When I was growing up in Sweetwater, my parents and I moved to a house on Silas Street. At that time there were two blocks that were not paved. When it rained, the street in front of our house washed out. Our lot sloped down from front to back, and water flowed into the living room. I remember Mother and I standing just inside the front door with a mop, a bucket, and an armload of towels trying to keep up. There were vacant lots across the street that filled up with rainwater, creating a little pond. As the water crossed the road, it carved out a drainage ditch, or little creek, that was dry except when it rained. This creek went all the way to Twelfth Street and beyond. I was in upper elementary at East Ridge when one of my teachers, Mrs. Brownfield, gave each of us a small chunk of actual clay, the brown earthy kind used by potters to make things. We had to return the clay, and our project, the next day. I remember messing up numerous times and having to wet the clay and start over. I was trying to make a small tray in the shape of Texas. I never was happy with it and didnt get a very good grade, yet, I loved working with the clay. I liked the feel of it in my hands, and the smell of it. It smelled like rich dirt. Potting soil. Not long after that, I realized there was clay in the banks of the little creek. I could dig out a chunk and try again and again to make a small bowl. They were never symmetrical. I tried coiling the clay. Rolling it into long skinny snakes and winding them around and around, before wetting my hands and trying to smooth out the sides. Every now and then I actually made something I liked and wanted to keep, but I had no idea at that time how simple it would have been to make a kiln using an inverted clay flowerpot over a small fire, the kind I made in the fire pit in the back yard to roast my hot dogs and marshmallows. I always loved to watch actual potters at work, creating vases and bowls with their foot powered potting wheels. I once toyed with the idea of using my record player as a potting wheel, but was afraid Id ruin it. So, I never did. Is it any wonder that my favorite hymn is: Have thine own way, Lord, have thine own way, Thou art the potter, I am the clay. Mold me and make me, after Thy will, while I am waiting, yielded and still. We sang that hymn often in the Sunday morning services, at the First Baptist Church, when I was a child, growing up in Sweetwater.
Posted on: Tue, 21 Oct 2014 18:48:38 +0000