My 1st Pot

Most of my interest in my adult lift can be traced back to events from my childhood. What leaves an impression that last and what passes away simply forgotten is as much serendipity as it is planning.

As a child I presented somewhat of a conundrum to my parents. My Mom, Dad and Brother were all athletic and interested in sports. I was not. My parents both coached sports – I considered attendance to a game something akin to punishment. I have checked I wasn’t adopted.

I think presents for me were hard for my family. I didn’t want balls or sports equipment or just about anything they would find interest in. However, I did like to make things. I didn’t really care what. Give me some scissors, tape, glue and an old newspaper and I would busy myself for hours. I became a pro with tape and glue which in my childhood I used to put back together much of the house that my brother and I destroyed– but that is another story.

The Christmas I was in the 2nd grade my parents gave me a pottery wheel. It was a child’s pottery wheel that was battery powered and to be honest it wasn’t worth crap. It looked functional but it was woefully underpowered. It must have been some company’s idea of a joke as the box was adored with pottery that no one could have ever produced on the crap wheel. However, I didn’t know that at the time.

So, on Christmas morning I began my work at the wheel. I carefully read the instructions and tried to mimic the hand positions that they gave. I setup shop in the garage, covered the work area in newspaper (see how multipurpose this stuff is) got a small bucket of water and I began to make blobs. Shapeless squashed blobs that couldn’t really take shape as the small motor would grind to a halt once I put any pressure on the clay. So, I had to mostly shape the poor blobs with my hands. There was no way to fire the clay – so I put my pitiful creations out in the sun. I then hand painted my creations with the small containers of paint that came with the wheel. They were hideous. In the end I had three “bowls”. One I gave to my parents – heck it could be an ashtray if it was pushed into service. I never saw it again after the giving. I like to believe they had a quiet funeral service for it. One I kept – I guess as a reminder to never use that stupid pottery wheel again – and the best one I gave to my first girlfriend – Laura Bradley. Laura smashed my gift into the sidewalk and laughed at it. I remember where Laura used to live, I guess I could always go ask her parents if she still regrets her rejection of my early art.