Thats great Pop,bet ya monkeyford will want to hear that.

Yes it is fun Pop,did you get some of the soil Pop?This is something,hope monkeyford hurries up and gives you an answer befour the constuction crew covers it up.

Hey Monkeyford,thats so interesting.What a shame things were built on places befour they were checked out..so sad..

Well,I just be darn Pop,lol..I go to the lake about 4 times a week,fishing a day,other days walking..I will look for treasures as well,the book Pop you mentioned,Sacajawe,is a wonderful book,the author,made it seem you were right into that time..Thanks Pop fro sharing

Wow,thats interesting too,you ought to just keep telling us things,like a history lesson,enjoy it very much..

my heart continues to bleed. my maternal grandfather was half Cherokee.

why don't they smile??

http://cherokeehistory.com/

Samuel Cloud turned 9 years old on the Trail of Tears. Samuel's Memory is told by his great-great grandson, Michael Rutledge, in his paper Forgiveness in the Age of Forgetfulness. Michael, a citizen of the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma, is a law student at Arizona State University.

It is Spring. The leaves are on the trees. I am playing with my friends when white men in uniforms ride up to our home. My mother calls me. I can tell by her voice that something is wrong. Some of the men ride off. My mother tells me to gather my things, but the men don't allow us time to get anything. They enter our home and begin knocking over pottery and looking into everything. My mother and I are taken by several men to where their horses are and are held there at gun point. The men who rode off return with my father, Elijah. They have taken his rifle and he is walking toward us. I can feel his anger and frustration. There is nothing he can do. From my mother I feel fear. I am filled with fear, too. What is going on? I was just playing, but now my family and my friends' families are gathered together and told to walk at the point of a bayonet. We walk a long ways. My mother does not let me get far from her. My father is walking by the other men, talking in low, angry tones. The soldiers look weary, as though they'd rather be anywhere else but here. They lead us to a stockade. They herd us into this pen like we are cattle. No one was given time to gather any possessions. The nights are still cold in the mountains and we do not have enough blankets to go around. My mother holds me at night to keep me warm. That is the only time I feel safe. I feel her pull me to her tightly. I feel her warm breath in my hair. I feel her softness as I fall asleep at night. As the days pass, more and more of our people are herded into the stockade. I see other members of my clan. We children try to play, but the elders around us are anxious and we do not know what to think. I often sit and watch the others around me. I observe the guards. I try not to think about my hunger. I am cold. Several months have passed and still we are in the stockades. My father looks tired. He talks with the other men, but no one seems to know what to do or what is going to happen. We hear that white men have moved into our homes and are farming our fields. What will happen to us? We are to march west to join the Western Cherokees. I don't want to leave these mountains. My mother, my aunts and uncles take me aside one day. "Your father died last night," they tell me. My mother and my father's clan members are crying, but I do not understand what this means. I saw him yesterday. He was sick, but still alive. It doesn't seem real. Nothing seems real. I don't know what any of this means. It seems like yesterday, I was playing with my friends. It is now Fall. It seems like forever since I was clean. The stockade is nothing but mud. In the morning it is stiff with frost. By mid-afternoon, it is soft and we are all covered in it. The soldiers suddenly tell us we are to follow them. We are led out of the stockade. The guards all have guns and are watching us closely. We walk. My mother keeps me close to her. I am allowed to walk with my uncle or an aunt, occasionally. We walk across the frozen earth. Nothing seems right anymore. The cold seeps through my clothes. I wish I had my blanket. I remember last winter I had a blanket, when I was warm. I don't feel like I'll ever be warm again. I remember my father's smile. It seems like so long ago. We walked for many days. I don't know how long it has been since we left our home, but the mountains are behind us. Each day, we start walking a little later. They bury the dead in shallow graves, because the ground is frozen. As we walk past white towns, the whites come out to watch us pass. No words are spoken to them. No words are said to us. Still, I wish they would stop staring. I wish it were them walking in this misery and I were watching them. It is because of them that we are walking. I don't understand why, but I know that much. They made us leave our homes. They made us walk to this new place we are heading in the middle of winter. I do not like these people. Still, they stare at me as I walk past. We come to a big river, bigger than I have ever seen before. It is flowing with ice. The soldiers are not happy. We set up camp and wait. We are all cold and the snow and ice seem to hound us, claiming our people one by one. North is the color of blue, defeat and trouble. From there a chill wind blows for us as we wait by a frozen river. We wait to die. My mother is coughing now. She looks worn. Her hands and face are burning hot. My aunts and uncles try to take care of me, so she can get better. I don't want to leave her alone. I just want to sit with her. I want her to stroke my hair, like she used to do. My aunts try to get me to sleep by them, but at night, I creep to her side. She coughs and it wracks her whole body. When she feels me by her side, she opens her blanket and lets me in. I nestle against her feverish body. I can make it another day, I know, because she is here. When I went to sleep last night, my mother was hot and coughing worse than usual. When I woke up, she was cold. I tried to wake her up, but she lay there. The soft warmth she once was, she is no more. I kept touching her, as hot tears stream down my face. She couldn't leave me. She wouldn't leave me. I hear myself call her name, softly, then louder. She does not answer. My aunt and uncle come over to me to see what is wrong. My aunt looks at my mother. My uncle pulls me from her. My aunt begins to wail. I will never forget that wail. I did not understand when my father died. My mother's death I do not understand, but I suddenly know that I am alone. My clan will take care of me, but I will be forever denied her warmth, the soft fingers in my hair, her gentle breath as we slept. I am alone. I want to cry. I want to scream in rage. I can do nothing. We bury her in a shallow grave by the road. I will never forget that lonesome hill of stone that is her final bed, as it fades from my sight. I tread softly by my uncle, my hand in his. I walk with my head turned, watching that small hill as it fades from my sight. The soldiers make us continue walking. My uncle talks to me, trying to comfort me. I walk in loneliness. I know what it is to hate. I hate those white soldiers who took us from our home. I hate the soldiers who make us keep walking through the snow and ice toward this new home that none of us ever wanted. I hate the people who killed my father and mother. I hate the white people who lined the roads in their woolen clothes that kept them warm, watching us pass. None of those white people are here to say they are sorry that I am alone. None of them care about me or my people. All they ever saw was the color of our skin. All I see is the color of theirs and I hate them. ©1995 Michael J. Rutledge, All Rights Reserved

