tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86999092454813738412024-03-12T19:19:57.172-07:00Elk Falls PotteryUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8699909245481373841.post-6927908153844800882010-05-02T22:03:00.000-07:002010-05-03T11:28:23.719-07:00Memories of Westville - Conclusion<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94nOEsa77I/AAAAAAAAANw/5sXmydednfI/s1600/fred,dx.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 313px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94nOEsa77I/AAAAAAAAANw/5sXmydednfI/s400/fred,dx.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466850120406069170" border="0" /></a> DX (Dorris Xerxes) Gordy and Fred Fussell<br /><br />I have many memories of the people – Fred Fussell, the Crafts Director and his wife Cathy introduced us to soul food (collard greens were great when prepared with enough grease from the pork fat, but just say "no" to the rutabagas!) We also used to laugh at each other's accents (although WE didn't have any!) Fred and Cathy were the resident historians and Cathy led many a school group through the village, answering a million questions, I'm sure. We became good friends and they are the only folks we still have any contact with. Hi Fred and Cathy!<br /><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94gSHvN04I/AAAAAAAAANA/9T6xQhgK7Gc/s1600/Richardkid.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 298px; height: 180px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94gSHvN04I/AAAAAAAAANA/9T6xQhgK7Gc/s400/Richardkid.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466842493361181570" border="0" /></a>Richard Fox was the young long-haired shoe maker who made us both a pair of shoes. He and his wife, Carmen, once woke us up in the middle of the night so we could see a few snow flurries, a rarity in those parts – we Kansans were not impressed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94gRtdWTkI/AAAAAAAAAMw/hAZ74A0eec0/s1600/Richard+ShoeShop.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 182px; height: 216px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94gRtdWTkI/AAAAAAAAAMw/hAZ74A0eec0/s400/Richard+ShoeShop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466842486306917954" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94gRnnK_GI/AAAAAAAAAM4/ZqlIk-kDgHU/s1600/Richard.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 196px; height: 216px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94gRnnK_GI/AAAAAAAAAM4/ZqlIk-kDgHU/s400/Richard.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466842484737506402" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94gRTeXjjI/AAAAAAAAAMo/XqczfB9dX4I/s1600/Richard+fire.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 176px; height: 216px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94gRTeXjjI/AAAAAAAAAMo/XqczfB9dX4I/s400/Richard+fire.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466842479331872306" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Mr. Blankenship was the resident wookworker and at one point, Dr. Mahan decided I needed to go work with him to learn the cooper's art. While I hated to leave the pottery, I did enjoy learning to make buckets and tubs of cedar. Before returning to the pottery, I actually made several (nearly) water tight containers.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94iLJba78I/AAAAAAAAANQ/o5lYHVlbgb8/s1600/Steve+cooper.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 325px; height: 216px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94iLJba78I/AAAAAAAAANQ/o5lYHVlbgb8/s400/Steve+cooper.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466844572579196866" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94iLDySCZI/AAAAAAAAANI/PyC16_3BMHc/s1600/Cooper3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 305px; height: 216px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94iLDySCZI/AAAAAAAAANI/PyC16_3BMHc/s400/Cooper3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466844571064469906" border="0" /></a><br />Mr. Blankenship was also responsible for a hobby I've practiced for 35 years now. He made my first mountain dulcimer. I had never seen or heard a dulcimer before going to Georgia, but was intrigued by their sweet, simple tone.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S95VysyDSGI/AAAAAAAAAP0/o2QUska1Fns/s1600/dulcimerplayer.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 190px; height: 216px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S95VysyDSGI/AAAAAAAAAP0/o2QUska1Fns/s400/dulcimerplayer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466901327177271394" border="0" /></a><br />One afternoon, I was walking up the hill to the parking lot after work and Mr. B, driving by in his pickup, asked me if I wanted a lift. As I opened the door to climb in, he moved a short 2x6 over to make room. “I'm going to make a dulcimer out of this,” he said, “it's poplar wood, but see that dark purple streak in the grain? Thought it would be pretty.” The next time I saw him, he showed me a beautiful instrument, a large hour glass shaped, traditional 3 string dulcimer. He had carved the sound holes and whittled the tuning pegs with his pocket knife. And yes, streaked through the back was that dark purple grain. I didn't know anything about playing it, but I ended up buying it from him. We drove to his house and he gave me a little demonstration on playing it. I'm still playing, although I have at least 5 dulcimers now. Mr. Blankenship's slightly crude model, now retired, hangs proudly on the wall.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S9fCYc1LdMI/AAAAAAAAAMI/8V8Xun7owLQ/s1600/fred,john,oliver,bernell.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S9fCYc1LdMI/AAAAAAAAAMI/8V8Xun7owLQ/s400/fred,john,oliver,bernell.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465050398149276866" border="0" /></a>The locals added a lot of color (no pun intended)! Oliver Powell , Idus Freeman, and Johnny Hudson were general farm hands and maintenance workers, as I recall. The old school bus-turned-flatbed was very out of character in the 1850 village, but early mornings or after hours they could often be seen groaning up a hill with an arm load of firewood or other cargo in tow.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94o_vULweI/AAAAAAAAAOY/WBqq-Z1cIiU/s1600/Oliver+bus.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 313px; height: 216px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94o_vULweI/AAAAAAAAAOY/WBqq-Z1cIiU/s400/Oliver+bus.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466852073172353506" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94o_Lki2QI/AAAAAAAAAOI/ClXKecqbwS0/s1600/JohnHudson.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 216px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94o_Lki2QI/AAAAAAAAAOI/ClXKecqbwS0/s400/JohnHudson.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466852063577299202" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94o-ybGDCI/AAAAAAAAAOA/6fKsvKxOMTY/s1600/Johndipping.