Driving North Into Kansas

Sandra, a fellow teacher and friend of mine lost her mom last year to a heart attack. It was a sudden tragedy, one for which the family was not prepared...but then we never are.
Jeanie was an artist, whose life in a small college town included helping the students in her clay studio. Every year they made dozens of clay projects--dishes, dolls, canisters, baskets, and ceramic statues. These were then sold at a yearly auction to benefit the college.




Yesterday, Claye and I took a trip to Kansas to purchase some of the glazes. Our trip up there and back took all day, but the weather was pleasant. We saw a tidal wave of dark clouds approaching from the east, and were soon overtaken by gentle rains.

Arriving somewhat later than we had planned, due to my hasty decision to trust the GPS over the map, we made a call and were led to a garage-shaped building on a grassy lot.
We met Sandra's father, the builder of the shop, an industrious man, who was kind enough to show us around and fit us into his work schedule for the day. The shop had been sold, but everything in it still needed to be moved into storage or bought by people like us.

We were particularly interested in the glazes, because they are expensive to buy new, and Claye uses them in her studio. There were so many of them, we hardly knew where to begin. While we selected and loaded plastic tubs full of glazes, the rain settled down to a misty drizzle. Outside, the quiet little town nodded steadily. Students popped in and out of the studio occasionally, making sure we weren't a couple of pottery thieves. We could tell they missed their mentor and felt protective of her little shop.

It took about three hours, but we got the car loaded and called the owner. He was back in a couple of seconds, between jobs and smiling, despite the sadness this task must have cost him. How do you part with the things---all the little things that gave pleasure to the one you loved? How do you let strangers carry it off without sending a little of you with every jar?

"She was happy here," he told us. "Working away for hours with clay, painting and spinning and firing." He looked around the shop. "It was usually busy here, too. Students coming and going. She had a gift. Our daughter has it too, you know, and our grandson. He can spin pots and work with all this."

"I'm not much of an artist, but I built this place for her. It's got everything she needed."
We could tell how much he had loved her by the pride in his voice and the obvious labor he had invested. There was a kiln room, spinning area, office, bathroom, painting table, and shelves everywhere. They were all full.

Claye and I showed him the buckets full of glaze and the clay tools we had chosen. I offered him as much as I knew we could afford, hoping he wouldn't think it too little.
He looked serious. I thought, "Maybe I should  offer more. Even if some of the glazes are ruined, the ones that work will be worth it, and I can manage."

Then he smiled, "If you would write that check for half the amount you offered, it would make me happy. I think Jeanie would have wanted you to have the glazes. She would be glad that they are going to good use. And the shelf you need to store them, I'll throw that  in for free."

Sometimes a thank-you isn't enough.
I was overcome with gratitude.



Here was a man with cause to be bitter, to be self-absorbed in sorrow, loathe to part with shreds of memories. But he smiled. He carried on. Courageous, that's what he was, and pleasant on a stormy, rainy day.










On the way home, I took a picture of this little tree, just standing, feet planted into the green, bathed in daylight...a daylight that finally comes after the dark cloud has passed. It reminded me of the gracious gentleman we had just left, standing in the door of his little shop with misty, new sunbeams on his bowed head.

Pumpkin Festival in a Small Oklahoma Town

 I just put in a very full Saturday at the Pumpkin Festival listening to the  incessant chirruping of these maddening little creatures, since their stand was next to ours. As senior sponsor, I supervised a booth dedicated to the sale of schenetka and pumpkin rolls. That is to say, I helped set up, then spent most of my time running errands until time to take the booths down and clean up.

We sold over seventy dozen schenetka and I have no idea how many pumpkin rolls.  Everybody seemed to have lots of mad money to spend.




They bought food and souvenirs--even totally useless ones like little bags of red Oklahoma dirt, which was sold by the chamber of commerce for a dollar, rendering  a great return. (Because of the drought, dirt is more abundant than ever this year, and tiny snack bags don't cost much.)

 Claye was asked to run a demonstrator booth, showing people how to spin pots and letting them try it. This was a good idea for her, as well, because she needs students, and this was a way to advertise. Turtle was there to field questions from parents, while the children enjoyed playing in the clay.

One little girl was particularly interested. She seemed oblivious to the crowds around, relishing the feel of the clay beneath her hands with a kind of intense blissfulness.

All morning, strange people strode fearlessly about the courthouse square.  Everybody seemed to be sporting something unique--face paint, ponytails, pet dogs awaiting the dog show, children dressed for the parade, or even unusual tattoos.

Of course there was a parade, hailed by the mighty sirens of two firetrucks and a police car. Important people in the community were given a ride aloft, from whence they could hurl candy to their proud fans.  There seemed to have been no entry requirements. The high school band marched proudly, trying to drown out the "righteous riders" a motorcycle "gang" who laughed as they reved rebellious-sounding engines; parents carried children in costumes, people walked their dogs proudly by like floats--full of fluff and bark. 
There were old cars, decorated wagons, unicycles and even a tractor or two. Yes, that's Fred driving this beautiful John Deere green one.

There's nothing quite like proud sounding trumpets on a clear, cool morning.

And it's a good thing this horse didn't come by until later, because those trumpeters would not have been able to watch their steps.

Even the town mayor participated, singing for a couple of hours-- country songs, newly-composed ballads, and old hippie songs revived and sung with completely intelligible lyrics.

It was a kid-friendly place. Lots of them rode the barrel train or threw frisbees out on the courthouse lawn.

And there were toys for older folks too...old cars they remembered driving, way back when cars were a new invention. There was a stunt-driver, who drove his four-wheeler up a ramp and did stunts in the air, high above the cheering crowds.

My own students did an especially fine job, selling the schenetka and representing our school with smiles and lots of lively conversation with customers. I didn't have to sit and supervise--a job I loathe--but was able to dash madly too and fro like an uncharacteristically substantial humming bird who flits more than she flutters.

I saw several children of former students. Here's Sunshine and Stormy who have switched characters since I last wrote about them. Sunshine refused to give me a hug, so Stormy gave me two.

As the day wore on, I saw many revelers growing quiet and seeking quiet bubbles amid the crowd.

This little girl waved at me from her elegant perch on the courthouse porch.

The weather was perfect, the atmosphere benign and peaceful, but I'm exhausted and still recovering from the raucously continuous chirruping of those perky little parakeets.

Young Warrior

My daughter Claye* has finished another sculpture, model of a fellow student in her clay class. Now he has to dry for a few weeks and then go to the kiln to be baked--hopefully not to explode.
I persuaded her to take a lot of pictures in case he does. The fellow art student who posed for this one really likes that she put him in chain mail, which looks "really cool" and he appreciates lions and includes them in much of his art, so the neck-medallion is a nod to that. Right now, the clay is wet, so the white texture lines stand out. Eventually, they won't. The drying has to happen at just the right intervals--inside and outside taking turns, so, it has to be wrapped in plastic, then paper for several turns until it is dry enough to fire. It could take a long time.


*Well, that's what I call her online.

Bessie's Turn

I couldn't get this video to post with the others; maybe too much in one post, so here it is.