There has been much discussion about “the big tent” as the metaphor that defines and delineates the boundaries of the digital humanities. In some cases, such as at the University College London Centre for Digital Humanities (Warwick et al.), the “big tent” is framed quite broadly, defined not by traditional disciplinary boundaries but by practice. Kathleen Fitzpatrick,1 on the other hand, defines the “big tent” as “a nexus of fields within which scholars use computing technologies to investigate the kinds of questions that are traditional to the humanities, or, as is more true of [her] own work, who ask traditional kinds of humanities-oriented questions about computing technologies.” Whatever the perspective on the “big tent,” the metaphor has inevitably led to debate as to who is in this “tent” and who is not.
Curiously, archaeology and archaeologists (especially anthropological archaeologists) are largely absent from this discussion. Archeologists rarely publish in the same places as scholars who identify themselves as digital humanists. For the most part, archaeologists do not seek funding from the agencies and programs to which digital humanists commonly turn. It is also quite rare to see archaeologists at digital humanities conferences, meetings, or workshops. Prominent digital humanities conferences (or un-conferences, as the case may be) such as THATCamp or Digital Humanities are almost never attended by archaeologists. In fact, many scholars in the archaeological community are not even aware that the digital humanities exist. To extend the “big tent” metaphor, most archaeologists (especially anthropological archaeologists) are so far away from the tent that they cannot even see it.
This state of affairs is puzzling, as archaeology articulates quite nicely with many of the fields of study that have self-identified as being part of the digital humanities, such as history or classics. Furthermore, archaeologists have long been invested in a wide variety of innovative digital technologies and practices. Computational archaeology (which eventually evolved into digital archaeology) dates to the late 1950s—not long after the rise of humanities computing, the precursor to DH. Regardless of the obvious connections between the two domains, there exists a significant missed opportunity, since issues of discipline and disciplinary-based epistemologies have resulted in a curious disconnect. Indeed, archaeology has a great deal to offer digital humanities, in terms of data-driven scholarship, public engagement, and experiential learning. By exploring several critical points of interchange between archaeology and the digital humanities, this discussion reveals new pathways to fruitful engagement, interaction, and collaboration.
An Abbreviated History of the “Digital” in Archaeology
In archaeology, which has a strong tradition of focusing on practical methodologies, computers and computation have largely fallen under the domain of method rather than theory; they have most often been thought of and used as tools to better understand, interpret, and communicate the archaeological past. One might even go so far as to argue that, of all the domains in the humanities and humanistic social sciences that explore cultural heritage, archaeology is the one with the greatest emphasis on and acceptance of methodology as a vital part of the discipline’s scholarly inquiry. However, archaeological method is inextricably intertwined with archaeological theory; in many cases, the two are inseparable. Low-level archaeological theory, as described by scholars such as Michael Schiffer, involves observations and interpretations that result in data about the archaeological record. These observations and interpretations are inherently theory-driven and only emerge from methodologically driven lab and fieldwork.
The roots of digital archaeology (which was originally referred to as computational archaeology) date back further than many people might think. While George Cowgill cites several tantalizing examples in the late 1950s, the best-known and most influential computational archaeology project comes courtesy of James Deetz’s seminal work on Arikara ceramics, carried out in the early 1960s. In that project, Deetz employed an IBM704 mainframe at the MIT Computation Laboratory to analyze stylistic variation across an assemblage of 2,500 rim sherds2 from the central South Dakota Medicine Crow site, hoping to expose “stylistic coherence” (Dynamics of Stylistic Change in Arikara Ceramics).
Deetz’s work was extremely important, as it suggested that computers were excellent tools for statistical, typological, chronological, or stylistic analysis of large, exceedingly complex, and messy sets of data—a hallmark of archaeology. In this regard, Deetz’s work, as well as those who followed him (e.g., M. Ascher and R. Ascher; G. L. Cowgill) engaged with the notion of “big data” before the term ever existed.
In those early years, computational archaeology also capitalized on something that computers do well: information storage. Archaeological work generates a massive amount of data—data that needs to be stored, curated, and accessed. This is not just a matter of volume, but also of variety. Any given archaeological project can collect ceramic material, lithic material (stone tools and their manufacturing by-products), faunal material (animal bone, horn, soft tissue, etc.), floral material (plant seeds, stems, pollen, residue, etc.), architectural and structural remains, human skeletal remains, spatial and map data, epigraphic material, remote sensing data (LIDAR, electrical resistivity, magnetometry, etc.), and geological materials (soil, etc.). It is not out of the ordinary for an average archaeological site to have thousands, if not tens of thousands, of artifacts, each of which might have multiple characteristics that must be measured and recorded. Early on, computers provided a critical platform for storing, preserving, and accessing this vast and complex array of archaeological data.
