atmosphere reeked of
anthropology, and that was heady stuff. I
recall the carcass of a bird spread out on
a table waiting for someone to skin it.
Much of the department's exuberArchaeology * March/April2000

Archaeology Magazine - March/April 2000

Table of Contents for the Digital Edition of Archaeology Magazine - March/April 2000