The picture reflects the real founding fathers,who were pushed out by the new founding fathers.They had no reason to smile,for all their land was taken,all the buffalo killed,for the tongues of the animals,the rest left to rot,where as the indians used all the buffalo,for coats,shoes,and meat..They were removed to places,reservatiuons,there,they had to depend on white men,many starved,they couldnt hunt,nothing.It is all history,and will always respect the indians.

LOL,Ok Wrascal

Wrascal,the subject changed because a nice guy,Pop opened the discussion.Its a interesting discussion..to me it is...

FOUNDING FATHERS 

SIDE 2:  Grist Mill - Indian Battle - Recreation

Thats very interesting monkeyford,my brother and sister live in Fla near the Ala line,he has a chest full of the most beautiful  arrowheads,we got them in the fields after being plowed.We found out that the area where our fathers land is and joining neighbors farms,is where Davey Crockett had fought in Indian war....We saw that in a book written by a historian..We dont like for anyone to dig either,for it will destroy so much...

Hello KrazoKid,

What a shame,the sight where the bones were found  should have stoped work right then and,and historians brought in..I saw recently where in Calif,this happened,men were working on a new shoping center..Thanks for sharing that info...

Hey Pop, paleo points normally have the distinctive characteristic of being "fluted”.  That is not to say “all” Paleo points are fluted though. Fluting is a delicate procedure, making paleo points some of the most artistic pieces ever made by Native Americans. Fluting is the concave features along the long axis of the point on both sides, from the base upward. It is believed that these types of points were never hafted or fixed to a shaft, and were mainly used for the larger animals that roamed our area before becoming extinct (mastodon, camel, horse, etc). A slot would be cut into a long shaft where these fluted points could be inserted, pushed into a large animal and retracted, leaving the point inside, where another point then would be fixed on the shaft and repeated. Most paleo people survived by following the heards’ migration each year, nomadic people. But fixed sites are known where habitation occurred. Look up "paleo points" with Google and you'll find many examples.

The term "arrowhead" is somewhat misleading. Point, or projectile point is generally preferred. It's thought that the bow and arrow didn't come around until the Woodland period. But during this time, agriculture with the help of pottery-making took the place of the "hunter/gatherer" style of society. The bow was probably more related to "historic" tribes than the prehistoric. Most of the points that you/we find in the southeast and either spear or atlatl points. Search “atlatl” for an explanation of this incredible tool. Because of the weight of most points found, they would not be practical for an arrow. What many call “bird points” are probably what were used for arrows.

