A Night On The Mound. A true story

A NIGHT ON THE MOUND

by Jack Stanley

I grew up in southeast Missouri, not far from the Bootheel—farm country, river country, and land rich with stories buried just below the plow line. Arrowheads were common treasures after a fresh tilling, little reminders that we weren’t the first to walk those fields. When my local school district bought land near an ancient mound—part of what folks called Mounds Cemetery—everyone knew the place held history. Later I learned the people were Mississippians, farmers who lived along the river long before us.

The University of Missouri sent an archaeology team to investigate. Dr. Chapman was the lead. I was a shy kid, but I’d read a few books and was fascinated. So I’d drive out after school and watch them dig, wishing I had the nerve to get closer.

One evening in midsummer the team was wrapping up. They had uncovered something unique and needed to protect it overnight. With a small, exhausted crew, they wondered aloud who might keep watch. Something bold rose up in me, and before I could talk myself out of it, I said, “I can camp here and watch it.”

Dr. Chapman looked around and asked if anyone knew me. In a small town, reputations travel fast—fortunately mine was a good one. He nodded and told me to bring help. I grabbed two friends, Tony and Doug, and we were back within the hour, pitching a tent right by the dig site.

As dusk fell, a group of men in their early twenties wandered up asking to “see the gold.” I told them the truth—there was no gold, just pottery and bones. They left… for a while.

Around 11 p.m., they came back louder and drunker. Doug hid in the grass. Tony crawled into my car. Between the three of us, we had a .38 pistol, a 16-gauge shotgun, and a .22 rifle—standard country-boy gear, and we knew how to handle ourselves.

They demanded again to see the gold. I kept insisting teenagers wouldn’t be guarding treasure. As the tension rose, Doug quietly fired the shotgun into our campfire. The explosion was spectacular—wood, sparks, and ashes everywhere.

The men froze.

“What was THAT?”

I pointed toward the darkness and said, “The other guys.”

Right then Tony opened the car door. They asked how many of us were out there. I said, “Enough.”

They decided that was plenty and finally left.

The night calmed down after that.

At sunrise, Dr. Chapman and the crew returned. He thanked us and then said the magic words:

“Would you boys like to dig with us?”

My friends said no. I drove them home and came right back.

For the next year and a half, whenever I could, I joined the dig. I learned more than I ever expected—from soil layers to story layers. One day they uncovered the edge of a ceremonial mace. I got to brush away the earth around it myself. Later they showed me the finished piece and its replica. I’ll never forget that feeling—touching history that had waited centuries for daylight.

Years later, when I owned a Learning Center in Columbia, an older archaeologist brought his daughter in for tutoring. I told him my story. He dug through the records, found no mention of my name—because I wasn’t a student or official volunteer—and then confirmed through the details that I truly had been there, working alongside the team. He brought me a poster from the University of Missouri Archaeology Department featuring that very find. I still have it framed in storage, waiting for a wall worthy of it.

It was a simpler time—no liability waivers, no red tape, just a kind professor who saw a curious high-school kid and let him step into a world most people only read about.

And here’s what stuck with me:

You can learn.

You can grow.

You can become more than your beginnings.

I never became an archaeologist, and I never dug again. But I never forgot the lessons from that mound, or the man who said “yes” to a kid bold enough to ask.

A Night on the Mound.

A simple moment.

A lifetime imprint.

Jack