"We contemplated the cosmic absurdity that two people from such different worlds would find themselves together in this little clearing in the woods, listening to the wind and snow. We were alone in a strange dreamscape, and life felt new and wild and sweet and full of possibility."Connie here. I missed the boat that last week in December when everyone was posting 2009/2019 side-by-sides, but the other night I was bouncing our two-year-old on an exercise ball at 3 am with Billie Eilish’s “Ocean Eyes” on repeat and found myself Google searching for a blog Alex kept in his early twenties, first as an apprentice and then as he set out to open his own pottery. It’s a gem.
A little context if you’re a new subscriber—today East Fork is a 70-person team working out of 30,000 square feet in Asheville, North Carolina (this article paints a pretty accurate picture). But 10 years ago, Alex was staring out at a muddy, neglected tobacco field, through the window of our dilapidated farmhouse, scribbling pencil sketches of what would later that year become a 36-foot long woodburning kiln and a timber-framed kiln shed.
For our own 2009 Flashback moment, I asked Alex to read his posts from ten years ago and indulge in a little nostalgia...
A friend and accomplished timber framer named Raivo Vihman had come down from Maine to cut the frame. We cut all the timber for the structure off of the steep hillside that surrounded the old tobacco field at the end of Ras Grooms Rd. Then we sawed it on site into beams and posts, rafters and collar ties.
Friends would drop in to help. Our neighbor Glen drove his old Massey Furgeson up the road to haul logs out of the woods. It was the first tractor I learned to drive.
At night, Connie and I would sit in the little farmhouse by the wood-stove watching the flames roll silently across the glass. When we got sleepy, we would climb the dark staircase to a small bedroom we’d painted red. With a candle lit, it was womblike. Most nights we’d stare at the ceiling, just six and a half feet tall, and wonder how the hell we both got there. We could hear the rats, mice and squirrels—who made our house their own in winter—scurrying through the walls and kitchen cabinets. Sometimes I would wake in the middle of the night confused and disoriented, unsure of where I was or who was sleeping beside me.
We contemplated the cosmic absurdity that two people from such different worlds would find themselves together in this little clearing in the woods, listening to the wind and snow. We were alone in a strange dreamscape, and life felt new and wild and sweet and full of possibility.
— Alex Matisse