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graduate archaeology program at a very large institution that I will hereafter refer to as Big University.
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    F ROM THE VERY BEGINNING, it was clear that my new graduate school would require some major adjustment. The campus was huge, and I was just one of thirty thousand students, about ten times more than my previous university. PLU had spoiled me. When I was an undergraduate, each of my professors knew me by name and was genuinely concerned about my academic progress and personal welfare. At the new school, I felt like just another face in the crowd, another herring in the ocean, a number just like the one I was issued.
    My first quarter at Big University was like taking a plunge off a high board into unfamiliar and deep waters. There were two required classes that were seemingly designed to flush out the less-than-serious student. The first class dealt with archaeological theory. Behind the shovels, pots, and other physical manifestations of the archaeological practice, there is a level of abstraction that provides a theoretical framework for the organization and interpretation of the work. That particular class was taught by a quirky and eccentric archaeological version of Professor Kingsfield, the arrogant trainer of law students in the book, movie, and TV series The Paper Chase . Like Kingsfield, this professor was intent upon training our mush-filled heads into ones that could think critically.
    Our massive reading list for the course consisted of 147 articles and books to be read and, more important, comprehended. During our first meeting, class was immediately dismissed for a weekso that we could prepare with twenty-one of these readings, five of which were complete books. Needless to say, we left class that day in shock as we scrambled to the library. Even four years of undergraduate study had not prepared us for this level of intensity, but the only option was to get used to it and get used to it quickly.
    Despite his numerous intimidating eccentricities, our theory professor was absolutely brilliant. The required courses taught by this pedagogue from Hades involved the critical examination of major theoretical issues in archaeology, including classification (how does one organize what is found?) and explanation (how does one interpret what is found?). Quotes scribbled in the margins of my notes from his classes retain the flavor of the experience. Classification, for example, is necessary for order in this world so “you can tell your grandmother from your dog” and so that “you can tell a round red rubber ball from an apple, the consequences of a mistake being gastric distress.”
    The professor also maintained a highly critical view of the study of the human past. “We’re no worse off than alchemy!” he would declare after enlightening us with the hidden foolhardiness of the very subject we were devoted to studying. Very importantly, though, he urged us to develop the ability to analyze the theories, books, and journals in the field critically no matter how prestigious the author or pompous the prose. He insisted that we not be afraid to call a spade a spade (no archaeological pun intended). “Free yourself from the tyranny of the written word!” he would orate. “Don’t be afraid to say, ‘This is crap!’” In some of his classes, we were assigned a cutting-edge scientific article and asked to deconstruct it to reveal its basic theoretical flaws. The process was certainly surprising, as we discovered that a lot of what initially impressed us as quality archaeological methodology really was defective (and some of it still is!). In short, he taught us to think in new and differentways, something that might come in handy, for instance, in finding such things as lost Egyptian tombs.
    Another class to be taken by new students during our first quarter was on the subject of “paleoenvironmental reconstruction,” in which we were to study how to make