The earliest experiments with digital data storage took place in the early 1960s. Unfortunately, as Chenhall (“The Archaeological Data Bank”) reported, there were more problems than successes. The three major problems were that: (1) despite the claims of major computer manufacturers, hardware and software had only just reached the point where they were barely adequate for dealing with archaeological data; (2) facilities to support the storage and preservation of archaeological data in electronic form were exceedingly uncommon; and (3) there was no consensus among archaeologists as to what types of data should be stored and how that data should be collected. In today’s terms, one might say, simply, that the cyberinfrastructure for these projects did not exist.
As computer hardware and software evolved and became more accessible, so did archaeological digital data storage projects. The more successful efforts were closely tied to museum-based efforts, such as the British Museum Association IRGMA, the Smithsonian Institution Information Retrieval System, and the General Retrieval and Information Processor for Humanities Oriented Studies (GRIPHOS)—many of which were part of the Museum Computer Network (MCN) (see Chenhall; Scholtz and Chenhall). One non-museum project worth highlighting took place at the Arkansas Archaeological Survey (AAS) which in 1972 was awarded a National Science Foundation grant to determine the problems and possibilities, including time factors and costs, of recording and storing large quantities of archaeological data electronically (Scholtz and Chenhall). This project employed the GRIPHOS system to provide an information storage, search, and retrieval infrastructure for Arkansas Archaeological Survey (AAS) site files,3 the Harrington Caddoan collection (housed in the Museum of the American Indian), the AAS faunal collection, and the AAS human skeletal collection (Scholtz and Chenhall; Urban and Misunas). While it may seem ironic, the greatest accomplishments of the AAS GRIPHON project were not its successes, but its problems. Scholtz and Chenhall clearly recognized that there were enormous theoretical and methodological concerns, such as data standards, usage best practices, and lack of training infrastructure, that needed to be overcome before archaeological digital data repositories (in modern parlance) could be effectively leveraged in everyday archaeological practice.
In 1971, the University of Arkansas Museum hosted the Archaeological Data Bank Conference. Funded by the Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research, the conference brought together archaeologists from the private and the public sectors and academia in order to explore the utility of databases in archeological research. The conference represents the first time that a community of archaeologists had convened to address the collection, storage, and preservation of archaeological data in electronic form. The conference was particularly noteworthy because it signaled a recognition of the need for professional infrastructure that supported scholarly communication on issues of computational archaeology. The recognition of this need eventually led to the foundation of the Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology (CAA) organization in 1973, and the Archaeological Computing Newsletter in 1984—both of which continue to this day.
By the mid-1980s, desktop computers had become effective tools for data visualization and archaeological imagery. Desktop computers facilitated the spread and adoption of geographic information systems (GIS)—probably one of the most important applications in computational archaeology (and in archaeology in general). GIS not only allowed for the visualization of spatial and map-based data in the context of survey and documentation of archaeological resources, but it also allowed for both the analysis and modeling of archaeological sociospatial data (Kvamme; Bevan and Conolly; Byerly et al.). GIS is also noteworthy because it provided a standards-based framework for sharing spatial archaeological data, maps, and tables.
In addition to using GIS, many archaeologists turned to desktop computers for drafting purposes. Computer-assisted design (CAD) software allowed archaeologists to produce a wide variety of maps and illustrations. The strength of CAD in this regard rested in the ability of the archaeologist to create and generate highly detailed and geometrically accurate plans, profiles, and feature maps at various scales and with differing emphases, without time-consuming redrafting (Duncan and Main). The larger promise of CAD, however, rested in the ability to visualize sites or structures with full 3D geometry. Until that point, all 3D imagery had been created manually by archaeological illustrators. CAD allowed archaeologists to easily manipulate (scale, rotate, transform) 3D imagery of archaeological features, landscapes, artifacts, and structures without having to manually redraw. More recently, advances in surveying equipment, particularly the total station,4 has made capturing and recording 3D data much easier. This, in combination with the 3D capabilities of CAD, has led to some extremely detailed, complex, and accurate examples of 3D models of archaeological material (Eiteljorg II). In addition to serving as part of the archaeological record-keeping process, these 3D models were also used as the foundation for reconstructing, illustrating, visualizing, or envisioning the past—either for scholarly purposes or public consumption. The height of this trend was reached (and is currently still very much ongoing) in robust 3D visualization and virtual reality projects, many of which, at least partially, used 3D CAD data as the starting point for 3D models.
