This morning I thought I had it made. I was up at 6:30 a.m. and well on the way to getting both kids dressed, lunches packed, eggs scrambled, and the kiln-which-had-done-a-bisque-firing cracked. I also clipped an oven timer to the side of my shirt, set at 8:45, to remind me to be on the computer ahead of time, because the Etsy "Spring Showcase" slots would go on sale precisely at 9. Let me tell you from experience, the slots go so fast that if you are not there exactly at the stroke of the hour, your hand on the trigger, you lose out on some fabulous advertising.
What happened?
After I rolled the Tasmanian Devil that is my collective family out the door, and checked on the kiln again to see if it was cooling, I went back inside, sat down at the desk and logged on to Etsy showcase, my hand on the trigger (I mean mouse.)
8:45...8:50..8:53...and then....
the power went off.
I ask you.
And it didn't come on again until after 12:30 when I was on my way to collect both children and passed the utilities crew on my way down our little mountain road.
So I spent the morning unloading the kiln, scrubbing the pots and then glazing them with a clear glaze. By hand.
This is all to say that potters are used to the whims of fate, of failure. So many things can happen-- the glaze can turn out wrong, or pieces can crack at any stage of the process, or the firing can go freaky on you and erase hours of hard work.
This is life.
Last night, I found out that I had miraculously gotten into the Oregon Potters' Association's Showcase sale this coming May. To be honest, I'm scared-- the OPA is like the aristocratic ceramic show in our state, full of nationally known potters. Thousands of people visit this show every year. And I also don't even know where I will be-- group booth or half booth?-- or even if I'll be able to connect with people.
I hope tonight's glaze firing turns out okay.
Currently, our dog Hamish has some weird blood disease and has to be force fed an antibiotic pills. Watching Gus do this is like watching some accomplished ballerina-- he gracefully pries Hamish's reluctant jaws apart, shoves the pill in deep, and then effortlessly follows through by shooting a syringe full of water down Hamish's gullet.
But now this job has now fallen to me. And I suck at it.
Example: yesterday when Theo and I cornered Hamish understandably huddled in his dog house. I tried to pry those jaws apart, but all I could manage was a narrow opening, all tongue accompanied by Hamish-gagging sounds, and me shouting at my 4-year-old, "Throw the pill in! In through his lips!" And then: "Now follow with a squirt-- quick, Theo!"
Needless to say, we failed. After several attempts, I took the empty syringe, tiny masticated pill, and my dignity back into the house.
When I confessed that I had been unable to give Hamish his pill, Gus said, "Failure is NOT an option!!!!!"
But, you know, I'm not so sure.
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