Me: "Who has the best seat in the house, me or daddy?"

Adam: "Well, Daddy's is nice, but yours is best. Your's is squishier."

Monday, July 13, 2020

Weekend Away - Act III




It wouldn’t seem our day could have gotten any better, but the sun hadn’t set yet, and we were going to drink in the last few hours that were left to us, right down to the bottom of the hourglass. We had seen a website for a pottery (the studio, not the vessel), and decided we would try to find it.  Well, of course you know that for me, that was already something special, but an hour later, it had become almost otherworldly.


The Quyle Kilns Pottery sat on a shady hilltop surrounded by gardens, lush maples and tall pines. After talking shop with owner Pamela for a while, I guess we proved we were part of the clay clan inner circle, because soon we were whisked away on a tour of the entire enterprise, built of brick and native stone over 80 years ago by her grandfather as barns and stables, then passed on to her parents who turned it into a pottery. 


For decades the family has mined granite runoff in the Sierras, mixing it in giant vats, pushing it through an ancient and enormous filtering press, then on to the pug mill and extruder, to be bagged into ready-to-use clay.  Just that morning, as every morning, the 80 year old fellow that has worked there since Pamela was a girl, hand shoveled 4,000 pounds of clay dust into the vat to begin his work day.  Pallets of bagged clay, the fruits of his efforts in vivo, rested before their journey to faraway stores where simpletons like me will casually buy them, never knowing of the skill, labor and pure history used to create them.



Talking so fast we could barely keep up, Pamela took us through her glaze mixing room, built into what has one been horse stalls, it’s cool stone walls splashed with faded, unfired glazes. She flipping casually through her handwritten glaze recipe book in front of shelves laden with huge colorant-filled antique butter crocks marked by labels like “cobalt oxide” and “copper carbonate”.  This felt like the vault of family secrets.






Next, she wandered us through the throwing studio, the hand building areas and past walk-in kilns and dozens of racks of pottery in various stages of new existence.  We were then led on to the casting room, it’s shelves balanced high with plaster molds.  A light layer of white clay dust rested on most everything, the sign of a well used but mostly tidy studio.  






Eventually, we stepped out into the courtyard and then snaked back through a side door to what I could now see was the heart of the pottery. It’s walls hung with old posters of past shows, uplifting quotes, cartoon strips and artist cards from ceramics festivals gone by. I told Guy that every pottery I have ever been in has had a wall like that.  Now Pamela and I were like old friends, exchanging banter freely, as though I was standing in this room for the hundredth time.



Back in the gallery, Guy and I easily agreed on a Naked Raku style pot to bring home, and I asked for a bag of that precious clay.  As we said goodbye, I felt deep appreciation and simultaneous shame.  I bought my first bag of clay when I was 14, and have bought scads of them since, never once considering the people and the work that went into making them for me; the eighty year old man shoveling clay dust at 6 am.  I’d just grab a bag off the shelf, throw it into the van, open it, use it, and claim the results as my own, as though it was all my effort alone.  These folks are the orchestra behind the opera, the toiling farmer for the acclaimed chef (not that I am or ever hope to be the caliber of opera or chef, of course, but now you understand). I was humbled. 



“I am ashamed that I have been taking my clay for granted all these years, never thinking about the people behind it,” I said, suddenly misty eyed. “I’ll never do it again. It will be an honor to use this clay, and I hope I’ll do it justice.”




"We are like dwarfs sitting on the shoulders of giants. We see more, and things that are more distant, than they did, not because our sight is superior or because we are taller than they, but because they raise us up, and by their great stature add to ours."


12th century theologian and author John of Salisbury

A Weekend Away - Act II



During Day Two of our splendid “Pretend-we-are-empty-nesters-even-though-we-have-a-seven-year-old” weekend away, we tootled around (which my spellcheck does not recognize as: "verb; the act of cheerful and mindless wandering, sampling of ice cream from 150 year old mercantiles, and reading of ALL novelty mugs, with complete disregard to schedules, time constraints or dinner times".  Whatever, Spellcheck).  We had the novel experience of finding a dish in an antique shop that was 1. Not "one my grandma had", 2. Not "one my mom had', but, 3. "One we got for our wedding"... and still use.  Big ol' bite of reality sandwich with that one.  Our dishes are getting old.

We talked and teased and held hands, bought ridiculously over-priced toffee, and remembered why we thought it might be swell to spend our lives together. Kids have a way of beating all of that out of ya', what with their constant need of love and guidance, clothing and shelter, and something to eat besides Fruit Loops. I don't care how often I delude myself into thinking that we haven't been wedged apart a little by life, all it takes is one night away for me to see that we have. It's good to floss your marriage once in a while. We did what any married couple of 25 years would do when they are at last alone at an Inn... nap. Before dinner. There is the possibility that other shenanigans were had, but I can neither confirm, nor deny the rumors. The rumors that I just started. Shhhh.


