Kiln Kaddy

I installed the new locks on the front door, the polished steel looking more formidable and sturdy than the cheap brass-plated finish on the old Defiant locks. The keys turn smoothly in the deadbolt and the keyed knob. They both use the same key, so you don’t have to fumble around to make sure you have the right one for the two locks. This is a step I know I will have to repeat in the not-too-distant future, since I plan to replace the door itself. Seeing this door at the entrance makes a bad impression; it is one of those cheap, hollow-core doors that would easily be kicked in by someone serious about gaining entry in a violent, uninvited kind of way. The best locks in the world won’t prevent the door itself from splintering. Up in the middle, near the top of the door, is a little square window that you can peer through to see who’s outside. I don’t like the window, either. Not really sure why—I just don’t like it.

Thursday morning my helper came over before his regular workday began, met me at the house and we drove out to see the wood I’d told him about. Through the nearby town, then further west we drove, until finally we came to the piles of large logs—cut to mostly fireplace length. They were along the side of the road, near the driveways along that stretch.
“See those logs?” I asked, pointing. “Pretty nice, huh?”
“Those are all pine,” was his reply.
Oh. I guess I should have known from the white interior, wouldn’t have really cared, since I didn’t know that pine was not regularly burned in the fireplace or home heating systems.
“It’s too sappy,” he said.
I did know that a lot of sap would create large deposits of creosote, cause problems with the chimney, possible fire hazards. That was to be avoided if possible. We turned around and headed back to my place.

As we approached my town, I brought up the sandwich place he’d introduced me to—not far from the main street. Should we stop and get a bite to eat? It was around ten-thirty in the morning and we had done nothing in the way of work. We turned around to grab a couple of sandwiches. I had a grilled ham-and-cheese that took about five minutes to order. It was actually one of their menu offerings, so it wasn’t like I was just making stuff up. The counter-man had to know if I wanted the bread toasted, would I like the breakfast version or the lunch? There were a couple of other questions that involved details of these sandwiches that I’d never considered before, didn’t know they were even options presented to the general public—just kind of imagined that the people who dealt with the simple sandwich used their own discretion to make sure that it came out right. My helper, whom I refer to as Big Joe Ostrowski—or “Big J.O.” had his regular overstuffed turkey sandwich.

We sat and ate at a leisurely pace, mealtime never being much of an occasion for hurry where I’m concerned. Not that anything is much of an occasion for hurry, come to think of it. I saved some of my sandwich—which was ok, but not like the Chestertown one—for later. Big J.O. saved some of his, too.

Back at my place we continued to not do much in the way of work. I busied myself with cleaning the fluffy and crinkly autumn leaves that had fallen from my two cherry trees out front. The leaves had been whisked onto the front porch, making autumn drifts here and there, burying my boots and shoes that I sometimes took off before going inside. I got this all cleaned up, stuffed the leaves into large paper sacks for the yard waste pickup. Over at the other house, J.O. took exact measurements for some corner braces that I wanted to replace on the porch. These were to go wherever the old, sometimes rotted braces had been attached. I’d removed the old ones, wasn’t confident that I could accurately cut new ones with my table saw, so left this project to my helper.

After he’d written down the measurements, we loaded a couple of pieces of lumber into the truck, headed over to his workplace—where he was installing the fixtures for an upcoming art exhibit at the local college. We parked the truck outside the entrance to the fine arts building, took our lumber inside and used Big J.O.’s super-accurate saw to make the precise cuts. The workplace was in the middle of a cavernous gallery space, a little larger maybe than a high-school gymnasium. It was empty, save for a few wall fixtures that had been assembled and pushed aside to keep them out of the way. These things were on sturdy casters, could be positioned anywhere they needed to be. The materials that went into their construction made them incredibly heavy. It was J.O.’s job to build these things.

We drove back to my house after stopping at the big lumber-supply house, where I picked up more flooring for the porch, some more two-by-four pieces to help shore up the porch supports. The longest of these measure ten feet, to allow them to span the long timbers that support the porch. The previous ones I’d used—eight feet long—weren’t quite long enough. By the time we got back to my place, it was just about time for J.O. to leave. He needed to get started back at his regular job—the gallery where we’d just cut some wood.

