Worth Saying

May 27, 2018 • Alex Matisse

Worth Saying

Worth Saying

It is Sunday afternoon.  I have the day off.  It is the first warm day of the year and I am wearing my favorite dress for a warm day.

It is Sunday afternoon.  I have the day off.  It is the first warm day of the year and I am wearing my favorite dress for a warm day, thinking about how nice it feels to be wearing my favorite dress for a warm day on the first warm day of the year.  The warm day came unexpectedly and there are lots of delighted people scattered up and down the sidewalks.  I decide to walk downtown.  All of my things are already together, so I grab my bag and get going.  As soon as I begin to walk, I delight in the idea that maybe I’ll take more walks downtown now that the warm weather is here.  I do not stumble on cracks in the sidewalk.  Or maybe I do stumble, and it makes me laugh.

The forsythia are blooming and he is no longer president.  We do not have a president because we have figured things out amongst ourselves.  Everyone is more or less happy enough to, say, take a moment every now and then to stop and admire a cloud.  To let a stranger go ahead of them in line if they seem to be in a hurry.  People trust each other.  I am wearing sturdy old shoes I am known by, I am feeling the sun on the back of my neck.  On my way I pass people working in their gardens, eager to feel their fingers in the soil.

The town is buzzing; the locals are happy to see the visitors enjoying themselves; the visitors are all in good moods and leaving generous tips.  I step through the open door of a calmly lit shop with a bird-shaped kite hanging in the window.  The women behind the counter greet me and smile; one of them is arranging flowers in a ceramic vase.

I comment on how nice it smells and walk around the store slowly, touching every quiet object - watching how the sun hits the glass, how the pots cast shadows from their shelves.  I try the perfumes, the oils and soaps.  Three brass pens and one pencil sit by a scribbled pad in a corner.  Each pen feels different in my hand; I relish their unfamiliar weights, the practical luxury of a brass writing implement.  I screw off the cap of one pen, write a note among all the other absent scribbles from customers before, I write my name and the date - I was here.  Or I draw a house, or a dog, or hello! or my name is this.  Or some bad word that needs writing down and forgetting about. 

I give each pen a try, smiling and nodding while the people behind the register tell me the story of where they were made.  I leave them all behind and continue with my walk.  Hours later when the first warm sun is setting and I am standing at the check out counter of a book store, purchasing a book I've been seeking out for ages and have found, here, at a reasonable price.  The person working the register asks me to please sign here and hands me a pen attached to a large fabric sunflower with masking tape so nobody might steal it.  I wonder about the need to sign at the end of a walk downtown, the flowers to come, the slow routine of a warmer day, the dinner smells I'll catch wafting from neighbors' kitchens while I mosey home.

Liliput Wave Brass Pen
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Kaweco Brass Sport Rollerball Pen
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Liliput Capped Brass Pen
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Journal

Seconds To Some

Seconds To Some

To prepare for our seconds sale coming up this Saturday at our new production space on Short McDowell, I chatted with Amanda, East Fork potter and Production Manager, about quality control.