Hopping

[offcntr]

Things were hopping at the start of Market. Three sales in a row in the first half hour, all cash, all paying with big bills. I think I took in a hundred and two fifties, gave a fifty out in change. It's hardly worth carrying twenties anymore, said one woman, They hardly buy anything.

After that, things tapered off a little. The new bear exchanged waves with a stuffed cow. Two young women Mormon missionaries stopped in to look at banks--I realized I'd only ever seen guys on mission, in their trademark white shirt-and-tie. These two were more brown cardigan types, and just talked pottery, not evangelization.

Saturday Market is without a General Manager again. The new guy turned out to be not a "good fit," so was let go during his probationary period. They've hired our Board chair as interim manager, to get us through Holiday Market, and meanwhile are taking applications for Assistant Manager. Details at their website.

One of our former managers came through with husband and kids. Youngest is a toddler-in-arms, the sort who desperately want to hug the teddy bears, but may not want to return them. Managed today without tears, thankfully, and everybody waving goodbye. Dad, meanwhile, was snapping pics with a big zoom lens; I expect they were adorable.

Had a woman asking after candle holders. Sorry ma'am, I made them once, long ago, don't think I sold more than one or two. I've got better things to fill the shelves with.

I also had a woman with a hot tip (her words) for me: House hippos. Huh?

The original house hippo was a Canadian documentary-style television spot purporting to show tiny hippos in human habitations. It was designed to teach children critical thinking--and not to believe everything they saw on television--but apparently, somebody didn't get the memo. There are now websites devoted to small hippo sculptures in stone, ceramic, and uranium glass. Yikes. I explained that I used to make hippo banks; they were a pain to build--the tusks didn't want to stay in--and never sold all that well. Not gonna go back to that either.

Mother and adolescent son stop in. He's picking up mugs, and I say you can't really look at pottery without using your hands. That's why everybody, even kids, get to pet the pottery; grown-ups get to pick it up. Oh, should I not be doing this? he asks. I'm not a grown-up. You're taller than your mother, mom says. I think it's okay. Now you are a man, I solemnly intone. It's your pot mitzvah.

Comments

[chefxh]

Ah ha ha ha haaaaaaaaaaah!