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 216px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94o-ybGDCI/AAAAAAAAAOA/6fKsvKxOMTY/s400/Johndipping.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466852056826776610" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94o-twUnEI/AAAAAAAAAN4/aK0lI_r4pUE/s1600/John+and+Oliver.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 202px; height: 216px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94o-twUnEI/AAAAAAAAAN4/aK0lI_r4pUE/s400/John+and+Oliver.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466852055573634114" border="0" /></a><br />The blacksmith shop was one of my favorite places. Dude Redding was the short blacksmith. He had forearms of sinewy steel.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94ksVJpk8I/AAAAAAAAANY/e-AdfMBCQgs/s1600/dude.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94ksVJpk8I/AAAAAAAAANY/e-AdfMBCQgs/s400/dude.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466847341684822978" border="0" /></a>He always had a tin can of boiled (pronounced “balled”) peanuts sitting by the forge. The water turned black from the soot on his fingers. Gross. He was hard to understand, but we discovered when Jane went down to have him make some curtain rods for her house that he couldn't understand her either! I acted as interpreter for that interaction. Jane and I eventually learned a little blacksmithing ourselves – we still use a fire poker Jane made which had two hammer welds! (Impressive, no?) And I forged the metal parts of the potter's wheel I still use. I can still smell the hot iron and coal.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">There was also a young man who started working in the blacksmith shop while we were there. His name was Fred Rembert. We became friends with Fred and when Jane's sister visited Westville in 2007, Fred was still working there and was the only person who remembered us!</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94nNRGe8JI/AAAAAAAAANg/_D870smP8Wc/s1600/fredrembert.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94nNRGe8JI/AAAAAAAAANg/_D870smP8Wc/s400/fredrembert.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466850106556739730" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94nN78SNxI/AAAAAAAAANo/0yyx_jS8qSg/s1600/fredr.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94nN78SNxI/AAAAAAAAANo/0yyx_jS8qSg/s400/fredr.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466850118056687378" border="0" /></a>We bought several white oak baskets from Gus Daniel the basket maker, who actually still made baskets for a living when he wasn't working at Westville. They are very large and extremely sturdy baskets once used to haul cotton. Lucius Robinson also made baskets.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Viola Walker, Bernell Randall and Mary Eva Ward worked in the farmhouse kitchen cooking gingerbread, collards and other delicious southern fare and were always quick to share. Mary Eva also worked at the McDonald House when Jane had off. Here Mary Eva is pictured with our Texas friend, Gary Craig Hart.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94o_bGTcPI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/LvmuvcrrOmA/s1600/MaryEvaGary.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 216px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94o_bGTcPI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/LvmuvcrrOmA/s400/MaryEvaGary.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466852067745427698" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">At one point, DX and I were given the task of training two young calves to pull an ox cart. DX made a small double yoke and started teaching them to work together and follow voice commands.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94quaUzFgI/AAAAAAAAAOg/ZpCleV9XSeY/s1600/Buck+and+Ball+training.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 315px; height: 216px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94quaUzFgI/AAAAAAAAAOg/ZpCleV9XSeY/s400/Buck+and+Ball+training.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466853974503265794" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94qui-ufDI/AAAAAAAAAOo/jVgYSA8NaDo/s1600/trainingyoke.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 298px; height: 216px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94qui-ufDI/AAAAAAAAAOo/jVgYSA8NaDo/s400/trainingyoke.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466853976826608690" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Eventually, I actually got them to pull me around in a little two wheeled cart. Great fun! Here I'm giving my younger brother, Brian a ride with our dog LP. I see one of the puppies wanted to go too.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94qvPF-myI/AAAAAAAAAO4/QFxeQb6i7vg/s1600/CartBrianSteve.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 315px; height: 216px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94qvPF-myI/AAAAAAAAAO4/QFxeQb6i7vg/s400/CartBrianSteve.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466853988668185378" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94qu8o3VEI/AAAAAAAAAOw/_M5UjUI26ns/s1600/Cart+SteveBrian.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 325px; height: 216px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94qu8o3VEI/AAAAAAAAAOw/_M5UjUI26ns/s400/Cart+SteveBrian.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466853983714235458" border="0" /></a>We even hooked them up to the pugmill once to see how they would do. I think we went back to the mule!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94qvRCR95I/AAAAAAAAAPA/HnrgxYcRoZM/s1600/BuckBallpugmill.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 325px; height: 216px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S94qvRCR95I/AAAAAAAAAPA/HnrgxYcRoZM/s400/BuckBallpugmill.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466853989189547922" border="0" /></a><br />During one of the festivals, feeling rather confident, I decided to take them down the road to the "camp meeting" pavillion. Buck and Ball had other ideas and decided to run back to the farmhouse despite my "impassioned" commands. All I could do was hang on! I was embarrassed by the insubordination in front of so many people and all three of us were glad when that day was over.</p><br />Our experiences at Westville are fondly etched in our memories. We learned to love history and especially to appreciate early American stoneware. Many evidences of that appreciation can be seen in our work today, some 35 years later. DX Gordy was an inspiration and a treasure. I'm honored to have known him and to have the opportunity to learn from him. Though short in duration, from 1974 through 1975, our time at Westville, GA was a major influence in our personal and professional lives.<p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S95NcMmTUQI/AAAAAAAAAPY/e_pmO3DtxuY/s1600/dx,jane,steve.