The emergence of the desktop computer as a powerful tool for archaeological inquiry was accompanied by the beginnings of an important shift in terminology. Up until this point, “computational archaeology” was the commonly used term for the domain. However, at least partially in recognition that the term “computational” spoke to algorithmic processes instead of to a medium, the term “digital archaeology” began entering the disciplinary vernacular at this time (Lock; Zubrow).
Digital archaeology was bolstered by the introduction of the CD-ROM, which had the capacity to deliver rich media experiences that would have a powerful impact on teaching and learning in both formal and informal settings. The most notable archaeological example was Adventures in Fugawiland.5 Originally published in 1990, Adventures in Fugawiland was designed to introduce students to the fundamentals of archaeological research by allowing them to simulate fieldwork experiences. The simulation—calling it a “game” would be a misrepresentation—was developed by T. Douglas Price and Anne Birgitte Gebauer of the University of Wisconsin. Students worked with a realistic topographical map containing numerous fictional prehistoric sites located in “Fugawiland,” chose sites to excavate on-screen, examined what they found, and answered questions about their findings. Students could refer to abundant help modules, including a regional plot providing a graph of the abundance of different site characteristics in Fugawiland. Adventures in Fugawiland enjoyed several editions and was used as course material in many anthropology classes throughout North America.
By contrast, the emergence of the World Wide Web in the mid-1990s did not have as much of an impact on digital archaeological practice as some might think; rather, it fueled already existing practices and helped them evolve. Databases and digital repositories benefited from living in a networked information ecosystem. GIS data, such as maps and tables, were more easily shared and distributed over the Web. If we were to identify the one area that benefited the most from the birth of the Web, however, it would be public archaeology. At its core, public archaeology protects and advocates for archaeological heritage sites and resources through public education, outreach, and engagement. The Web extended the reach of traditional efforts, helping archaeologists engage larger audiences through the use of rich media.
Unfortunately, the Web as a scholarly publishing platform in archeology has yet to meet its true potential. There are several examples of online journals, the most noteworthy being the venerable Internet Archaeology.6 However, these journals remain peripheral to traditional models of scholarly publication and have not made a significant impact to date.
Reasons for the Disconnect?
The disconnect between archaeology and the digital humanities persists, in spite of their similar and at times intertwined historical trajectories. This is a result of both discipline and epistemology. The digital humanities, as both a domain and a label, has its roots in the humanities—in disciplines such as literature, rhetoric, history, and media studies. Anthropological archaeology is a social science, not a humanities discipline.
It would of course be unfair not to acknowledge that this statement is compressing and oversimplifying complex disciplinary issues. There has long been push and pull between anthropological archaeology as a social science and anthropological archaeology as a humanities discipline. For anthropological archaeology, the shift from humanistic inquiry to social science began in the late 1950s with the seminal work of Willey and Phillips (1958) and the emergence of New Archaeology (a term that was later replaced by Processual Archaeology in recognition that the focus of the discipline should be on the study and reconstruction of “cultural processes”). The new methodological approaches of this processual-based research paradigm favored logical positivism, the use of quantitative data, and the scientific method (specifically a hypothetico-deductive model).
There exists a divide within anthropology itself that is pertinent to this discussion. Forming along subdisciplinary lines, the divide generally has sociocultural anthropology and linguistic anthropology aligning intellectually with the humanities, while physical anthropology and archaeology are aligning themselves firmly with the social sciences—and in some cases the natural sciences. This divide, and the intellectual foundation thereof, has resulted in a great deal of friction within the field. In 2010, for example, the executive board of the American Anthropological Association (AAA) adopted a long-range planning document that removed the word “science” from the description of the association’s mission. This change, which the executive board had assumed would be uncontroversial, instead resulted in a firestorm of criticism (Lende). Many archaeologists and physical anthropologists were furious, arguing that the change minimized their contributions to the discipline. The AAA insisted that it was not seeking to marginalize any of its members or the subfields that they represent and reintroduced the notion of scientific inquiry into the association’s mission statement (Wood). Despite this, many archaeologists and physical anthropologists remain very frustrated that the AAA would even consider making a change that would so clearly privilege one mode of scholarly inquiry over another.
