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At the Pottery Barn

August 17, 2011

In addition to being home to a lovely pool, supper club, and playground, Powderhorn Park houses a fabulous pottery studio.  The twins call it, “The Pottery Barn”.  Uncle Carl is a regular at the pottery barn. For the twins’ Birthday, Uncle Carl gave them the gift of pottery classes. Try saying, “We are riding with Uncle Carl to the Pottery Barn” without any ‘R’s.

(For those who were confused about his frequent appearance, Uncle Carl is Dan’s brother who occupies the lower level of our house.)

Yesterday was their second class.  Uncle Carl takes them, but I came over yesterday to take some pictures.  I was surprised to note how much shorter Charlie and Elisabeth were than their classmates, until I learned that the class was for children eight years and older.  This formality did not stop Uncle Carl, for whom age is just a number.  Granted, Charlie and Elisabeth are quite mature for their age (if I do say so myself), but I wonder if anyone else noticed the suspicious height of their stature.  Certainly not the instructor, who did not seem to notice anything, caught up, as he was in his own craft, leaving the children to their own devices lest he interfere with their innate creativity. You could say that Charlie and Elisabeth are being privately tutored by Uncle Carl in the ways of clays.

Due to the prohibitive height of the table at which the rest of the class sits, Charlie and Elisabeth each sit at their own little wheel.  Actually, they were the only members of the class using a wheel, which they did with gusto, pressing the pedal with abandon like little race car drivers.

I was late arriving with my camera, and was worried that they might have already run out of steam and be ready to go home.  I needn’t have worried.  They were hunched over their wheels, working intently.  Charlie was busy tasting his clay, then putting it down the top of his shirt and pulling it out the bottom (see pictures, below).  Elisabeth was poking her clay repeatedly with sticks.  They were dismayed to see me at the pottery barn. “We are still working, you can go now.” They insisted.  So I took a few pictures and left.

Two hours later Carl called to say they had seen dinner being served, wanted to eat, ate, and returned to the pottery barn with renewed zeal.  An hour after that (three and a half hours in total), Carl called to say they were on their way home,  Elisabeth having wet her pants.  It was emotional at the end (always hard to let go of the good time).

They came in all sweaty, each proudly bearing,  not ceramic boxes as I’d been informed the class would be making, but a pig on a stick.  I couldn’t be prouder.

P.S. Miss P says, “Hey.”

4 Comments leave one →
  1. Grammie permalink
    August 17, 2011 6:56 pm

    I really thought one of the earlier posts was the funniest thing I had ever read, but you have topped it today. I am sitting here at home alone laughing out loud over and over. These children are having such amazing experiences. I wish they had a bathroom at the pottery barn, though.

  2. Mary Olson permalink
    August 17, 2011 7:01 pm

    Phil and I ditto Grammy’s catagorization of the Pottery Barn post — the funniest — and so tender 🙂

  3. August 18, 2011 7:09 pm

    Love-love-love your writing! And your precious little ones!! I can’t get over how much Elisabeth looks like you in the picture where she’s waving the Clump (pig?) on a stick! Miss you! Thanks for the shout-out on the blog.

  4. Anna Barber permalink
    October 16, 2012 2:57 am

    Earlier tonight, one of our children found himself the topic of dinner conversation, specifically regarding whether he should be grounded until some responsibility issues improved. When my husband left for scouts tonight, he gently suggested that I might consider if someone else might benefit from being grounded from the peppers until things um… improved. I worked furiously on the kitchen and family room clutter, laundry, etc. and am now wheezing and crying. This is the funniest thing I’ve ever read. Thank you, Lucy.
    From B’ham, Anna Barber

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