FragrantSip of Trill

[ismo]

Tonight, the Sparrowhawk brought me a little vanilla ice cream. He put it in a little round rice-bowl sized bowl that always makes me think of two dead men. One man was the potter who made it. He used to sell his wares at the Farmers Market in my parents' home town. This bowl has a speckled grey-brown glaze with beech leaves painted on it. It was part of a set of six. I have several of them. But this potter's real specialty was big, capacious earthenware bowls, the kind you can put your arms around. I have two that are made of that same gritty red clay--I don't know the technical names of any of these materials--and glazed with a similar brownish-gray, in a couple of different shades. One has more sprays of beech leaves painted on it, and the other, in a slightly lighter background, is decorated with delicate sprigs of flowers and leaves in blue--blueberries, maybe? I also have a bowl of a more slightly more graceful shape, made of smooth white clay and glazed in creamy white, painted with lush purple plums, and a jar or vase in the dark clay and glaze, but with the same plums on it. This potter was so interesting because you could see him working out different themes and variations. I have a big platter of the same white clay with plums. It got broken in one of our moves, but I glued it back together. I also have a dish he made, with a maple leaf in its center. I asked him once if he might do an oak leaf version. He said to come and see him later and we could talk about it. I went to his house one day. He opened the door but seemed shocked to see me. "I can't talk to you now. I'm sick," he said, and slammed the door. I felt embarrassed and humiliated. Did I do something wrong? He said to come and see him. He had looked so disheveled and forlorn. My heart told me he had AIDS and was going to die now. My brain said that was stupid, and I couldn't possibly know that. But he did.

The other dead man was my father. He loved beautiful dishes. He took a shine to the potter's work, and it was he who stopped by his table every time he went to the market and bought something. My brother used to mock our father's several tons of stoneware bowls. I thought they were beautiful, and I guess that's why I ended up with so many of them. I would greedily have taken them all, but in the end, after our father died, my brother decided that maybe he could use some of them after all--"for the cottage," as he would always say. So now I eat my ice cream and remember the fallen leaves. It says "TN 90" on the bottom of this bowl. It's over 30 years old.

I thought you might enjoy a little break from the endless "organ recital." But, to get back to it: I'm taking my medicine, but disappointed that recovery is not instant. This cough suppressant is of dubious efficacy. I guess it kinda works, but I still find myself catapulted out of sleep by paroxysms of coughing, so I'm still not sleeping very well. On the other hand, I had two naps today, though I had to sleep propped up on pillows to avoid coughing, and it's not very comfortable. On the third hand, I think maybe the antibiotics are upsetting my stomach. I'm so discouraged and debilitated. I've spent almost the whole month being too sick to do ANYTHING and I am so far behind. I keep telling myself I will surely get better tomorrow, but it's wearing thin.

Comments

witnessing

[siriosa]

it's lovely that you keep the potter's memory alive.
physical illness, especially the kind that lllllliiiiiinnnnngggggeeerrrrrs is the very worst. poor lamb.

[oracne]

Our art lives on. It touches many people along the way. A good thought to hold onto.

I guess nobody prescribes codeine cough syrup any more?