On our last morning, Guy and I planned for breakfast in a quirky cafe off of the touristy main street in old town, that was covid-style-packed with locals, cow print, and a funny old hostess who called herself Cha Cha (who talked to me in Spanish using curse words I didn't understand... 'cuz missionaries don't tend to learn curse words).  While we waited for a table, we chatted with a couple across the foyer, whose company we enjoyed so well that when our table was ready, and because the wait was so long, we invited to join us (it’s okay.  It’s been 14 days and we didn’t die).  We talked all through ordering, waiting and eating, shared stories of hard times, pictures of our kids at arm's length, and the best food I never should have eaten (you know, Hashimoto's.  Bleh.  It gave me hives).  We parted with warm and simple goodbyes.

I often wonder how many lovely friends I am missing out on because life is short and I don't live in Scarsdale or Toledo or Tanzania, and also, may or may not speak Swahili. But mostly not.



In the last few hours before we headed home, we wandered the old roads looking for "something special", and found it at the edge of a well loved neighborhood, marked by a simple hand painted sign that read Bonsai Nursery.  The "Wife of the Gardener" as she called herself, Anne, was such a gentle soul.  We strolled her back yard-turned-gallery (for truly, bonsai is an art), and admired the 70 or so magical little (and some, surprisingly, big) trees, each as carefully tended and shaped as the one beside it.  She spoke with such kindness, and we visited about faith and integrity and parenting and hard work.  She openly shared tree-wisdom, something I have found that confident artists do freely, revealing the secret for growing moss, bonsai and succulents happily all in the same pot without a grain of soil.  To my comment on their dedication to their craft, she replied that most of their trees were young-ish, "only ten years old or so", and pointed out the 75 year old tree that stood regally among it's mates. Her husband was it's steward, not it's owner, she explained. It had come to him, and if he did his job well, someday it would move on to another. Hmmm. Has a nice ring to it.


We brought home two gorgeous potted plants for just $5 each (I am not ready for bonsai trees in my life again yet, as they are sweetly needy), and left her waving gracious thank yous at the gate.  It had indeed been "something special".


I always leave the presence of Life Masters feeling a bit changed. A little lost for a moment, at having to walk away from all of that wisdom and life experience, a pilgrim on the return descent from the holy mountain, cup not quite full enough. But then I feel invigorated knowing that amidst the uncertainty and chaos of this life, there are wise ones and sages hidden on quiet lanes, disguised as the Wives of Gardeners.



Continued in Act III



Sunday, July 5, 2020

A Weekend Away, in Three Acts.



Technology.  Beautiful, terrible technology.  It's the thing that allows us to have 6,000 photos on our phones (for better AND for worse).

The internet, like a great cosmic dryer sucking up single socks, never to be seen again, has just dumped a post that really mattered to me.  One that was history- and tear-filled.  I wept right out in public while writing it, but told myself it didn't matter; it had to be written, tears or not.

*publish*

.... nothing.

*blank page*

I will try again. But not now.  Now I will tell you about now, and try again soon to write that dear, tender post.

*******


Act I

We have reached a magical age, my sweetie and me; the age when our kids only kinda-sorta need us, and we can sneak away for a night or two and return to mostly intact children (although Jonah's self-mashed toe was bandaged and Tessa now knows that cooking oil is flammable).  Guy's new job as a principal for Sacramento County Office of Education started last week, so before he embarked on this very intense adventure, we stole away for a weekend ALONE.

Not far.  Ellie doesn't have her licence yet (thanks Covid, they’re not even making appointments at the DMV), so we stayed within an hour's drive of home.  In these hills of "Gold Country" are tucked many tiny towns all staking a claim, pun much intended, on the Gold Rush.  "Birth Place" of this and "Gateway" to that, and all.  The towns are mostly cute and somewhat run down, with boutiques and bistros tucked in amongst old hotels and DOZENS of antique stores.  We strolled past manor homes with historical landmark signs out side, and hair salons and notary offices inside, humoring over the modern attempts at mending 200 year old brick walls and wooden window frames with Gorilla Glue and duct tape.

I don't know that there was anything particularly unique about this venture, except for us.  We are different these days.  We recognize and appreciate this little lull in our typical chaos, but we are battening down the hatches.  I don't know that anything specific is coming, but something always does.  In February, just before the universe spiraled out of control for everyone else, we were hustling back and forth to a hospital in Sacramento for my dad, who had a heart attack, a bleeding ulcer, plummeting blood sugars, bladder issues and pneumonia, all at once.  He's doing better these days, but there will be hard times to come.  That's just how mortality works.

And Guy's new job is a bit of a wild card.  Who knows what the school year will look like with Covid in the mix.  His hours will be longer, days off fewer, and stresses much, much greater.  Add to that Chex-Mix of life our six kids and you have predictable unpredictability. The summer days are warm, but like an old mariner, I feel storms coming. 

My mom would say, "Don't borrow trouble".  That was her way of cautioning that we not worry before we know what we have to worry about.  And truly, I'm not worried.  I've just been in enough antique stores to know that I'll see Carnival Glass, dusty smelling furniture and old lace doilies in the next one, same as the last. 



Continued in Act II