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JOY

I sat on my low stool, knees spread wide around my potter’s wheel. My right foot was on the pedal, which adjusted how fast it circled. My hands were covered in wet clay up past my wrists. My old apron covered my tank top and shorts from the splatter, but my knees and a few spots on my thighs weren’t so lucky.

Being messy was part of the job as a potter. I took a cube of wet clay and turned it into functional objects, like plates and mugs and vases. A vase was what I was making now.

I dipped the wet sponge in the water bucket, squeezed it out, then set it right where the wheel and clay met. It looked like a vase, about a foot tall, but I needed to taper in the bottom. I pressed in as the vase spun round and round. Slowly, with consistent pressure, it narrowed.

I dunked the sponge and did it again and again until I was satisfied. Then I grabbed a small wooden tool to remove the excess.

A spiral ribbon of clay came free. I tossed it into the little pile of excess clay that was slowly growing.

The music was on low. The garage door was raised. It was a gorgeous Montana day.

But it was still hot. Sweat dotted my brow, and I couldn’t touch it to wipe it away. I’d learned that the hard way long ago when I used to get covered head to toe in clay.

Taking my foot off the pedal, the vase slowed, then stopped.

I eyed it critically. This was a new direction I was going. The first two I’d delivered to the craft shop in town had sold the first week. I’d sent a few to shops around the country that sold my work. This one was headed to Texas when it was complete.

Grabbing the wire with the little wood dowel pieces on either end, I slid it under the bottom of the wet vase to separate it from the wheel.

Checking to make sure I had a place to set it on the shelf to dry, I glanced over my shoulder. It was then my cell rang.

“Shit.”

Carefully, I picked up the vase and went across the garage and set it down.

Pushing out my bottom lip, I blew air up and over my face, blowing my wayward strands of hair out of my eyes.

I couldn’t grab my cell–which was still ringing–but I used my pinky to swipe up, leaving only a small smear on the glass. With the speaker button on, I could talk hands free.

“It’s a joyful day!”

“Hi Joy, this is Joann at Segal Crafts.”

Her store in Oregon had sold a few pieces of mine. I even sent her one last week.

“Oh, hi! I was just working on the next vase.”

“That’s great. I’m calling with bad news, though.”

That didn’t sound good.

“The box you sent. Everything in it was broken.”

“What?” Everything? There were… fourteen mugs, three serving dishes and one vase. I was an expert at packing breakables, but things did happen. Still. Everything?

“You should definitely take it up with the delivery service and claim the insurance on it. I have photos I can email you to add to the claim.”

It was five hundred dollars worth of goods.

I could probably get an insurance check as she mentioned, but it took time. I’d done it before. This was a lot! I needed that money. I’d hoped Joann was calling to tell me she’d paid me electronically, and I’d have what I needed to pay the mortgage.

Now?

“Well, shoot. Yes, of course I’ll take those photos from you. Do you, um, want replacements?”

Please want replacements!

“It will take at least a week to make them all from start to finish.”

After the items were thrown on the wheel, they had to dry fully before they could be fired in my kiln or the water inside made the item explode. Then they were glazed, then fired again.

Pottery wasn’t a quick art.

“Yes, please. Everyone loves your work.”

I quietly exhaled in relief.

Sure, I’d lose money from the extra clay and paints doing them all over. And the time it took for redoing the order, I could be making something else. She was a solid client and a nice person. It wasn’t her fault.

“Thank you for calling,” I said. “I’ll let you know when replacements will be done.”

“Take care, Joy.” Joann ended the call.

I stared at my space. I’d bought this fixer-upper a few years ago for the detached garage specifically. It was the perfect potter’s studio. When I first moved in, I’d ensured the wiring in here was up to code before I fixed the leaky faucet in the kitchen. I even had the fire department come out and confirm everything was safe for the kiln.

The house was still a fixer-upper. It needed a lot of work. Unlike Remy and her father’s house next door that had been modernized from top to bottom. I knew the old neighbors and had seen all the updates they’d done to the place.

Someday. My sink wasn’t dripping any longer, but the windows needed replacing, the furnace upgraded, and the tile in the bathroom shouldn’t be avocado green. I’d get to it all eventually. If I had the extra money to tackle those projects. I wasn’t broke, but I was definitely just keeping my head above water.

My pieces were starting to sell around the country, and money was coming in, but setbacks seemed to consistently pop up and, well, set me back.

One pot ahead, two pots back, or however the saying went.

My cell chimed again. This time with a text.

The name on the screen made me smile. Marina. My friend from yoga class.

Colton’s out. Come over. I’ve got wine.

She had me at come over , but wine, too? Boy, did I need a glass. Or two.

I pushed the speech-to-text button because there was no way I could type with my filthy hands.

I’m in. Give me an hour.