See you later, Navigator

I think my Garmin is jealous.

It's a satellite navigator we bought about ten years ago, after trying one out on a vacation to Arizona. It immediately became my new favorite thing, allowing me to find my way to shows, galleries, gas stations, without having to unfold a map or print out directions. Aside from a worrying fascination with ferry boats, it was simple and reliable, and we used it in both the car and the pottery business van.

Then we got a new car--inherited it, actually--that had its own, built-in Navigator. It took a little getting used to--used different phrasing when announcing turns, for instance, and the LED screen was hard to see with polaroid sunglasses. But it was always there, didn't have to be plugged in, and wouldn't fall off the windshield if summer sunshine overheated the suction cup. The Garmin was relegated to van use only.

Where it sat, neglected, through a year and a half of pandemic.

We finally used it last weekend for our trip to Anacortes, and it seemed to go out of its way to be difficult. We break the trip up into two parts, driving to Seattle on Wednesday, overnighting with Denise's cousin, then continuing on Thursday. As it happened, Diana's folks were in town as well, so we got to see three relatives, but had to stay in a motel overnight, as the sofa-bed was taken.

That was the first problem.

The motel was on a major north-south thoroughfare, half a block from the stoplight, and Aurora had a concrete median in front of the driveway. Kerensky (named for the hapless navigator in a John Scalzi novel) kept trying to direct us into impossible left turns out of or right turns into the parking lot, and got increasingly strident as we tried to U-turn around the problem.

Thursday morning, we were meeting Kay, Al and Diana at a pizza place in her neighborhood that had pivoted to outdoor dining. Driving south from the motel, we followed nice, wide avenues; then the traitorous machine directed us west on 8th Street.

If you've ever driven Ballard, you know streets like this, barely wide enough for two cars to meet under ideal conditions. That morning, there were cars parked solid on either curb, and barely enough room for one van to squeeze down the middle. I was making good progress, could even see my cross-street up ahead, when with a blam! I clipped the side mirror of a FedEx truck. I pulled over and parked at the next available space, walked back to check the damage.

Turns out her mirror had just folded forward. Mine popped out of its frame and was lying, broken, in the street.

I took it back to the van, and managed to pop it back together, though it was like looking through a kaleidoscope. I was prepared to live with it, when it occurred to me to ask Google for an auto parts store near me.

As it happens, O'Reilly Auto Parts was two blocks away, around a corner. And Chevrolet/Cadillac used the exact same mirror style from 1988 to 2004. My 1994 Astro was right in the middle of the range, and I was able to buy a replacement mirror for sixteen bucks. Pried off the old bits with my pocket knife, laid out foam tape on the new glass and presto! Better than new.

Pictures from an exhibition

Notes from last weekend's Anacortes Arts Festival...

It was my second road show since 2019, but Denise's first. She's also not been coming to Market, so needed to learn the workarounds and systems I'd created to do shows solo. Also, her arthritis is still giving her grief, so I had to keep putting her in time-outs, so she wouldn't overdo it. That said, it was lovely having her along, we've not had much opportunity for long-drive-talks, and it's always nice to work together again. Anacortes is a commission show, so having someone to fill out sales slips while I wrap pots and take payment is a huge time-saver.

And one we needed. People came out in droves. I think our first sale of the 10 am opening was at 8:30, and several more just after 9:00. It had been very blustery Thursday night, so we only set up the tent and shelves, left all the pottery in boxes. Didn't even put up the walls, thinking it would just provide more sail surface for the wind. So we were still filling shelves and stashing boxes when the early birds showed up. We were also a little further up the block, right in front of a very busy cafe, so Calico Cupboard customers waiting for their tables spent the time checking out my booth--from the back, not exactly its best side.

Weather was surprisingly mild; temperatures in the high 60s/low 70s. Rain overnight Thursday, but sunny all day Friday. Friday night it rained again, and we had mist and showers a good bit of Saturday, but not enough to dampen my wares, my wrapping paper nor my customers. As expected, we sold a ton of crab and octopus pots, could have sold more. It's crabbing season, and everyone wanted a big crab pasta bowl. Shoulda brought a dozen.

We weren't the only ones who were busy. Both Sandy Brown and Natalie Warrens were running out of stock, and both were committed to another show the following weekend. I went through a lot of pots myself, but still had plenty to fill the shelves, and pots waiting in the shed at home. I think having Saturday Market every weekend acts a good reminder to keep making pottery. I may run out of some items--I was very thin on painted mugs by Sunday, for instance--but I know I have more when I get home.