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S95NcMmTUQI/AAAAAAAAAPY/e_pmO3DtxuY/s400/dx,jane,steve.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466892144487911682" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S95Nb-0sldI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/QyGaYicj7VQ/s1600/JaneLP.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 192px; height: 216px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S95Nb-0sldI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/QyGaYicj7VQ/s400/JaneLP.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466892140790191570" border="0" /></a>A rare shot of Jane on the potter's wheel! She never cared for the treadle wheels.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S95Nb97bO3I/AAAAAAAAAPI/yVpXL5pOZ1U/s1600/Jane+throwing.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 325px; height: 216px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S95Nb97bO3I/AAAAAAAAAPI/yVpXL5pOZ1U/s400/Jane+throwing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466892140549978994" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S95Nc4fiPzI/AAAAAAAAAPg/QJiildecckU/s1600/steve,dx.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S95Nc4fiPzI/AAAAAAAAAPg/QJiildecckU/s400/steve,dx.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466892156270690098" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S95VyzEfgMI/AAAAAAAAAP8/cxMlFCqmoEk/s1600/stevejanefire.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 325px; height: 216px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S95VyzEfgMI/AAAAAAAAAP8/cxMlFCqmoEk/s400/stevejanefire.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466901328865231042" border="0" /></a>I hope you've enjoyed this walk down the primrose path. Smell the sweet honeysuckle and listen to the lonesome whip-poor-wills ...</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S95NdKzNUkI/AAAAAAAAAPo/MIpB8Bac2k0/s1600/farmhouse.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 290px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S95NdKzNUkI/AAAAAAAAAPo/MIpB8Bac2k0/s400/farmhouse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466892161185043010" border="0" /></a><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8699909245481373841.post-25820979232021737672010-02-09T19:36:00.000-08:002010-03-12T21:58:26.900-08:00Memories of Westville - Pt.3<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S4scWmeEfbI/AAAAAAAAAI0/u9lUG2euYyk/s1600-h/farmhouse.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 290px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S4scWmeEfbI/AAAAAAAAAI0/u9lUG2euYyk/s400/farmhouse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443475749216746930" border="0" /></a><br />After several naïve experiences of renting a house, not having enough money for all the deposits, meeting the crafts director of Westville who knew nothing of me coming, I finally made it to my first day of work. Westville was much different during daylight hours when it was actually open to the public. A large part of my job was to demonstrate pottery making, 1850 style, to a steady stream of visitors. We dressed in period costume, but fortunately did not have to role play the part as well. I was petrified with the thought of having to try to throw on those awkward wheels, balanced on one foot and trying to act calm and in control while groups of people stood around watching and asking questions! I went down to the village after hours to practice before that first day! The magic was wearing off, and it didn't really help when I later found out that D.X. hadn't seen anything especially “promising in me” - he just needed a willing body. Not that he didn't care that I had an interest in pottery, he just said he could teach me whatever I didn't yet know. Kinda burst that bubble...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S4sc8LkDSjI/AAAAAAAAAI8/mEoazWXCz3Q/s1600-h/stevestanding.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S4sc8LkDSjI/AAAAAAAAAI8/mEoazWXCz3Q/s400/stevestanding.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443476394829105714" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Eventually I became more comfortable working in front of people and actually started to enjoy it, except maybe for the constant stream of predictable questions. “Where do you get your clay?” “Do you know how the Indians used to do that?” “Does your leg get tired?” and my favorite “Why do you have to make the wheel go round?” Hmmm....<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S4sd8YUKfEI/AAAAAAAAAJE/fNa_J8azw8o/s1600-h/stevethrowing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S4sd8YUKfEI/AAAAAAAAAJE/fNa_J8azw8o/s400/stevethrowing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443477497763757122" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S4sd80omKoI/AAAAAAAAAJM/pY4Wd0LDQdM/s1600-h/stevejugbw.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S4sd80omKoI/AAAAAAAAAJM/pY4Wd0LDQdM/s400/stevejugbw.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443477505365650050" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The magic did return, as the sights, sounds and smells of 1850 filled our days. Of course it was still special after hours when everything was still and quiet. Jane got a job there, too, which doubled our income! She was down at the village every day anyway! She became hostess of the McDonald house, the village “mansion.” Besides giving tours of the house, her duties included spinning on a “walking wheel,” weaving, and cooking over an open hearth as well as the small wood burning cook stove, the latest convenience in 1850!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5M5DFn54TI/AAAAAAAAAJc/pNo1BuZSahY/s1600-h/McDonald+house.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 288px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5M5DFn54TI/AAAAAAAAAJc/pNo1BuZSahY/s400/McDonald+house.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445759099633000754" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5M5w7owXVI/AAAAAAAAAJk/z3rpvDCV5ho/s1600-h/Mc:stove.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5M5w7owXVI/AAAAAAAAAJk/z3rpvDCV5ho/s400/Mc:stove.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445759887226199378" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5M5xD8mxjI/AAAAAAAAAJs/RY9YJnsbIWI/s1600-h/Mc:gardens.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5M5xD8mxjI/AAAAAAAAAJs/RY9YJnsbIWI/s400/Mc:gardens.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445759889456940594" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5M5xbpDStI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/KsMNoQKi5v4/s1600-h/Jane:dishes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 296px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5M5xbpDStI/AAAAAAAAAJ0/KsMNoQKi5v4/s400/Jane:dishes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445759895817374418" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5M6uFY56WI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/0g4lLetUA5A/s1600-h/Jane:cupboard.