There is a potter who lives in the middle of the Florida woods. He is, as the saying goes, larger than life. He’s perhaps the one person whose cult following I’d join. We found him in 2005 and since then, we take an annual pilgrimage to see George the Potter and buy a mug or two.
Over the weekend, George worked his magic on Clara and had her blowing bubbles endlessly while Aaron and I admired vases, clocks, plates, and pitchers.
While Aaron and I were looking at the indoor display, George looked after Clara for us. They were just chatting it up on the front steps; I think George was explaining to Clara how her bubble-blowing reminded him of the Lawrence Welk Show or some other show for people my parents’ age.
Here is his studio. It’s a real artist’s studio. It seems like there are so few artists left—so few people left who know how to do anything with their hands. It’s hard for me to imagine what this life would be like. To create something every day . . . to make something that people will hold onto their whole lives. That is definitely one way to be happy.
George has sayings all over his home and studio.
When we pulled up last weekend, he asked us if we took a trip. Yes, you could say that—a three year trip to Alaska. He remembered our names. He takes Polaroid pictures of all his repeat customers and pins them to the walls. We found this one he took when Clara was just 20 days old. On that day, he gave Clara her very first bowl.
This is his home, caddy corner to his studio.
Clara had a great time playing with his dog and umbrella.
George, Aaron, Clara, and a cropped Mama and William. (Yes, for the first time in blog history I vainly cropped myself out of a picture. It’s a shame William had to go with me.)
To make up for losing William in the photo above, here’s one of my bright-eyed baby boy. I think he’s going to have blue eyes. Did not see that coming.
We’re planning our family Christmas for tomorrow night before hitting the road for Quincy on Friday. More pictures of all the boy toys we bought our truck-loving, airplane-flying, dirt-eating tomboy later.