As for “burial mounds”, this was not a wide spread practice among southeastern Native Americans, or at least what the general public think of as burial mounds. At a location in the Florida panhandle, I was standing in the center of a mound and never knew it. They are low relief features, usually weathered to a point that they now blend in with the local area. The cultural period that made mound building famous is the Mississippian Period people. These mounds are very large and are meant for a cultural hierarchy, or chiefdom rather than for burial. Moundville, south of Tuscaloosa was a major cultural center for this period.  None of the mounds that were tested are for burial purposes. After the height and disappearance of this culture, it is believed that all the main Alabama historic tribes, i.e. Creek, Choctaw, and Cherokee were formed. I worked on one of the larger mounds, helping with a ground penetrating radar study back in the late 90’s, and was privileged to be of the few that get to see Moundville’s most pristine collections, not viewable to the general public. It blew my mind!!

I remember the investigation of the rocks found at Deese Road and 231. Large rocks, up to a foot to foot and a half long, some shaped like a peanut. They were all moved into a pile in front of that gas station on the northeast corner of 231. I also found some of the same type of rocks behind my house when I lived where the Wal-Mart is now. If I remember correctly, they were found to not be man-made and were weathered out of some Eocene aged formation exposed there, possible mudstone or marl concretions. This is the same geologic formation where locals have found many really nice sharks teeth. Go behind Wal-Mart, there is recent exposure of this unit in the hillside, and you might possibly find sharks teeth, ray teeth, brachiopods, or coral, to name a few things. I did in fact find a beautiful point in the field that use to be at the corner of Magnolia and Fairview drive. Use to play football in that field a lot!

Now at Mixon school, two of my most beautiful bird points were found there in the playground while waiting for the PE coach to figure out how they were going to keep us occupied for their hour stuck with us (ha ha). Found many points around the big lake between Mixon School road and Parker Hills. iWith as many different locations that I personally have found points or pottery, I would guess to say that there is a good possibility that during the long period of Native American inhabitance, that the population then, could be larger than it is now within Dale county. Every time you walk an area and you find little chips/flakes of chert (some call it flint, which technically is not correct) it means there was some type of activity there at one time in history. The coastal plain chert used for most of the tools found in Dale County was brought in from other areas, and is not naturally occurring. I have heard of an outcrop/quarry somewhere in Houston County that there is evidence of a Native American quarry site.

The area is extremely rich with artifacts!! I’ll have to go dig up pictures of some of my stuff now! Go hit the peanut fields now since they’ve pulled them (do they even grow peanuts anymore?...). After a good rain is the best time. It is a fantastic pastime for you to get your children involved, good family time! Remember, it is illegal to collect artifacts along navigate-able rivers in Alabama; you cannot dig without the landowner’s written permission, and report any evidence of burial sites. Go save the artifacts on the surface that are destined to be destroyed. I do not condone digging, nor have I ever done it myself. If a site is one day deemed of historical value, amateur digging destroys the in-situ stratigraphy (time layers) that are of most importance in ancient cultural studies.

Post some of your artifacts if you can. I would love to see them!!

Back in the early 60's when I went to Mixon elem school there was some construction going on at the intersection of 231 near there.  It was said that a indian burial ground was found there, some bones and skulls found. I can remember seeing a pile of large round rocks at the site.

I would love to know also.  My husband and daughter loves to look for arrowheads.  The 7 year old found a rather large arrowhead out in a field in Ariton recently.  I've never found one, but those two have found quite a few.

Two local historians have said and written that Dale County had no Native American villages, just sleep-over spots for hunting parties.  Recently, I heard of a possible village site in the city limits of Ozark - a very likely spot, below a high cliff.  Since reading that only hunting parties from the Chattahoochie River area frequented here, I have been asking around and have been told of two other sites, one of mounds in the Skipperville area, the other a field where an unusually large figure was found.  Has anyone found an area rich in pottery shards, or has anyone seen any possible mounds or rock piles, burial fashion?  Would love to know more about our Native American Heritage in Dale County .  Don't want to dig up anyone's land, for sure.  Hope to hear of possible sites in Dale County - just a history buff.  (I believe the only  Federally recognized soveriegn tribal government now in Alabama is the Poarch Tribe near Mobile.)