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 287px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5M6uFY56WI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/0g4lLetUA5A/s400/Jane:cupboard.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445760937816090978" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5M6uLh6Q8I/AAAAAAAAAKE/3O6AL9r3jxM/s1600-h/Steve+McDonald.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 292px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5M6uLh6Q8I/AAAAAAAAAKE/3O6AL9r3jxM/s400/Steve+McDonald.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445760939464475586" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5M71IH14tI/AAAAAAAAAKM/AFh63vzvGCI/s1600-h/spinning+wheel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5M71IH14tI/AAAAAAAAAKM/AFh63vzvGCI/s400/spinning+wheel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445762158320542418" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5smSaPFl-I/AAAAAAAAAKk/5X45j6WtaX4/s1600-h/loom.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 281px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5smSaPFl-I/AAAAAAAAAKk/5X45j6WtaX4/s400/loom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447990271956850658" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Life in 1850 was great for this newly wed couple. We made some good friends, learned a lot, and generally enjoyed life in southwest Georgia. I picked DX's brain about pottery making, kiln and wheel building, and a multitude of other subjects. He was a wealth of knowledge and skill, but you had to coax it out of him. We spent hours talking while working in that candle-lit cabin, especially during the winter months when visitors were fewer. I slowly absorbed an appreciation for early American stoneware and the potter's life. DX worked with his father during the great depression when itinerant potters would travel from pottery to pottery and often had specialties, like jugs, or churns. He told me that during a time when common laborers made $1 a day, a good potter could make $3 and go fishing in the afternoon!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5NADUnYDSI/AAAAAAAAAKU/V21cmw4nGDo/s1600-h/Wedging.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 302px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5NADUnYDSI/AAAAAAAAAKU/V21cmw4nGDo/s400/Wedging.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445766800238710050" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5NADtBy1UI/AAAAAAAAAKc/2uIUIJKo4Ao/s1600-h/Mule.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 287px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5NADtBy1UI/AAAAAAAAAKc/2uIUIJKo4Ao/s400/Mule.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445766806791968066" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5smS-myj0I/AAAAAAAAAKs/yNpakKHp4jE/s1600-h/mule2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5smS-myj0I/AAAAAAAAAKs/yNpakKHp4jE/s400/mule2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447990281719942978" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5sndPqrDgI/AAAAAAAAALM/F0dvQxe36IA/s1600-h/throwing2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 272px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5sndPqrDgI/AAAAAAAAALM/F0dvQxe36IA/s400/throwing2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447991557609950722" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5snc1OESkI/AAAAAAAAALE/8HQDRSsxbP8/s1600-h/throwing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5snc1OESkI/AAAAAAAAALE/8HQDRSsxbP8/s400/throwing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447991550510647874" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5sm5kq6pKI/AAAAAAAAAK8/97od6KMj9_s/s1600-h/loading+kiln.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 280px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5sm5kq6pKI/AAAAAAAAAK8/97od6KMj9_s/s400/loading+kiln.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447990944772826274" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5sm5JyftxI/AAAAAAAAAK0/7jgnWPuY4i4/s1600-h/cat:kiln.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5sm5JyftxI/AAAAAAAAAK0/7jgnWPuY4i4/s400/cat:kiln.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447990937556858642" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5soBTJJ4NI/AAAAAAAAALc/n6BOxhCZeH0/s1600-h/DXinsidekiln.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 287px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5soBTJJ4NI/AAAAAAAAALc/n6BOxhCZeH0/s400/DXinsidekiln.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447992177018396882" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5soBGL0jYI/AAAAAAAAALU/ySqmRaOVvAI/s1600-h/inside+kiln.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5soBGL0jYI/AAAAAAAAALU/ySqmRaOVvAI/s400/inside+kiln.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447992173539921282" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5soBgWERJI/AAAAAAAAALk/jsbNkj4vGxo/s1600-h/unloading+kiln.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 282px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S5soBgWERJI/AAAAAAAAALk/jsbNkj4vGxo/s400/unloading+kiln.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447992180562216082" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8699909245481373841.post-73752316255349667042010-02-07T20:02:00.001-08:002010-02-09T18:44:50.901-08:00Memories of Westville - Pt. 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2-OWHaLaOI/AAAAAAAAAIg/f061LwFq8Co/s1600-h/potteryshop.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2-OWHaLaOI/AAAAAAAAAIg/f061LwFq8Co/s400/potteryshop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435719785856592098" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2-NzFgii3I/AAAAAAAAAIY/oaiCzzJHrM0/s1600-h/shop.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2-NzFgii3I/AAAAAAAAAIY/oaiCzzJHrM0/s400/shop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435719184050981746" border="0" /></a><br />Since we were simply “helping/observing,” we took our turns trying out the strange foot powered potter's wheels, which were unfamiliar and awkward to my inexperienced hands and feet. It was a step back in time, with no electricity, hand-hewn walls, and dirt floors. Nothing from the 1970s in sight, except for us, young time travelers in a potter's dream.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2-NRSM80-I/AAAAAAAAAIQ/Lhosr-AXLyE/s1600-h/stevethrowing3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2-NRSM80-I/AAAAAAAAAIQ/Lhosr-AXLyE/s400/stevethrowing3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435718603342926818" border="0" /></a><br />Sometime during the long night vigil, D.X. said his apprentice recently left and asked if I was interested in coming to work with him. What? Was he serious? Why? Had he seen something promising in me? He didn't even know me! Questions still spinning in my mind, I don't even remember what I said in reply. But I instinctively knew this was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. To work with such a knowledgeable and skilled potter with a lifetime of experience to share was almost too good to be true. And all in the simple, earthy, laid back atmosphere of this village from the past. Before leaving that next morning, we set a time for me to come back and talk to the director, as I would actually be an employee of the museum assigned to work in the pottery.