We’ve been home for three days and we’re still not completely unpacked, so when I spied the pair of bubble-wrapped packages on the kitchen table I smiled. Here was a chance to relive a bit of our trip while putting things in order: I’d wash and put away the two pieces of pottery I’d bought.
Now, I’m not much of a pottery person—most of the time it’s too odd, or two boring, or too twee. But every time we pointed the car down Rt. 131, the main artery on the St. George Peninsula, which ends right near our cottage in Port Clyde, I’d be intrigued by the window display of St. George Pottery. The pieces looked contemporary, subtle, sensuous. So on a rainy afternoon (one of several—this was Maine, after all) we stopped in. George Pearlman, the owner and potter, was friendly and helpful, and chatted with us as we admired his work. After much deliberation, we selected two smallish pieces, one of which you see above. I fell in love with the bubbly white exterior, the smooth sage green interior, the touches of color at the corners, even the squat square shape. Although I was tempted to unwrap them and put them on display in our little cottage, it seemed wiser to leave them safely cloaked until we got home. Today, I finally freed them from their plastic cushions. Tragedy ensued.
Is it weird to cry over a piece of broken pottery?