I bade the young man good-day, started in on the corner braces he’d just cut. I screwed them in place with the new cordless tools I’d bought at Sears—and which cost twenty bucks less than what I’d paid the last time I visited the store. There was a special Christmas sale going on, it appears. They seemed to have about a billion of these cordless drill and driver sets sitting around, and maybe were going into hyper-sale mode. In any case, they were now twenty dollars less.

I’d wanted to fasten some of the new floor onto the porch, start putting the walking surface together, but decided to skip it. The day was fast drawing to a close, the light dimming in the sky, and my Christmas display was out on the lawn, set aside to make way for the porch work. I cleaned up my materials and tools, put some things in the house, and put the trees back into place. My JOY sign had stayed, it not being in the way. I plugged it all in, saw that the trees and JOY sign were lit up as they should be, and called it a day.

Back at my house I received a call from the lady who was selling a kiln through the free online classified advertisements. I am not particularly interested in owning a kiln, do not aspire to be a potter, but my friend wants one. Since this is the friend who fixed my car and would accept nothing for his trouble, I decided to purchase this kiln for him. He too does not fancy he’ll be working with clay any time soon; rather, he needs the high-temperature capabilities of this oven to preheat cast iron parts prior to welding. This is a critical step for cast iron, apparently, as it is not a material that is easily welded while cold. My understanding is that it tends to crack. So he had it in mind to locate and purchase a kiln.

I’d gone back and forth with this woman quite a few times, had looked at the clay-baking oven and had measured it to see if it would fit my friend’s needs. Satisfied that it would do the job, we agreed on a price—a little less than what she’d been asking. I didn’t feel too guilty about asking her to compromise a little, because I was not interested in the many molds and accessories and shelves that were included with the sale. She could sell these things to another clay-worker, easily make up the small difference in price. These things were all horrible, the terrible building blocks of the detritus that finds its way into yard sales, thrift stores--to languish there for all eternity, until finally someone gets the idea to just throw the damned stuff out or crush it into little bits to make up a new driveway or add to the gravel out next to the industrial yard. Little statues, angels, ashtrays, maybe small vases or cups—all of that stuff was there. Normally interested in the workings of things, in how stuff is made, what goes into its fabrication, I actually felt an aversion to the stacks of pasty-white molds strapped together, waiting for the next person to putter around with them. If she’d left me alone with the hideous things, gone to look at her stories on the television, I would have been tempted to take them—one by one, then in pairs and bunches—and smash them onto the concrete of the cluttered basement floor. My face reddened with rage, my temples bulging with emotion and exertion, I would grab an armful of different ashtray molds, hurl them to the floor, relish the splintering of the pasty-white clatter, grab some more and hurl them about, then against each other, until they were all annihilated. I didn’t do that, told her instead that she could keep the things, try to find a new home for them. But there was one more thing: Could she wait and see if a woman who had contacted her long ago was still interested? Sure, I said.

About a week went by. Could she have more time? I told her she could take all the time she needed, knowing pretty well that this mystery woman probably was not serious, had only casually inquired about the kiln, was not ready to accept such a thing into her life and take on the responsibilities attendant to its ownership, maybe thought better of introducing the pasty-white and dusty molds into her household, couldn’t really admit that she was up to the task. I could wait; I had my little station wagon at the ready, knew how I was going to dismantle the circular contraption—hexagonal in shape and stacked up and down like a small Tower of Pisa. But this thing didn’t lean.
“Take all the time you need,” I said.

So she called; I told her I would like to come get it that evening, as I knew the following day would be filled with various chores. I asked if we were still agreed on the price, and she said yes—telling me that the price I reiterated on the phone was ok. When I drove over to her house on that chilly evening she told me—as I was taking it apart—that the price was fifty bucks more than the one we’d spoken of on the phone. When I told her we’d agreed on a lower price, she reluctantly decided to honor that one. I honestly don’t think she knew what she said on the previous occasions, did not really take too much notice of these petty details. My impression was that, as soon as something was said, it was instantly relegated to her dusty attic of cluttered memories, the place where it was hard to really find anything for all the mess. This was not intentional on her part, was merely the way she processed life, sludging through the thick muck of words, language and all of the other useless stuff, just pushing it aside as so much debris to be knocked out of the way. None of it really made any sense.