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2-Or2usplI/AAAAAAAAAIo/M43e5nwlnZs/s1600-h/dx.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2-Or2usplI/AAAAAAAAAIo/M43e5nwlnZs/s400/dx.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435720159336375890" border="0" /></a><br />I was currently volunteering at a Christian community called Koinonia Farms near Americus, GA where my friend Harold was the resident potter. I finished my summer there and returned to Kansas to tell my soon to be bride about this great place called Westville near the sleepy little town of Lumpkin, GA. She must have been convinced, because we made our plans for a simple wedding at her parents farm, gave up on my first attempt at a pottery shop in Hutchinson, KS, and packed our old purple Dodge van for our honeymoon trip to Georgia. Dr. Mahan, the director of Westville, had assured me he would hold the potter's apprentice position for me when I could return. It was minimum wage ($3 an hour, if I remember correctly) but that was fine with me. They were actually going to pay me! In other circumstances, I might have done it for free!<br /><br />to be continued...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8699909245481373841.post-1545046746452324142010-02-04T20:17:00.000-08:002010-02-06T18:15:29.868-08:00Down the Primrose Path - Memories of Westville - Pt.1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2ueeZuQojI/AAAAAAAAAHg/tlrtUJCUKpA/s1600-h/potteryshop2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2ueeZuQojI/AAAAAAAAAHg/tlrtUJCUKpA/s400/potteryshop2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434611620490814002" border="0" /></a>We were sitting in the warm Georgia night watching the fire breathe. Whip-o-wills called in the woods. The sweet smell of honeysuckle was delicious. The only light was from the tongues of fire as they licked in and out of the fire boxes of the wood burning kiln. It was late and would go all night as we watched and fed the insatiable inferno.<br /><br />My friend Harold and I had gone to visit a potter in an 1850 living history village and help him with a wood firing. An adventure, I guess. An experience, I assumed. Little did I know it would become part of my journey to where I was headed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2uhCmE8JQI/AAAAAAAAAH4/hsNMII2oKj4/s1600-h/dxblur.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2uhCmE8JQI/AAAAAAAAAH4/hsNMII2oKj4/s400/dxblur.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434614441305711874" border="0" /></a><br />Doris Xerxes (DX) Gordy was from a well known family of potters in Georgia and had been hired by Westville Historic Handicrafts to set up a traditional potter's shop in the village, with foot-treadled wheels, a mule powered pug mill and brick mill, and a wood burning groundhog kiln. The kiln was so named because it was built into the side of a hill, open on the front with the chimney coming out of the top of the hill at the other end. It resembled a root cellar when empty – about 6 feet tall inside and 14 feet deep from the firebox to the chimney. It took about 24 hours and a small mountain of wood to reach temperature, which D.X. determined with an experienced gaze through the stoke holes into the flames within. Salt was shoveled into the fire near peak temperature to vaporize and coat all exposed clay surfaces with the characteristic orange-peel texture of traditional salt glazed stoneware. The interior brick surfaces of the kiln were also heavily coated with a thick buildup of dark green glass from numerous firings. This green goo would slowly drip in the heat of the fire like cold molasses, occasionally adorning a unsuspecting jug or jar below with a emerald drop.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2ufhTnJivI/AAAAAAAAAHw/1A5qUZWVhUg/s1600-h/kilnfire.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2ufhTnJivI/AAAAAAAAAHw/1A5qUZWVhUg/s400/kilnfire.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434612769901611762" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2uhmfu7_sI/AAAAAAAAAIA/A46kZiE9wo0/s1600-h/dxfiring.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2uhmfu7_sI/AAAAAAAAAIA/A46kZiE9wo0/s400/dxfiring.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434615058078105282" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2uieszqJaI/AAAAAAAAAII/TsmGOLdd4wc/s1600-h/johnfiring.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/S2uieszqJaI/AAAAAAAAAII/TsmGOLdd4wc/s400/johnfiring.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434616023660242338" border="0" /></a>Watching the fire build was magical. The color gradually changed inside the dank cavern as the temperature climbed. First came a dull red glow which intensified to a bright cherry red. Red gave way to orange, then yellow making you want to squint to peer inside. But as it increased to near white heat, there was the sense of power you didn't want to toy with, and the radiation penetrating through clothes and skin said “keep your distance!” There was a silent roar as the fire demanded more oxygen, more fuel, more oxygen, more fuel, in the rhythmic, almost hypnotic respiration of a fire breathing dragon. All the while, the skillful eye of the master potter told us when to offer more wood, when to wait, when to salt. <br /><br />to be continued...<br /><br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8699909245481373841.post-786659237519013602009-07-24T22:54:00.000-07:002009-07-24T23:52:18.517-07:00The 2 Gallon Mugs<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">In 2000, we decided to do something special for the turning of the millennium, so I made a 2 gallon mug and hand carved the 2000 Winfield mug design on it. We sold it right away at our first Mug Buffet that year. Unfortunately, I can't locate a photo of it. That was before we had a digital camera. How life has changed!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">But a new tradition was started and I continued making 2 gallon mugs for several years, selling them via a "clipboard auction" so more people would get to see it and have a chance of owning it. The next year was 2001 - the year of 9-11, which occurred right before the festival. I can still remember working in the shop, preparing for the festival, and hearing about the plane flying into the Twin Towers, then the Pentagon, then the third plane. The mood of the whole country changed in that instant and no one knew exactly what was happening or if it would continue. Somehow, it was difficult to go on with Winfield preparations and have the normal anticipation for fun and frivolity. But of course, the festival went on as planned, although the prevailing mood that year was a bit subdued and there seemed to be a real comradery exhibited among the folks. We decided to have a benefit auction with the proceeds from the mug going for the relief efforts in New York. The mug raised over $800 which was given to the Red Cross.