A Pale Paradise

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  "Which gallery is getting this one?" Thad carefully carried a tall, celedon-green teapot and lid as he exited the out-building that housed the gas kiln. Phyl set the blue and brown platter on the grass, and joined him. She took the pieces from him, as the strong evening breeze swirled her pony-tail, and she set the lid atop the teapot, admiring the curve of the tall handle and the brown iron markings on the pot, the result of reducing the oxygen in the kiln at critical times during the firing.

  "I love the reduction on this, don't you?" She tilted her head thoughtfully. "This one goes to the Soho Gallery. They can't keep the teapots in stock, which I love, of course." She smiled with satisfaction as she walked over and set the teapot next to the platter and thirty more of her large bowls, platters, and teapots in various shades and designs. "Almost done." She wiped her hands on the front of her jeans, and they headed back into the building to finish unloading the warm kiln. Phyl loved the intricacies of firing in a gas kiln as opposed to the oxidation-firing in her electric kiln located in a corner of her studio. She used that kiln only for the first bisque-firings now, and relied solely on the gas kiln for the second, high-temperature reduction glaze firing. She remembered fondly the day that she and Thad had finally gotten around to assembling the large rectangular kiln, which had been delivered the first week after she had moved to Lake Saint Catherine, but had sat un-assembled for a few months after that. Their first gas-firing had been exciting, and unsettling at the same time, as they had checked on the kiln many, many times over the twelve-hour firing, turning up the gas to produce a higher flame when required, nervous that they would miss the final cone-bending which indicated that the kiln had reached its peak temperature and the glaze was now melding with the clay body, fusing together only if turned off at that precise moment. If allowed to over-heat, the pots and glaze would melt onto the shelves. She had literally jumped for joy into Thad's arms at their first successful firing, and now they had presided over so many firings, she had lost count, but each one was still exciting. She had patiently seen each group of her pots through their stages, from the soft brown clay dug from river and mountain that she carefully molded on the wheel into beautiful fluid forms, to the leather-hard stage when the piece was trimmed of excess clay and given a 'foot' to rest on, to hardened bisque-ware devoid of any moisture after their first firing. Their final stage was the fusing of clay and glaze, forged in high heat. She became attached to her pottery, she knew, but loved the idea of people buying her pots and using them in their daily lives. She was overjoyed at the satisfaction her chosen field had given her, and loved that Thad seemed to join her enthusiastically in his support and help during various stages.

  Totally exhausted after unloading the kiln, and carrying the pots into her office to document and box up for the trips to her galleries, Phyl grabbed Thad's hand after closing the out-building's door, and they headed back to their home for a shower and late dinner.