A distinction should to be made between anthropological archaeologists and those humanist scholars who self-identify as archaeologists—or more precisely, between anthropological archaeology and humanist archaeology. Generally speaking, “humanist archaeology” refers to disciplines such as classical archaeology or Egyptology, whose framework is one of humanistic inquiry and that largely think of archaeology as method, a toolkit to be used to address questions framed by their own disciplinary epistemologies. Anthropological archaeology, on the other hand, is a subdiscipline of anthropology. It is guided and informed by a theory and practice intended to systematically and rigorously understand the organization, operation, and evolution of human societies based on the study material culture.
The oftentimes mistaken assumption about anthropological archaeology is that it is concerned exclusively with the study of the distant past. In fact, anthropological archaeology is just as interested in the recent past as it is the distant past. Historical archaeology is concerned with applying archaeological methods and theory to better understanding historical contexts for which written records exist. Historical archaeology is particularly adept as exploring those groups who were not privileged by being the focus of written records, such as the enslaved, indentured laborers, the working class, women, and children. In some cases, archaeologists are even quite interested in the present. Ethnoarchaeology is engaged in the study of modern human groups through the combined lens of ethnography and archaeological method and theory. One of the best-known examples of ethnoarchaeology is the work of Lewis Binford. During the late 1960s, Binford undertook ethnographic fieldwork among the Nunamiut people in Alaska in order to better understand the periglacial environment of the Middle Paleolithic (300,000 to 30,000 years ago). He saw the hunter-gatherer subsistence strategies of the Nunamiut as a way to understand the archaeology of the Mousterian, a Middle Paleolithic European tool tradition (Binford).
Points of Commonality, Collaboration, and Cross-Fertilization
Despite the fact that the disconnect between the digital humanities and anthropological archaeology is rooted in issues of discipline and disciplinary-based epistemologies, there are exciting points of commonality between the two domains and the possibility for method and practice from archaeology to fertilize DH. As previously mentioned, archaeology articulates quite nicely with many of the fields of study that have self-identified as being part of the digital humanities, such as history and the classics. Furthermore, archaeologists have been and continue to be heavily invested in a wide variety of innovative digital technologies and practices. Going forward, what is needed is an articulation of points of commonality so as to suggest specific opportunities for fruitful future interaction. What follows is not intended to be exhaustive. Indeed, there are several domains, such as agent-based modeling and GIS, which are not addressed. Instead, several logical places where a dialogue between digital humanities and archaeology might begin are proposed.
Archaeologists are at home with massive amounts of data that is often incredibly complex, varied, and messy (both in practical and statistical terms). Large-scale excavations, especially those that span multiple years, regularly cope with tens of thousands of artifacts—and in many cases, hundreds of thousands of artifacts. This is to say nothing of data that comes from geomorphic, geologic, limnological, palynological, and chemical sources, among others. The sheer volume and complexity of archaeological data is often difficult to communicate to nonarchaeologists.
While archaeologists generally agree on what might be called methodological meta-standards, the discipline as a whole exhibits variety in the kinds of data recorded and exactly how data are recorded. This is not the result of gross theoretical differences, nor should it be perceived as a failure of archaeology as a social science. Instead, it is the result of the complex and varied nature of archaeological materials and research. The geographic region where archaeologists work, as well as the temporal and cultural areas within which they work, have a significant impact on the kinds of data they collect and the way in which they collect it. The kinds of artifacts recovered from a Paleolithic site in France, for example, differ from the kinds of artifacts recovered from the excavation of a historical nineteenth-century farmstead in Nova Scotia.
Some of the earliest attempts to apply computers to archaeological problems were focused on electronic data. As such, archaeologists have become quite experienced at addressing issues of capturing, collecting, preserving, analyzing, accessing, and sharing large amounts of digital data. Given the complex nature of archaeological data, archaeologists have also been actively engaged in exploring issues of data standards, including the dichotomy between taxonomy and folksonomy. In this regard, archaeologists have an enormous amount to share with digital humanists on the subject of collecting, recording, preserving, accessing, and analyzing large corpora of data. There are a number of noteworthy archaeological data repositories and projects that speak to this experience including Open Context, tDAR, and ADS.
