Monday, October 7, 2013

It Starts With a Wheel

It starts with a wheel

It may not be pretty.  It certainly isn’t new but it’s mine.  Color me ecstatic!

Two years ago I threw my first pot and alas the clay bug got it’s teeth in me.  I say alas for I had no financial means of carrying on.  For two years I have yearned to get my hands back into that glorious wet clay. 

After what seems to me as a very long wait, I finally have my first pottery wheel.  Nay, I have my first pottery studio.  Courtesy of my dad.   It was while on a trip together a couple of weeks ago that I had mentioned to him of my dream of getting a pottery wheel.   A quiet man he didn’t say much at the time but began looking out for one for me and he decided that there was no point in getting a wheel without getting a kiln too.

When he first brought it up to me, I sort of brushed him off.  After all that’s not why I mentioned it to him.  He certainly has his hands full coping with the loss of my mother and getting his financial situation straightened out. 

A proud man, my father, he does not let go easily.  When you have a strong, quiet and proud man for a father, it is very difficult to argue with him.  To refuse him on the basis of money would be to wound his pride and give offence. 

My brother helped my dad find a lady who was selling off her equipment.  She’s retired and no longer fully able to sit at a wheel.  The day before my birthday my dad lures me down for a visit because he wants to show me something.  Of course, I had an inkling of what he was up to but I went along with it anyway. After all, I really did want a wheel and part of me was urging my practical part of me to accept the gift. 

 When I met with  she told me that I reminded her a bit of herself.  That when her father died her mother had given her the money to buy a wheel and get started.  Of course, her story resonated with me but I couldn’t tell her a word of my own particular story as my dad was right there and I knew he’d rather not talk about my mother’s death to these strangers.

That is until the day we picked up the equipment.  The lady told me that she was so glad I was getting her stuff.  She was giving it up with a pang but felt that it was going to the right home and hoped that the story of how she came to acquire her pottery stuff meant something to me.  In a quick moment as my dad left for his own vehicle, I was able to share with her just how much her story did mean to me. 

With tears in her eyes she pulled me into a quick hug. My last vision of her as we pulled out of the driveway was of her waving us off through the rain.  

Nothing was more satisfying when I finally got my own little home in order long enough to slip out to the garage to sit at my wheel.  

Now I simply have to wait for the clay to arrive so I can begin. 

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