Come In and Cover Me

10 Jan

In the third grade,  I wanted to be an archaeologist. You know, the whole Indiana Jones shtick: I’d climb along the side of my bunk bed, scaling vertical rock walls and absconding with golden statues of squat monster-gods. My friend Jane, who was only allowed to watch PBS but somehow watched Twin Peaks on the sly, had us don imaginary lab coats and examine jewels and bones.  Later, I actually minored in archaeology in college and learned that “shoats” can be either sheep or goat (their skeletons are the same). Gin Philips’s novel, Come in and Cover Me, which I’ve reviewed over at Ploughshares, takes on archaeology from a different angle, one admittedly more mature and emotionally nuanced than my juvenile forays into the field, and with some humor along the way.

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