Developed by the Alexandria Archive Institute,7 Open Context8 is a free, open-access platform for the online publication of primary data from archaeological research. Open Context originally emerged as a way for scholars and students to easily find and reuse content created by others. Open Context’s technologies focus on ease of use, open licensing frameworks, informal data integration and, most important, data portability. The Digital Archaeological Record (tDAR) differs from Open Context in that it is a traditional preservation repository. tDAR9 is a digital archive that houses archaeological data, reports, dissertations, books, images, coding sheets, and typologies. The Archaeological Data Service (ADS) is similar to tDAR in that its goal is the preservation and access of archaeological data. ADS10 differs from tDAR in that it is a constellation of digital archives that contain site reports, site descriptions, project descriptions, datasets, theses and dissertations, and papers that are accessible through ArchSearch, a federated search tool. All of the content is accessible through ArchSearch. Beyond the sheer volume and variety of content in ADS, which is housed at the University of York, the project is particularly important because it serves as a national-level archaeological infrastructure for heritage bodies, universities, and private archaeological firms.
Archaeology has long been deeply invested in public engagement and outreach. In fact, there is a distinct domain within archaeology that focuses exclusively on the topic—Public Archaeology. Much like public history, public archaeology is interested in transforming scholarly archaeological work (in many creative ways) to be consumed by those outside the academy. Public archaeology differs from public history in that the primary driving goal is to protect and advocate for archaeological heritage sites and resources through public education, outreach, and engagement. Community archaeology, a specific area of practice within public archaeology, is focused very acutely on local engagement. Community archaeology is set apart from the more general practices of public archaeology in that it seeks to equitably and equally engage local communities in the planning and implementation of research projects that are of direct interest to them (Trigger; Pyburn). Community archaeology oftentimes also has a very strong focus on social and community justice. Both public and community archaeology signal an important recognition of how archaeology is perceived and interpreted in the public eye. Community archaeology, in particular, recognizes and balances the ethics and identities that are bound to research of the past (Merriman).
In public archaeology, community engagement is facilitated using a variety of tools including public lectures, pamphlets, nonscholarly books, fixed or traveling museum exhibits, public workshops, bus tours, and school visits. Many of these activities are aggregated and publicized broadly as “Archaeology Days” (Michigan Archaeology Day, Spiro Mounds Archeology Day), “Archaeology Months” (Florida Archaeology Month, Saskatchewan Archaeology Month, Scottish Archaeology Month), and archaeology festivals (Festival of British Archaeology).
Public archaeology commonly strives for the inclusion of members of the public in original archaeological research, excavation, and preservation. It is not uncommon for archaeological projects to have a framework for including local community members in their excavations. In such cases, members of the public are treated very much like other project personnel and are recognized—even celebrated—for their contributions in all publications and site reports. In this regard, public archaeology has long embraced the idea of citizen scholarship and has naturally developed sets of logistical, ethical, and procedural frameworks to manage public involvement. An excellent example of such a project is the USDA Forest Service Passports in Time program,11 which provides structured opportunities for the public to work on archaeology and historic preservation projects alongside Forest Service archaeologists in national forests throughout the United States. These practices and programs have much to offer, given the recent interest in public crowdsourcing and citizen scholarship in the digital humanities.
Public archaeology has become increasingly invested in digital media as a platform for public engagement, outreach, and education. Archaeologists have embraced digital media as a method to extend and expand public engagement. Two excellent examples in this regard are the Thames Discovery Programme12 and the Michigan State University Campus Archaeology Program.13 Both projects effectively leverage blogs, social discussion platforms, and social media sharing platforms to engage and educate the public as to their activities. Another excellent example is the Portable Antiquities Scheme.14 Based at the British Museum and administered by a network of Finds Liaison Officers (FLOs) located in museums and archaeology services throughout the country, the Portable Antiquities Scheme is a platform that facilitates and supports the submission and recording of archaeological objects found by members of the public in England and Wales. The Portable Antiquities Scheme is particularly important as it is an example of crowdsourcing the archaeological record within the context of larger social and political concerns. A final example of note is Micropasts,15 a collaboration between the University College London Institute of Archaeology and the British Museum and a web platform that facilitates research-based collaboration between full-time academic researchers, volunteer archaeological and historical societies, and other interested members of the public. The project supports the creation of both crowdfunding campaigns and crowdsourcing projects. Crowdsourcing projects on Micropasts include the transcription of archive cards from 1947–48 excavations at the ancient Egyptian site of Amara West,16 photomasking of 3D objects from the collections of the Palestine Exploration Fund,17 and the creation of Roman amphorae profiles that can be converted into 3D solids.18 Micropasts not only facilitates the performance of public archaeology, but also exists as a research project that explores and improves how academics, professionals, and the volunteering public cooperate with one another (Bonacchi et al).
