Black Warrior Files: Blast from the Past, or, Ann! Scoot Over and Make Room for that Meteorite!

In addition to cliché, a portion of this post title reeks of double entendre: (1) I’m writing about the Alabama Museum of Natural History; (2) I have had this post sitting on my computer, half-written, since, um, February. But as with all things past, it’s best not to dwell. Onward!

So my locavores and I have been embarking on a series of walking field trips this semester. Under the clever guise of “learning,” we’ve been fleeing the Island of Misfit Desks (a.k.a., Morgan Hall, Room 305) and taking advantage of the nice weather and the vast amounts of neat stuff practically oozing out of Flagship State U’s pores. Just across the quad from our antiquated classroom facilities are real antiques—thousand-year-old antiques—well-maintained and sometimes cleverly displayed by the archeologists right here on our very own campus.

Our trips to the campus museums have all been unguided, impromptu descendings-upon more so than organized events. I like to keep things interesting for the person manning the front desk by turning up with fifteen freshmen and letting them loose because, you know, they’re adults. The people at the front desk are not always convinced of the whole Freshman/Adult Phenomenon, but the woman at the Museum of Natural History was far more zen that the woman at the Paulbreabryant Museum, so I felt pretty good about the whole affair. And I don’t really just turn them loose. We do, after all, have to think about something vaguely constructive. Typically, we walk to a destination and I dole out a few questions for the group to think over and consider carefully before shooing them off to take notes and think deeply. I had intended to give my students their questions on the front steps before going inside.

“Hey, gang, let’s gather up here on the steps for a minute—”

“Why?” Mark cut in before I could get any further, shifting his backpack on his shoulder and grinning. “So you can get a picture?”

Truly, it’s amazing how much my students humor me. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind until he said it, but of course, I did have my camera . . .

Cheesecake snapshot secured, we waved at the bright red OPEN sign, climbed the steps and shoved our respective ways inside, coming face to snout with a big brown bear, neatly preserved and standing freely in the front foyer, begging to be touched. Of course, we all respected the sign urging us not to touch it, but I really, really wanted to. Really. Just a quick pat on the head. Deep down, all large-scale taxidermied mammals are definitely, definitely begging for a pat on the head.

What wasn’t begging for a pat on the head was the giant, room-filling skeleton of the zeuglodon, or the Basilosaurus cetoides (there’s some debate about what it “should” be called) on the museum’s second floor. Turns out that Alabama is home to several impressive, complete skeletons of prehistoric whales. Whales! Because pretty much the whole of the southeast was well and truly covered with water. And whales. And sharks with pointy teeth.

Anyway. The zeuglodon hanging out on the second floor is almost a complete skeleton and he’s mighty big. He’s also a fine specimen of Alabama’s Official State Fossil. Until the moment that the very earnest woman at the museum’s front desk uttered that phrase, I hadn’t known that state’s had Official State Fossils. Everyone know that states have nicknames (Heart of Dixie), and state birds (yellowhammer) and flowers (camellia), but fossils? Come on. I know that we all like to thumb our noses at other states and make out like things are so much better on our side of the invisible boundary (road conditions and highway maintenance notwithstanding because, dear god, we all have better roads than Mississippi and Eastern Tennessee; Eastern Tennessee should secede and nickname itself the Orange Construction Cone State) but really? We’ve digressed to fossils? Surely we have more pressing things on which to pass official legislation. The fairly pressing water shortage in the Southeast, for example. Or possibly that pesky war we went and started in someone else’s desert.

Of course, our zeuglodon kicks my old home state of Massachusetts’ ambiguous “dinosaur tracks” three times around the block. Just, you know, as long as we’re digressing.

The museum itself is somewhat impressive for what it contains: a large collection of pottery from the Mississipian Native Americans who lived in Moundville; a handful of impressive skeletons from all over (including a mammoth skull from Beloit, WI!); a gorgeous collection of beautiful hand drawn native Alabama fish illustrations; the authentic Studebaker wagon that Professor Eugene Allen Smith used to traverse the state and catalogue it’s wonders in his mid-1800s geological survey; and, my personal favorite, the only meteorite known to have struck a living person.

Imagine, if you will, lying down on your living room couch for a nice afternoon kip when suddenly, a chunk of space rock a little bigger than a softball comes flying through your rental house’s roof, hits your giant old-school 1950s wooden radio, and ricochets toward the couch you happen to be lying on, whacking you in the arm and very much disturbing you nap. Welcome to the life of Ann Hodges, a Sylacauga, Alabama, resident and the only person known to have been struck by a meteorite. It caused quite a scandal. Lots of seizing of the meteorite by various official bodies and landlords, a lawsuit, a few newpaper articles. And now, it sits on the second floor, somewhat eclipsed by the suspended zeuglodon, safe behind Plexiglas, preserved for anyone who wanders in to see.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Anyone who wanders in. Aside from school children and families, who really wanders in to the Museum of Natural History? Who really cares about Professor Eugene Allen Smith or the building (Smith Hall) that bears his name and houses his Studebaker wagon? Would my students, for instance, have ever gone into the museum were it not for our walking field trip or some other class that used the museum as a teaching tool?

More to the point—perhaps more uncomfortable to consider—would I?

Maybe. Eventually. Probably not.

But hey, look what I can say since I got to go: my Official State Fossil is better than your Official State Fossil.

Now go find your Natural History Museum, wander in, and prove me wrong.