Rhapsody In Blue - In which the Lonely Potter opens the kiln to find beautiful pottery, and I fail Cinemetography 101

This video tells the story, it may, however, cause motion sickness.

 

 

 

 



 

 

The Lonely Potter is Rescued by a Kitten

KoKo’s Story

The cover photo on the Spring/Summer 2012 edition of the BCSPCA’s Animal Sense magazine brought a flood of memories and emotions. There, on the cover, was the face that has been in our dreams, and in a picture frame on our bureau, for the last six years. Of course, after all this time we didn’t really believe that it could be our kitten, KoKo, but when something so precious goes missing, a part of you never loses hope that it will come back again.

In the fall of 2005 we were facing yet another challenge on our ranch in Southern Alberta. We had survived years of drought, years of flood, years of uncertain income and crushing debt, but the final blow came as we realized that The Lonely Potter’s arthritis had become too crippling to continue trying to ranch. The ranch, our home, was for sale. We just had to survive until the right buyer came along. This was much harder than it sounds.

After several years of chronic, and worsening, pain, The Lonely Potter now had to come to terms with the end of a dream. Each day was torture to get through.  Gradually, depression came, and stayed. We had reached the end; physically, financially, mentally, and emotionally. We had nothing left to give.  At least, that’s what we thought. Then KoKo appeared.

One day, as the first cold days of the end of autumn arrived, a tiny kitten stared silently at The Lonely Potter from the top of the hay stack in the hay shed.  It was a startling sight, as we were miles away from the nearest neighbor, certainly too far for such a young kitten to have travelled by itself. It was alone, wild, and beautiful. Suddenly The Lonely Potter realized that he did have something more to give; love.

He hurried back to the house, to find milk, tuna or anything else that might tempt the kitten to eat, and maybe, be touched.  The food was laid out, and The Lonely Potter stepped back to watch, but the kitten was too wary. It wouldn’t come close. For the next few days The Lonely Potter continued to take food to the kitten. I went to work every morning, and came home every evening, without learning about the drama that was taking place in the hayshed.  Then, one day, The Lonely Potter mentioned that a stray kitten had shown up, and it had such beautiful eyes he hadn’t been able to resist feeding it. “Would it be alright,” he asked, “ to bring it into the house? If it could be caught? It’s so small, and it’s getting really cold. And it is a really beautiful kitten...” . I was so happy to see him feel something besides pain, for the first time in a long time, I would have let him bring it in the house if it was the ugliest old tomcat in the world.  But it wasn’t. It truly was a beautiful kitten, as I saw the next day, when The Lonely Potter walked slowly to the house, with something cradled inside his jacket, holding it close to his throat, so it could hear and feel his pulse, and would feel protected.

During the first  weeks of his captivity, the kitten lived in one bedroom. He shared The Lonely Potter’s  bed, which I had been unable to do for a while, since I am a restless sleeper, and my constant thrashing around jarred his painful joints, keeping him awake at night.  The kitten’s soft, warm body fit nicely into the crook of his neck, and his steady purring calmed and soothed The Lonely Potter to sleep. As their bond became stronger, and we were more certain that the kitten would not run away, he soon had the run of the house, much to the disgust of the other animals who shared our life.

I say “he” although for the first few months of his life with us, we thought KoKo was a girl. He had such a delicate face we just assumed he was female, and never checked to find otherwise. As winter turned to spring, we thought we had better have the kitten spayed, as we knew an unsprayed female cat would soon bring unwanted male cats and then would come more kittens, which we could not afford. So we took the kitten to the vet, to be “spayed”, and were surprised to find that it only had to be neutered! It was a little young for a tom cat to be neutered, and KoKo never lost his high pitched, kittenish mew or his delicate features.

Meanwhile, we continued our desperate efforts to sell the ranch. Finally, that spring, it sold.  By summer we had found another home, on an acreage outside of Williams Lake, and in July, 2006, we  moved.  Unfortunately, days before the move, The Lonely Potter developed a gum infection, which led to the need for  extensive dental work, and several visits to the dentist. Since we didn’t yet have insurance set up in B.C., or a dentist, he decided to have the work done by our dentist in Pincher Creek, necessitating trips back and forth between our old and new homes.

I didn’t yet have a job in Williams Lake, so I stayed at home with the animals as we all explored our new surroundings.  There were no ground squirrels here, just tree squirrels. All the dogs and cats looked quite bemused to see these rodents scurry up the nearest tree whenever they gave chase. It didn’t take long for KoKo to learn how to climb up the big fir tree in the yard. It took a little longer for him to learn how to get down. At night we all settled down to sleep in the same room together. We have never allowed our pets to stay outside at night, and I liked to know they were near me as I slept in this new place. KoKo assumed the place of honour, on the bed, with me. Finally, The Lonely Potter had had his last dental work, and came home to stay. That evening, I went to bed while he and KoKo stayed out on the deck, enjoying the cool breeze.

