This poem, part of a book about the area I wrote a few years back, is reasonably accurate, but not precisely....
Dickson Mounds State Park
near Lewistown, Illinois . . .
-Not fossils . . . bones,? said
Mr. Dickson, -and, I should know,
because I‘m a chiropractor.
Bones of old Mississippian Indians,
Left right where they were buried,
and I dug up the dirt
and left the bones there
for you to see,
mothers with their pots
and their beads
and their babies,
fathers with their bows
and flints and spearpoints,
boys and girls, too,
they are all there,
for your enjoyment,
and education.
A U.S. Dollar
isn‘t too much to ask,
for all my work,
is it??
Forty years he made a living,
but folks started thinking,
-Once you‘ve seen those bones once,
you‘ve seen them for all.? And
there weren‘t enough
grade school principals
who would let kids go, or
enough parents with a dollar now or two,
to send them off for a field trip,
to see Indian bones,
the bones of farmers, and fishermen,
of mothers and fathers and girls and boys and babies.
So, Mr. Dickson sold it to the
State of Illinois
and the State of Illinois
fixed the road and put a new
roof on the building,
put up a new sign, and
raised the prices again.
Then one day, some Potawatomies
came along, stood on the road
and asked,
-Would you be looking at those bones,
if they were your grandfather and grandmother?
Or, your little sister or brother?
Or your Aunt who died giving birth??
And, slowly, slowly, more and more people said,
-No.?
Now folks come and see the
dioramas, and pictures, and exhibits
and the bones are
covered up again, so their souls and spirits
can relax and not worry about
their nakedness,
more naked than any flesh,
the nakedness of bones.
The bones of farmers and fishermen
and fathers and mothers
and girls and boys
and babies.