Had a lot of people tell me they were glad to get my postcard/email, that they wouldn't have known the show was happening otherwise. I assume the Festival's publicity budget took a hit because of no show in 2020, so they kept their advertising close to home. They also seriously down-sized their show booklet, didn't have artists or food vendors listed, though they did have the music schedule. Food booths were thin on the ground, too: only four at the Second Street end, their usual location, plus a few scattered on the side streets: wood-fired pizza, shave ice, coffee, ice cream. Two kettle corn stands. And the Croatian Cultural Center wasn't selling sausage this year either, a major loss to me.

On the list of "things I'm not gonna make," I got three requests for sponge holders, and one for chopstick bowls. The former is easy to explain: I made 'em for a year or so, and didn't sell a one, so stopped. (And to the person who said "I'd have bought one if you had them," I thought, No, you would've wanted a different pattern.) As for chopstick bowls, part of it is technical; if you notch the rim of a bowl, it will be more prone to warp there. Part of it is, I don't use chopsticks, so don't know for sure I'd be making them right. And part of it is... ethical? Look, I learned pottery with the Minnesota potters, who were making tea bowls and sake sets, just like the Japanese potters their hero Bernard Leach had studied with. It always felt weirdly like cultural appropriation. Even when I make teapots, I make them for people like Denise to use, rather than some Japanese tea master.

And speaking of cultural appropriation: Why did this woman feel a need to tell me about the great potter in Arizona she'd bought from, who used linear patterns to decorate, not like mine, his were based on Native American patterns. ("But these are nice, too.") Did she think all potters know each other? Was she trying to make a connection, prove she had pottery street cred? I just don't know.

Saw several other Eugene artists there; Cada Johnson thought it was hilarious that she saw me come by her booth Saturday morning with a bag full of produce from the Farmers Market. It was just like back home in Eugene, she laughed.

Some of my best interactions were with kids. The little girl who came in Friday, interested in teapots. I took them down from the shelf, showed her the octopus drawing, how the lid stays in, the built in strainer. She noticed the $65 price tag, said sadly, I can't afford one. I said that's okay, she can always stop by and look.

Sometimes, I just like watching them, like the little girl who came around the booth opposite, holding a bag of popcorn, feeding her dog a kernel, then herself, then back to her dog.

And then Sunday morning, a mother and daughter stopped in front of the booth, and even masked up, I could tell daughter was grinning from ear to ear? Arden? I asked. Yes! she squealed, and I came out and gave her a (teddy) bear hug. And then a real hug.

Arden is the kid I met at Edmonds, lo these many years past, who loved my pots so much she practically vibrated. She'd spent her allowance already, but convinced her mom to bring her to Anacortes two months later, and saved up her lawn-mowing money to get a possum dessert plate. (She also got a baby elephant sculpture from Shelly Fredenberg.) She kept coming back, every year, and seeing her excitement is always a highlight of the show.

This time was no different. We both kept grinning and giggling the entire time she was there, catching up on how we'd spent the last year--Zoom school for her, hated it; quilting, potting and every-other-week Market for me, not so bad. Shelly couldn't make it this year, had family doings in Portland, but I texted her a photo, and almost immediately got back virtual hugs.

As always, I had too many choices, so she went and walked the show ("wandering and pondering") while she thought about it, came back later and impulse-bought a river otter mug.

I mentioned earlier I'd been approached by a potter/gallery owner about wholesaling to him. He stopped in to meet me on Saturday, but I had customers come in, so he excused himself and we never did get a chance to talk. I also had another wholesale inquiry, a woman who has a local gift shop, and would love to stock my work. (This is almost exactly what happened my first year at this show.) Unlike the first time, she was interested in a continuing relationship, and I explained that I just couldn't manage that from an eight-hour drive away.

Thinking back on it, I had an epiphany of sorts. I know a lot of potters who go into wholesale so they can earn a living without the hassle of going to shows. I'm in the opposite position. I'm not that reliant on pottery income anymore; I don't need the extra boost from wholesale. What I need is the human contact, the people who come back year after year, tell me how they use my mug every morning. The hug from the teenage girl who I've been watching grow up, year to year. I will be really sad when it comes time to give that up.

Besides, where else would I be able to see a live sugar glider? (She wants to order pottery with them on it, so I took a photo for reference.)