One of the more pleasant accounts I follow on social media is by a “mudlark” — someone who scavenges for lost and discarded items in a riverbank, especially on the river Thames.
I enjoy the tidbits of information about history, culture, industry and fashion she shares along with photos of her finds; but even more, I enjoy her delight in finding things. She seems just as enchanted with the 967th boot nail or marble or pipe stem as she was with the first. She understands deeply these aren’t just prizes or accomplishments to tick off a mudlark list. They’re belongings, things once owned and used and maybe cherished by specific people; and she honors their lives by finding their lost things, cleaning them, naming them, learning about them. Recalling that someone real and important once lived here.
I do a bit of mudlarking myself, albeit in a body of water without any historical pedigree. It’s the little brook that runs through our backyard, and when the water is low, I sometimes clamber around and see what the current turned up.
I’ve found a toy Roy Rogers gun, a miraculously intact vintage lightbulb, and one time, a key from a berth on a boat that sailed out of Boston many decades ago. We find a lot of bottles, some still labeled as lineaments or tonics, and lots of bits of pottery still printed with hints of roses and suggestions of filigree. We find so many forks and spoons and knives, and chains, hooks, latches, bolts, and peculiar wrenches. And we find toys of past generations: a plastic mummy leg from a defunct cartoon; a dinosaur with washed-out eyes; and endless wheels and chassis from toy trucks. Boys’ toys are most common, I suppose because they’re built sturdier and last longer, even if only in pieces, smothered in mud.
One year I was digging up the yard for a patio, and I found a rare delicate toy: A little ceramic pig, bleached featureless, but intact. I was happy to take a break from work with bricks, so I cleaned piggy off, polished it up, and looked for a safe spot so I wouldn’t lose it. I was so pleased when an idea popped into my head: I’ll give it to the baby. The patio I was building features a little statue of St. Joseph, and he’s holding a toddler Jesus. I tucked the pig into Jesus’ outstretched hand and mumbled a quick, sheepish prayer for him to take care of it.
Take care of me.
Why is it so thrilling and moving to find these little bits from the past? It’s not as if we thought we were the first humans ever to live here, and are amazed to discover that this is not so. Goodness knows the evidence of previous families is everywhere, from the old-fashioned, elderly rose bush in front, to the bewildering layers of linoleum I had to chip my way through like an archeologist when I was renovating the kitchen. So yes, of course, we knew there were people here before us.
But somehow, finding their stuff feels like a tiny victory. It feels, sometimes, like it’s something I myself have lost, and am finding again. Even when it’s something unfamiliar, or something I can’t identify, there’s often a sense of relief: Ah, HERE it is. As if I’d been searching everywhere for my inscrutable rusty wrench, or my plastic mummy leg. (I have not).
It’s a displaced emotion, like a false memory you have in a dream. If I were superstitious, I would say it’s a sign of the spirit realm trying to make contact, or a lingering memory from a past life. But I’m not superstitious; I’m a Christian. So here is what I think it is.
I think it’s a sign that we know we’re immortal, and suffer a constant, outraged grief that our bodies are not. We know that we are destined for eternal life, and also that we are always in danger of falling to pieces, floating apart, drifting away, being buried in the mud. Not being found. Being forgotten.
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