The next morning, KoKo was missing. He hadn’t come in with The Lonely Potter the night before. At first we thought he had just gone exploring and would come back any minute. Then we realized he was lost, so we made posters, notified the SPCA, put notices in the paper and on the local radio station. But KoKo never came back.

When we moved, we had purchased a new, very firm bed. It was large enough, and solid enough that The Lonely Potter and I could sleep together and my night-time tossing and turning didn’t wake him. Now, though, neither of us were sleeping well. Frequently, in the night, we would both feel movement and light pressure on top of the bed clothes, just as though KoKo was there, snuggling down between us. Each time we would wake, and realize it was just a dream.  These feelings of phantom visits from KoKo went on for months, keeping our vigil for the lost kitten alive.

Every time we saw a tabby cat we looked closely to see if it was KoKo, but it never was. One day, the next winter, I saw a tabby in the yard, and I ran out in my slippers to see, but it had disappeared. That was when we put KoKo’s picture on the bureau in the bedroom, and told ourselves he was gone. Logically, after six years, we know that KoKo is long gone. Yet, when that magazine arrived, and I saw the cover, there were those old feelings of hope rising again. The cover cat is the first tabby I have seen with markings identical to KoKo’s, right down to the white blaze on his face. It was time to tell KoKo’s story.

Our last cat died five years ago, and The Lonely Potter decreed at that time that we would have no more cats, because it hurt too much to lose them. I know, though, that if KoKo were to march into our yard today, this edict would be overturned.  Sadly, the cat on the magazine cover was not KoKo.

At first reading, this could be a story of how people can help animals. For those who know, however, it is really a story about how animals help people. If KoKo hadn’t arrived in our lives when he did, I am not sure The Lonely Potter would have survived that winter.  KoKo was just a little lost kitten, but he had the power to cure sadness. Where ever you came from; where ever you went - Thank you, KoKo. Rest well.

The Blue Glaze Plays an April Fool's Joke on the Lonely Potter

In January the Lonely Potter began glazing some bisqued pottery with blue and green (celedon) glazes, and, with some trepidation,began filling the "big" kiln. He had not had good luck with the blue glaze, and he wasn't sure why. Did he put it on too thick? Did he fire too hot? Too fast? Too slow?  Were the surfaces contaminated with grease from his hands? Dust from the air? If it didn't work, could he bring himself to throw it out, after all of the time and expense put into making it?

Filling the Kiln

It took two months to finish filling the kiln and get up the courage to fire it. On Friday he fired it. Let it cool on Saturday. Opened it on Sunday.

Once again, the blue glaze had done strange things. It had crawled, bubbled and developed pinholes. The first few cups were very disappointing. As he went deeper, however, the quality improved. 


The green glaze was beautiful. It tended to pool at the bottom of some bowls, creating the same green/blue depth less effect you get when you look into a deep mountain lake.
Best of all were the results from a new technique he had tried, called chattering. This involved letting a sharp edged tool bounce along the surface of leather hard clay as a pot spun on the wheel.  This creates an evenly distributed design cut into the clay. To show the chattering effect off, he just rubbed color or used a light slip on the chattered areas. You can see some chattered pots in this picture.
As for blue glazes, there was a different blue glaze, with a smokey, mottled effect that the Lonely Potter tried on one plate. It turned out beautifully, so I think the Lonely Potter will be able to throw out the "April Fool" blue, and use this "Smokey Blue" instead.

Smokey Blue plate on upper left.

There is drama in every kiln load the Lonely Potter opens. Let's hope this was the end of the blue glaze saga.

The Lonely Potter and the Art of Winter Eating

If you want to lose weight, you may not want to spend the winter at the Lonely Potter's house. Nights are long, days are short, and the kitchen is a cozy place to hide from the blasts of cold weather. Here you will often find the Lonely Potter, and sometimes me, getting all creative with food.

Here are some samples of end of winter dinners we have had lately;

Schnitzel

Stroganoff

Chicken & Dumplings

And those are just some of the main courses. Then there were the pies, and the breads, and the waffles...

Of course, not every meal is blog worthy. We have had our share of left overs, but on the whole, when it comes to food, the Lonely Potter does not suffer.  The down side is that we are both beginning to notice that our clothes are fitting a little tighter than they did in the fall.

I suppose the first day of April is as good a day as any to start thinking about food that is good for us, instead of just good. More salads, less pasta. More water and less wine.

Ah, well, let's hope the joys of summer make up for giving up the pleasures of winter.  And let's hope I can still fit into last year's gardening clothes!