</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><br />In 2005, we had another benefit auction for Hurricane Katrina, giving the proceeds to the Salvation Army. 2006 was the last year we made a 2 gallon mug, which was purchased for Russell Brace by a few of his friends. Russ is the owner of the grand old truck which carries Stage 5. Interest in the two gallon mugs seemed to be waning, so we gave them a rest for the time being. Since then I've made several 1 gallon mugs instead, which are not as elaborately carved thus not as time consuming to make. </span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I hope you enjoy seeing all the 2 gallon Winfield mugs!</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8699909245481373841.post-15795689179284065722009-07-23T21:19:00.000-07:002009-07-24T23:45:35.231-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/Smk2kEJ70SI/AAAAAAAAAC8/py3jilgjLwQ/s1600-h/mug+poster.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 298px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/Smk2kEJ70SI/AAAAAAAAAC8/py3jilgjLwQ/s320/mug+poster.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361876824579887394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This was the 30th Anniversary 2 gallon mug made in 2001. It was the first benefit auction used to raise money for 9/11 victims.</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> The hand and guitar were Jim's.</span> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8699909245481373841.post-62006690017557481392009-07-23T21:04:00.000-07:002009-07-24T23:37:40.745-07:00<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/Smk1i7sQiII/AAAAAAAAAC0/6Yb3Cj7vJYA/s1600-h/02Poster.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 366px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/Smk1i7sQiII/AAAAAAAAAC0/6Yb3Cj7vJYA/s400/02Poster.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361875705616435330" border="0"></a><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">The 02 mug used Zach's fiddle for the design.</span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/Smk1iG6KfOI/AAAAAAAAACs/iE5zpzbiv5Y/s1600-h/a+Mug+above.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/Smk1iG6KfOI/AAAAAAAAACs/iE5zpzbiv5Y/s400/a+Mug+above.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361875691447680226" border="0"></a><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">The fourth edition in 03 was taken from a photo of Cindy playing her banjo.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/Smk1h7CmDhI/AAAAAAAAACk/pLSDZSAFlfU/s1600-h/2gal+Mug+2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/Smk1h7CmDhI/AAAAAAAAACk/pLSDZSAFlfU/s400/2gal+Mug+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361875688261815826" border="0"></a><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Since we didn't have a mandolin player in the family,</span><br style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">used a good friend and talented musician, Mackie Red<br />for the 04 edition.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/Smk1hQa3_CI/AAAAAAAAACc/mFFMTM7a8cU/s1600-h/Mug+family+05.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/Smk1hQa3_CI/AAAAAAAAACc/mFFMTM7a8cU/s400/Mug+family+05.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361875676820929570" border="0"></a><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">My own hands and dulcimer were the subject for the 05 mug.</span><br style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">For some reason, we didn't get a poster made that year.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/Smk1g3Qk3aI/AAAAAAAAACU/z9_MZ-WQ4JQ/s1600-h/Classic.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/Smk1g3Qk3aI/AAAAAAAAACU/z9_MZ-WQ4JQ/s400/Classic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361875670066847138" border="0"></a><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">2006 commemorated the 20th anniversary for Stage 5 which is </span><br style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">built on the back of an awesome farm truck. Their banner</span><br style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">proclaimed "Hopelessly Lost at C" which explained the</span><br style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">"20 yrs at C" which unfortunately was lost on most</span><br style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">people! The photo was taken on my newly painted </span><br style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">1950 Chevy pickup.</span><br /><br /><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8699909245481373841.post-54570880532917170842009-07-11T20:42:00.000-07:002009-07-11T21:13:59.674-07:00A Few Old Shots<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/SllcNLFZw1I/AAAAAAAAACM/8F34WA6a4Ew/s1600-h/SteveJane80.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 279px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/SllcNLFZw1I/AAAAAAAAACM/8F34WA6a4Ew/s400/SteveJane80.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357414613117420370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Here's one from the archives! This was taken in 1980 when we first built our shop.</span><br /><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/SllcM4zPn8I/AAAAAAAAACE/6xQ7-QbxKeA/s1600-h/winfieldmugs80s.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 276px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/SllcM4zPn8I/AAAAAAAAACE/6xQ7-QbxKeA/s400/winfieldmugs80s.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357414608209420226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Buried in Winfield mugs. Don't know the exact year, but it was sometime in the 80's.</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/SllcMv2JB3I/AAAAAAAAAB8/eWZkqi5slvc/s1600-h/janeloadingkiln.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 363px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/SllcMv2JB3I/AAAAAAAAAB8/eWZkqi5slvc/s400/janeloadingkiln.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357414605805651826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Jane loading the kiln before the kiln shed was completely closed in. Mid 80's</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/SllcMDqD_nI/AAAAAAAAAB0/THJwjw733gI/s1600-h/winfieldbooth.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 282px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/SllcMDqD_nI/AAAAAAAAAB0/THJwjw733gI/s400/winfieldbooth.