Models of Experiential Learning
In recent years, the philosophy of “building as a way of knowing” has taken firm root in the digital humanities. Well-respected DH scholars such Stephen Ramsay have argued passionately that one can acquire a far deeper understanding of tools, technologies, platforms, and systems through development rather than passive analysis and commentary. This approach has spawned an exciting philosophy of teaching as well as curricula and programs that stress building, hacking, doing, and critical play.
While relatively new in the digital humanities, a similar model has existed in archaeology for many years. Given that archaeology is so keenly focused on methodology and practice, students are required to develop a variety of applied skills during their education. These skills, which are taught in class-based, volunteer, and practicum settings, are always hands-on and almost always carried out on actual archaeological data and collections. There is very little sense of separating students from professional practice by a veil of intellectual stimulation.
One of the most important components of this model is the archaeological fieldschool. A requirement of all undergraduates who wish to pursue archaeology in a professional capacity, either to enter graduate school or Cultural Resource Management, the fieldschool is a period of time, typically ranging from four to eight weeks, in which students work on an archaeological site in order to learn the process of field archaeology and explore the many tangible and intangible skills required to be an archaeologist. During the fieldschool, students engage in all aspects of an archaeological project: survey, excavation, record keeping, artifact analysis and lab work, public outreach, and sometimes even publication. As such, the archaeological fieldschool is an excellent model to which DH can look for highly successful, applied learning experiences.
However, the fieldschool is not just an instructional experience, but also an opportunity for undergraduates to get acquainted with the culture of archaeological practice. Given that the digital humanities has long thought of itself as an interdisciplinary community of practice, the archaeological fieldschool also has much to teach about the process of professional acculturation.
We need not dwell on the reasons for the disconnect between the digital humanities and archaeology. Instead, we should look for tangible and actionable solutions that will bring the two domains together in fruitful engagement, interaction, and collaboration. As discussed, several areas, such as data management, public engagement, and experiential learning, provide useful starting points.
To move beyond these discrete areas of intersection will require additional spaces of dialogue—an epistemological and disciplinary neutral ground, so to speak. One might argue that seemingly interdisciplinary digital humanities meetings and events are the perfect meeting ground for archaeologists and digital humanists. But to those archaeologists who are aware of such events—and there are not many, quite frankly—such conferences do not seem like neutral spaces. From the perspective of the archaeologist, these conferences are attended by humanists who spend time discussing humanist topics. Even the Digital Humanities Conference, the flagship conference of the DH community, which ostensibly embodies the interdisciplinarity of the domain, is dominated by papers primarily influenced by trends in digital literary studies. To most archaeologists, papers discussing stylometrics, TEI, or algorithmic criticism are impenetrable and of no professional use. Digital humanists must therefore work to communicate their domain to anthropological archaeologists. I am not suggesting that all of the responsibility for engagement should fall on the digital humanities; there are of course some archaeologists who are already actively engaged with the digital humanities community and are very much of aware of the challenges of such a collaboration. However, an initial handshake, an intellectual “hello, nice to meet you,” is still needed between the two domains. Until then, archaeologists will forever be outside of the “big tent,” looking in.
2. “Sherd” in an archaeological term for a broken piece of a ceramic (pottery) artifact—usually a vessel. A “rim sherd” is a sherd that comes from the rim of the vessel. See https://www.le.ac.uk/ulas/services/ceramic_analysis.html.
3. In the United States, each state maintains a record of all documented archaeological sites in that state. These are commonly referred to as a state’s “site files.”
4. A total station is an electronic/optical instrument used in modern surveying and mapping. A total station combines features of a theodolite to measure angles in the horizontal and vertical planes and the features of an electronic distance meter to measure distances from the instrument to a particular point. See https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Total_station.
5. The first version of Adventures in Fugawiland were actually delivered on a 3.5 inch floppy disk. However, subsequent editions were distributed on CD-ROM.
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