The Lonely Potter Gets Wet

Sadly, The Lonely Potter has been taking a rather long hiatus from the pottery studio. His time and energy has been going into more mundane activities, like fence building, weed control and barn building. These have all taken a toll on his joints and the arthritis in his hands, hips, back, shoulders and un-replaced knee has made the prospect of standing and working with clay for hours too painful to consider right now.

To keep his creative spirits up this winter, he has re-discovered his interest in water colors. This is  not to say that he is completely satisfied with this medium, but at least he is getting some artist's frustration out of his system. And I like it too.

This is My Hobby

In case you were confused, there is only one potter in the family, and it's not me. Here is a story about my hobby... I have changed the name and some other details...

“ But He’s Non-responsive”

It was after 8 p.m.. The elevator slid open and I was facing the empty hallway between the elevator and the empty nursing station. I was feeling a little uncomfortable about this late visit, so the quiet felt both comforting and kind of eerie. I knew that a couple of dozen people lived here. I had seen them at meal times, or sitting silently in the T.V. room or waiting to be allowed off the ward to go to BINGO or out for a drive. Yet, at an hour when most people are socializing, or working at hobbies, or getting ready for the next day, all of the residents, and the staff who looked after them, had disappeared into the bedrooms - the last homes the residents would ever know.

I had come to visit a new Hospice client. He had been here for a while, quietly living out his last days. At last someone had decided that he had become palliative, and so our Hospice Volunteer Coordinator, Wendy, had been called. I was the volunteer assigned to meet our client for the first time.

Wendy had been able to give me the client’s name, age, and room number, but aside from that the details were vague. She had felt that there was some urgency, which was why I was making this evening visit instead of waiting until the next day. I was uncertain where the room was and would have liked more information from the staff before I went in. I went into the nursing station to get the Hospice binder, to see if there was anything that would help me. There was nothing new there, and I was just about to go hunting for the client’s room when the nurse in charge appeared.

I asked her if the client had any family with him or if anyone was expected. I was told no, his daughter had been in to see him in the afternoon and would probably come back the next day. I asked if the nurse felt confident that the family had all the information they needed to make a decision about whether they wanted to be there, and was told that since the client’s daughter was a nurse that she was perfectly well aware of the situation. Having been put in my place, I said that I would just go along to see the client, then. The nurse gave me a puzzled look and said, “But he’s non-responsive.” I wasn’t sure what to make of this. For a fleeting second I felt foolish and considered leaving, but then I wondered how I would tell Wendy that I hadn’t met the client. Instead, I mumbled “We should get along really well, then”, or something like that, and went to the client’s room.

The hallway outside the room was semi-dark and absolutely quiet. No music, no voices, no sounds of television came from any of the rooms. The door to the client’s room was ajar, and I could see that there was a light inside. Pushing the door open, I spoke softly from the doorway, saying hello to the client, introducing myself, and saying I would like to come in and visit for a while.

Inside, the air felt warm and heavy. There were pictures on the walls showing a vigorous older man with a woman, with other people his age, with younger people. Some people wore kilts, and there were military and Scottish themes repeated in knick knacks and photos. The room was neat and orderly, as was the bathroom, where someone had posted several notes about how some of “Dad’s” possessions seemed to be missing and that this was not acceptable, because these were costly items and not easily replaced. Someone was very concerned about “Dad’s” stuff. I thought I would like to meet this person, so that I could learn more about her concerns about “Dad”.

Only the head of the client was visible. The rest of his body was tucked neatly under a sheet and light blanket. It looked like he hadn’t moved a muscle since he had last been positioned in the bed, so it was hard to tell when someone had last looked in on him. The head of the bed was raised, so his upper torso was almost in a sitting position.

The face of the man in the bed was recognizable as the man in the photos, but much thinner. His cheek bones and nose stood out sharply, with the skin stretched and thin looking, like parchment paper. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was open wide and his breath came in short, shallow, rapid breaths. His mouth and tongue were dry and caked with thick, yellowish, hard mucus.

I looked frantically for mouth swabs, and finally found some in the drawer of the night stand. I found a clean glass and filled it with water from the bathroom sink. I said, “Frank, your mouth looks very dry. I am going to put a wet mouth swab in your mouth. If you are thirsty you can suck on it.” The instant the mouth swab touched his tongue, he clamped his mouth closed and sucked. I said, “O.K. Frank, I am going to make the swab wet again and put it back in your mouth. Please open your mouth.” And he did. We repeated this a few times, until his mouth looked cleaner and more moist. He seemed to be more comfortable. So much for non-responsive, I thought.

