The Ups

August a terrible horrible no-good very bad month. Every year, without fail. Even knowing it's coming, and knowing that it'll be brutal when it does, does nothing to stanch the awful. These are the things to which I've clung desperately over the past four weeks:

This is Louis Lewis, the raccoon so nice I named him twice. (That and I couldn't decide how to spell it.) He got stuck in Syd's fig tree last night and spent most of today quivering on his perch while the dogs barked at him. Normally I'm petrified of raccoons, but that nose? Come on!

This is the greatest place in all the land.

My Library Fair haul.

If I could just have this face here with me, I would stay on this island for the rest of my life.

What Survives

"Livvy," my mom said, "when you have a minute I have something to show you."

Last month my brother and his best friend flew to California to see friends from the family camp we'd attended every summer for the first sixteen years of my life. Growing up, it was the best place I knew, warm and safe and familiar; a constancy that allowed me to root myself. Camp was where I learned how to swim, where I made some of the deepest friendships of my life, where my brother (and then I) worked on staff and my mom taught pottery classes as an artist in residence. Almost exactly one year ago, it burned down.

"Adrian gave this to me," my brother told my mom when he got home, "but I want you to have it." Into her palm he pressed a round, jagged-edged object. It was blue at the edges, deepening to brown and black--and bubbling--at the center. It looked like it could have been a piece of sea glass so battered by grinding waves and sand that it had nearly turned to stone.

My mom led me into the kitchen where she'd leaned it up against the windowsill above the sink. "Pick it up," she said. It was heavy, its rough weight familiar to the daughter of a potter. "Flip it over."

I stared at my mom's signature, unblinking. Something sharp caught in my throat and I swallowed it down, all at once understanding and not understanding, knowing that this meant something but ashamed that I didn't know exactly what. Tears stung the corners of my eyes. We were silent for what felt like minutes but couldn't have been more than a few seconds, until my dad set aside his crossword and lay his pen on top of it. "Adrian found that," he said. "At camp."

Of all that was lost in those scorching, smoky hours last August--the circle of green chairs next to the dining hall, the bridge connecting main camp to Sun City across the river, the cabins and the rec hall and the camp store--what I held in my hand had survived.

I have lived my whole life knowing that no man-made object is permanent. I've accepted, albeit reluctantly, that believing our creations immune to natural or malevolent forces is naive, and that everything will, sooner or later, turn to dust. But here was something that didn't. Here was a three-inch pottery shard--the bottom of a coffee mug--that had merely bubbled when everything around it disintegrated. My mother's creation, the tangible product of our sixteen-year presence in the Sierra Nevadas, was stronger than fire. My mother was stronger than fire.

Why I Adore My Job

Sure, there are days when I wake up and would rather wedge bamboo shoots under my fingernails than go into the shop. There are days when I'm homesick-hollow, days when customers make me feel so small that even I don't quite believe I exist. But then my coworker calls to tell me about some pancakes she just made, or my boss walks in quoting Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, and I recognize how lucky I am--that there is not a single place on this planet I would rather be than right where I am.


Several months back, Janet had to call a customer to tell her that her order was complete.
*The phone rings and a man picks up*
Man: Hello, Rosie?
Janet: No, this is Janet at Orcas Island Pottery.
Man: Well this is Ralphie!
Janet: I'm calling for Sonja.

I walked into the shop the other day directly after returning from the mainland. Janet was at the desk, slouched down over her book, and she practically jumped out of her seat when she saw me. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "I'm so glad you're home! I have to show you the worst decision I ever made!" She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the latest issue of Kinfolk, a lifestyle magazine for "young food enthusiasts and adventure-seekers." "Have you seen this before?" Janet asked. With a look of disgust she plopped the magazine onto the table in front of me. I flipped through a few pages. There were a lot of photographs, some of them pretty decent, some recipes, articles with titles like "The Art of Weekend Drinking" and "Swimming Holes in Upstate New York." "I can't figure out who would find this interesting!" Janet said. "I mean, it's just ridiculous. Who reads this?" I'd rarely seen her so animated. "No," she added after a moment, "I'll tell you who this is for: young California beach computer." I truly have the best coworker in the whole wide world.

Janet: It's so hot.
Me: Take off a layer.
Janet: ...I don't do that.

*The phone rings*
Me (seeing Janet's name on the caller ID): Hello!
Janet: This heat.
Me: Yes.
Janet: It's like Hell.
Me: Yes.
Janet: Okay, that's all I had to say. Goodbye.

I walked into the shop one day after getting back from a bike ride into town. "So you went for a ride this morning," Janet said, a statement rather than a question. "And you went to the library." "How did you know I went to the library?" I asked. (It had been, as a matter of fact, the only place I went in town.) Janet laughed. "Because you always go to the library!"

*During a phone call with Janet*
Me: It's been so slow that I spent an entire uninterrupted hour picking blueberries this morning.
Janet: Oh, you sweetie.
Me: It was fun! I felt like I was living in an Anne of Green Gables novel.
Janet: Well aren't you a delicious little person to have around!

Janet: The bike group is here.
Me (looking around and seeing no one): They are?
Janet: I'm probably hallucinating. I think I have a brain tumor.
Ann: Or maybe they're just very small people.

*I sniff Janet's kombucha*
Janet: It tastes like fizzy orange juice. You should try some. Pour yourself...no, actually, don't--you may catch my brain tumor.

Me: A couple nights ago it was cold and I could snuggle under my comforter! It was lovely. But then last night it was hot and thick and gross again.
Janet: I've been thinking a lot about lamb stew.

"I've got a case of the Slows." -Syd

Classic Janet one-liners:
"I'm deficient. And I can't grow corn."
"I added tax when they were shipping. Then I was writing the wrong date on the receipts. Then I sprayed myself with water. You know what, it must be the brain tumor."
"Doing work makes me tired."
"It takes a lot of work to keep the woods in order."
*On the phone* "I bought cream to make peach maple ice cream. Oh, the rooster just walked into my house. Oh dear, and he just pooped."

Maybe Tomorrow

Guess I'm not watering the plants today!