byLong ago as it happened, I remember it in all the vivid detail that, when old, one remembers particularly emotive scenes from one’s youth.
I was in college, between my junior and senior years, majoring in English Lit but, always on the lookout for summer work, I had managed to get a paid position on an archeological dig down in Central America. Being my university’s dig, it didn’t pay much; but with lodging and meals provided, and virtually no place to spend money—the nearest village being fifty miles away—everything it did pay was gravy.
The school’s two archeology professors were in charge of the dig: Prof Weintraub and Dr. Thatcher. Back then, archeology was out of the “Indiana Jones” era, but not by much. White-haired, white-bearded, pipe-smoking Mr. Weintraub, who had his Ph.D. bu