I spotted a cassette player with a cassette in it. "Oh, why not?" I thought, and pressed play. Instantly the gentle bellow of a scottish marching band filled the room. I slammed the off button, but the client seemed to be oblivious. It seemed reasonable to think that this had been, and perhaps still was something that he enjoyed, so I turned the volume down and pressed play again.
Normally I would hold a client’s hand while I either sat quietly with them or talked or read to them. With no hands visible I wasn’t sure how I could touch this client. “Frank,” I said, “I would like to stroke your forehead. Try to let me know if that is o.k.” I gently laid my fingers on his forehead . Instantly, with his eyes still closed, his eyebrows shot up making deep wrinkles in his forehead that felt like they were grasping my fingers. His breathing became slower and deeper, and suddenly it seemed like the invisible body under the blankets relaxed.

We stayed like that for a couple of hours. I felt that this might be the last night of our client’s life, and I wondered if I could stay all night. Finally, exhausted, I had to leave to go home to sleep. I said good night to Frank and went to make some notes in the Hospice binder. I found the nurse in charge in the nursing station, filling out a shift’s worth of paperwork. I asked again when the client’s family would be coming, and again she said she wasn’t sure, but thought the next afternoon. I said that I felt that they might want to come sooner, and that I would like to be sure that someone was going to check on him at least once an hour. “We’ll see” she said. Feeling somewhat defeated, yet glad I had spent time with the non-responsive Frank, I went home.

The next morning Wendy called. Frank had died in the night..

Of course I have mixed feelings about what happened that night. I wish I had stayed all night, but I didn't so I try to focus on the things I am happy about. The credit for those things goes mainly to Wendy, who passes her passion and wisdom in dealing with the dying on to everyone who cares to listen. She made me brave enough to act on instinct, and I’m glad for that. On those occasions, however, when instinct is not enough, there are the reports of professionals to support our actions. I have attached one of those papers, which I picked up at the Hospice Conference in 2010. Enjoy, and think about what they say the next time you have a non-responsive client.

Tribute to The Lonely Potter's Father

With the commencement of a new job and a commitment to complete my TESL Certificate this year,there has been no time to write since August. Then, at 1:00 a.m. on Novemer 6th,  the Lonely Potter received news which merits spending time and effort to record. As Linda Loman said, in "Death of a Salesman", "Attention must be paid.".

Paul Vetterli and I shared the same birthday, but we were only able to spend it together a few times. He lived in Switzerland all his life, while I lived in Canada. It's a little too far to travel for a birthday party. He was born in 1915, so he had 95 birthdays before last Saturday. There will be no more.

Father Vetterli, as I called him, was a gentle man who had lived through some astonishing times. He was born to a well to do family in Switzerland. His father had a transport company and other business interests. Things were going well until Paul's mother died. His father remarried, and his new wife wanted nothing to do with the children of the first marriage, especially once she had a son of her own. Paul was sent to work on farms from the time he was ten years old. He was paid, but all the money was sent back to the step-mother, who was a very good manager of money, and she made sure the family business prospered. Paul never profited from this success, but somehow he remained a kind, warm person, untainted by bitterness.

He was working in a cellulose factory when he met his wife, a daughter of Italian immigrants, just before World War II. They couldn't have been more different in temperament. She was quick of wit and temper, and they argued often. He began working as a trucker, enjoying his long days of peace and quiet on the road. They lived in several small towns around the Bodensee, going where the work was. She continued to work, even  when the children were small. They needed every dime she could earn to put food on the table. At one point they lived in an apartment they rented from Paul's father. The strain in the family made it difficult for either Paul or his wife to make the trip to pay his father's wife the monthly rent. They sent the Lonely Potter instead. Even as a child, he had a reputation for being charming, so perhaps they hoped he could charm their way back into the family wealth. It didn't work.

Paul and his wife taught their work ethic to their three children. The Lonely Potter left Switzerland, joining the merchant marine as soon as he legally could. This made him a vagabond in the eyes of the folks back home. It seemed that his relationship with his mother never recovered, and she died disappointed that her golden child hadn't become a banker. Paul, however, loved hearing about his son's adventures, and was absolutely delighted when the Lonely Potter became a rancher. Paul loved animals and the first thing he wanted to know whenever we called him was how the horses were.

We were able to make two trips to Switzerland to see Paul, in 2006 and 2007. He was alert and active. We drove all over Switzerland and Lichtenstein with him as our guide. He remembered every road and village from his days as a trucker. His directions were flawless, although after dark he had to think a little. He wanted to be included in everything we did on those visits, and we didn't get him back to his care home until after midnight on a few occasions. The staff were thrilled. Really. They loved Paul too, and they were happy to see him enjoying himself so much. By 2008, though, we were getting reports that his travelling days were done.

We had been thinking that the time was coming for one last visit, but we waited too long. Paul was playing cards and joking with his friends and family on a Sunday, and died in his sleep the following Friday, from  pneumonia. There was nothing that could be done.

He will be missed. Attention is being paid.

Paul Vetterli

September 26 1915 to November 5 2010