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357414593943830130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I know I have an older picture somewhere, maybe from the late 70's, but this is our Winfield booth in about 1991.</span><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Steve is holding Zach, Cherry is in front and Jane's sister Peggy is behind.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8699909245481373841.post-69870442907042831082009-07-11T10:41:00.000-07:002009-07-11T10:51:36.086-07:00My collection of No. 1's of the first 20 editions<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/SljPUMac78I/AAAAAAAAAA8/AAMmicn9i7M/s1600-h/20yrsposter.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 275px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_cUATSK0IEic/SljPUMac78I/AAAAAAAAAA8/AAMmicn9i7M/s400/20yrsposter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357259702593712066" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8699909245481373841.post-82982948520836287092009-07-10T21:54:00.000-07:002009-07-10T21:56:59.615-07:00Winfield Mugs<span style="font-family: verdana;">For many years, our summer schedule has been dominated by Winfield mugs. It's a daily ritual. Get out to the shop early and throw the first dozen mugs before breakfast. After my usual bowl of Jane's granola (unless we serve breakfast at the Sherman House) it's back out to the shop for the second dozen. Then it's time to start on handles, which take a good part of the rest of the day. That evening I make the third dozen which are held over for handling the next day. In the meantime, Jane is watching the mugs as they begin to dry. She stamps the logos on each one when they are “just right,” not too wet, but not too dry. Then she trims the bottoms, placing them upside down on boards covered with plastic until I attach the handles. Depending on how many interruptions, emergencies, and other demands come up, finishing 36 mugs – thrown, stamped, trimmed, handled and ready to dry - sometimes takes us till midnight. Some days we just don't make quota. And I haven't mentioned all the incidental tasks like mixing, drying and pugging clay, loading and unloading kilns, firing, glazing, staining, erasing, gardening, mowing, fixing things that break, etc – you know the routine. It's kind of a dance (maybe more like a juggling act). We once figured out that we handle each mug a minimum of 21 times for various steps in the process. We are a good team and we manage to turn out over 1000 mugs for the Walnut Valley Festival in Winfield, KS each summer.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Many people know us only by the Winfield mugs they collect each September. And we certainly never set out to capture that market. How did it happen? Allow me to share a bit of history.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">When Jane and I returned to Kansas in 1976, a good friend, Sherry, told us about this “bluegrass” festival in Winfield and told us we should go. Now I didn't know much about bluegrass. I was more into Simon and Garfunkle, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and the Beatles. But I did kinda like the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and I think John Hartford was in the line-up that year. I had at least heard of him! But Doc Watson and Norman Blake? – no clue. Now we had been exposed to a little bit of “folk music” while living in Georgia, but we were not prepared for New Grass Revival and Bryon Bowers! One guy with an AUTOHARP – you gotta be kidding! But it was awesome and we were hooked. Not to mention the pickin and jammin throughout the campgrounds around the clock... it was a music happening the likes of which I had never experienced. Picker's Paradise, they call it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Well, the festival also had a craft show on the grounds so we naturally thought – we could do this next year! Get a craft space and sell enough to pay for our tickets and essentially attend the festival for free! A good plan, but that next year we were so busy selling pots at our booth we hardly got to take in much of the music. Wow. Not only was it a fun festival, it was one of our best shows. We broke many sales records at Winfield over the next years. We have exhibited every year since 1977, always in the same spot behind the south end of the grandstand. In fact, when we began, the Dairy Queen concession was just to the south of us and we became friends with the owners, Gary and Joy. Watched their kids grow up and they ours. I remember taking both Cherry and Zach to the festival as babies, taking naps in carpet-lined trunks we used (and still use!) for our display. Of course our kids grew up looking forward to the third week of September which was a great adventure for them – and a safe place for them to roam as they got older. A real family affair. In fact, that was one of the unique aspects of the festival – there was no age segregation. You see white haired citizens alongside long haired, tie-died free spirits next to young parents with strollers and wagons. All together, all comfortable with each other, all joined by the music. As it should be. But I digress...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">By 1981, we thought it would be neat to make some “special” commemorative mugs for the 10th anniversary of the festival – numbered and dated, with the simple designation of “Winfield.” Being the entrepreneurial risk taker that I am, we boldly made 15 mugs to see if anyone would want one. They sold so fast, we saved the last one and took orders for 86 mugs in all! After filling the orders and shipping them all across the country (really!), we decided to start a limited edition, signed, dated and numbered and when they sold, there would be no more made. (The only exception is that we will replace broken mugs for someone's collection if they send us the broken pieces. It will not be numbered like the original, but it will as much like the original as possible.) That next year we made 100 mugs and the rest, as they say, is history. The editions gradually grew till we were making 1000 mugs, which we decided was our limit! People stared collecting them and since there was a limited number of them each year, they learned to get theirs early. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">In 1983, Bob Redford, one of the festival founders contacted us about making mugs for them. When I explained what we were already doing, he asked about making another series, different from the Winfield mugs. The Walnut Valley mug series was born with an official festival design. We agreed on a commission price I would pay in exchange for being allowed exclusive rights to produce the “official” festival mug. To distinguish the WV series, they were shorter (several years they were more like soup mugs) and we glazed them in a variety of colors opposed to the characteristic gray and blue, taller Winfield series. The Walnut Valley mugs had designs to coordinate with other artwork used in the festival, from posters, t-shirts, belt buckles or other designs. Some years I designed both, but the WV design was always subject to approval by the festival. Several years, my designs were also used on the buckles and even on a stage backdrop. The Winfield design would continue to be my choice. At first I went through all the different instruments that had national contests – guitar, fiddle, banjo, mandolin, mountain dulcimer, autoharp, hammered dulcimer. Then came a variety of images representing different elements of the Winfield experience, including cloggers, stand-up bass player, the campgrounds, and the W2K turn-of-the-millennium design. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The Winfield mugs necessitated a new technique for reproducing intricate designs which at the beginning was done all by hand using various combinations of paper stencils, stippled stains and sgraffitto. Very time consuming. Eventually, we discovered a stamp company in Wichita which could produce a deep relief flexible plastic die from our artwork. This revolutionized our ability to do custom logos on mugs which oddly enough became a mainstay of our business to this day. We've done hundreds if not thousands of different designs for people over the years. Festivals, businesses, churches, bed and breakfasts, schools, reunions, museums, fund raisers, and events of all kinds. Mugs are us! </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">After 2000, I started using the computer to a larger degree in the designs – using actual photographs of instruments that had some connection to either a family member (son-in-law's guitar, son's fiddle, sister-in-law's banjo, my dulcimer, mom's autoharp) or friend (Mackie Redd's mandolin, Russell Cook's hammered dulcimer.) This year's design is the first departure from that tradition, although it was inspired by a Winfield camper. After 58 different designs, new ideas become more difficult to develop! Who knew?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Eventually, the crowd of mug collectors waiting for the new mug became an uncontrollable mob pressing in on us as we tried to set up, unpack, and begin selling with limited help. In 1999, things got out of hand and mugs started “walking off,” at least that's when we actually had proof of it. There was just no way we could watch them all. Not that the majority of our customers weren't honest, but there are always a few bad apples on the tree. So rather than letting those few ruin it for everyone or making us suspicious of everyone, we started the Mug Buffet in 2000. Festival security personnel started organizing the “muggers” even before we arrived, having everyone peacefully and patiently wait in a line down the midway and taping off our booth area giving us room to set up our “buffet line” of just mugs – the Winfield, Walnut Valley, popular Baby Winfields, and sometimes “leftovers” from other festivals or years, as well as some special items. Soup mugs, travel mugs, shaving mugs, one gallon mugs and assorted mug-cessories. Serving begins at noon on Thursday when we cut the tape and start the mug rush. Everyone files by the line, makes their choices, stops at the cashier, and gets their purchases wrapped and sacked – neat and orderly. Everyone gets their mugs, everyone pays, and no one gets hurt! It's become a fun tradition. Get mugged at the Mug Buffet! </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Well, this has been one long post, but I've enjoyed the trip through the past and believe it or not, I left some things out! Maybe I'll add them later. Right now it's time to hit the hay so I can get up and start again. Tomorrow is baby Winfields, but it'll be a non-quota day cause it's Saturday and we are going out in the evening for my birthday!!</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8699909245481373841.post-38035300206873911002009-06-27T17:41:00.000-07:002009-07-01T19:29:00.044-07:00Stories and ConnectionsOver the past 30+ years, we have made thousands of individual pots. We are often amazed at the thought of all those pieces out there, somewhere, doing who knows what since they left our humble shop in Elk Falls.<br /><br />Our pots are like children we have birthed, raised up and sent out to live lives independent of us. (Please, this in no way is meant to reflect unfavorably on our relationships with our real children!) But I'm getting to a story here...<br /><br />Once in a while we run into one of these forgotten clay children and we get to hear a little bit of their "stories" or someone relates something to us about a piece we made and it fascinates us! A connection is made between maker and user that we really had no part in, and yet it is part of us. We are connected to so many lives and their life experiences, traditions, or even tragedies.<br /><br />One such story was recently shared with us by a long-time Winfield acquaintance, Renee Lippincott, who works for the KS Dept of Commerce Office of Rural Opportunity - boy, is that a mouthful, and come to think of it, Renee is a mouth-full too (no offense intended, Renee!) An enthusiastic advocate for small town Kansas and a great dulcimer player. Well, Renee had purchased a 3-piece mixing bowl set we call Farmhouse bowls from us at Winfield some time back and recently told us the rest of the story. She purchased the bowls for her daughter's wedding after giving much thought to the gift. She wanted something that would last, something that would be used and become part of her daughter's life and home. Now a set of stoneware bowls may not be the first thing that would pop into most minds, given those criteria, but Renee has a tradition.<br /><br />Renee collects bowls, especially bowls that were used by family members. A grandmother's favorite serving bowl, and aunt's bread mixing bowl - bowls that have memories connected to them. In this way, she collects special memories of eating Sunday dinner or smelling fresh baked bread in those homes. What a simple, yet profound idea. Bowls. Not usually highly prized or prominently displayed. But, oh the good things they have held - and shared. I've always liked bowls. They represent simplicity, openess and honesty (ever try to hide something in a bowl?). Thanks, Renee. You have inspired what I hope will be many such stories of our children that others may share. Now I invite you, our friends and customers (most of our customers have become friends) to share your connections with Elk Falls Pottery on our <a href="http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#/pages/Elk-Falls-KS/Elk-Falls-Pottery/80447376831">Facebook page</a>. It'll be under Discussions. Also check out our website <a href="http://elkfallspottery.com">elkfallspottery.com</a>.<br /><br />We've heard many such stories over the years, and I'll try to share them here from time to time so they won't be lost. We love to hear from our many distant "children."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3