So I filled the car with the oven’s parts, carefully placing the fragile fire-brick material into the cargo area of the station wagon. If you drop this stuff, it will shatter like glass. It was not too heavy, but heavy enough. A little metal stand was included—an old bolted-together thing that kept the kiln off the floor. The manufacturer’s tag said that the maximum temperature inside the thing could reach 2400 degrees Fahrenheit. I thought that that sounded like a lot.

Back in my Christmas workshop I put together a little dolly on casters—swivelling wheels that would make the heavy oven easier to move about my friend’s shop. This would be a specially-added touch on my part. Everyone likes a good dolly, a thing that makes movement almost effortless. Who wants a kiln sitting around, taking up space, always in the way when you’re trying to get things done? With some simple persuasion from the flat palm of your hand, the kiln can now be moved around to where the kiln-owner deems it most convenient. I was going to ask an artist friend to draw up a little promotional pamphlet for the optional “Kiln-Kaddy,” as I dubbed my contraption. It would show a 1950s housewife, resplendent in apron and a stylish feather-duster, flicking at the kiln with her dainty and painted red nails. One hand would be swishing the duster at a countertop as the other hand indifferently and with seemingly no effort pushed aside the kiln on its patented “Kiln-Kaddy.”

The caption would read: “All new for 1957! With “feather-light touch control,” moving your kiln about the house is effortless! Never again will you slave and dust, trying to clean around a kiln that just won’t move—it just sits there!” I decided to skip the promotional pamphlet, as I really wanted to deliver the kiln to my friend that evening. I did, however, paint the little metal stand in a rust-resistant satin black finish. It looks much better.

So I spent the morning with this, decided that no work would take place on the house, that the kiln would monopolize my time that day. I had my portable heaters going—one of them propane, and the other electric. They kept the workspace fairly warm, and made it possible to paint. I put the little dolly together with some of the scrap wood I had lying about, screwed the wheels onto the underside and tested it out. I then brought the whole thing over to my friend’s shop, where he was pleased to receive the thing. He’d wanted to buy it previously, but I’d stalled while the woman was deliberating over whom best deserved the kiln and its terrible accessories.
“She can’t make up her mind,” I’d told him. “We’ll just have to wait.”

The next day I worked my regular Saturday market, had a good outing, predicted fairly well the quantities that I needed. Bad weather was predicted, but this did not materialize. Instead, it turned into a bright and sunny day, with fairly mild temperatures. For the next day’s market downtown—which would be my last for the year in that place—I got the truck loaded and put everything into place in order not to have an early-morning ordeal. My quantities were miniscule for this market, and it turns out I predicted—with almost pinpoint accuracy—that I was going to sell very little there. As a result, I had only a muffin and a croissant left at the end of the day, some loaves of bread, and that’s all. A woman who scavenges the leavings of the different vendors came by my small pile of trash I’d stacked for the trash men. I had maybe a half-dozen of the long French breads in the truck, had no use for them, was going to drop them off at the convent on the way home—where they would use them for mealtime for the elderly residents the sisters housed there. I gave them to the woman instead. She comes by after every market, only goes through the different things that are still edible, never asks for anything. I often leave her something, or just give it to her if I see her before leaving for the day. On this day she spoke, telling me that she feeds many different people with the leftovers. She had nice fresh baguettes on this day, as they turned out pretty well.

I should mention that this market—the last one downtown—was accomplished by myself. Having skipped last week’s market, my helper didn’t understand that she was expected to join me on this day. It didn’t matter; I had plenty of time to put the elaborate display together, put absolutely every single thing in place, and—here’s the icing on the cake—I even remembered to individually bag orders for different people whom I knew would be coming, would want that one item, and would be surprised when I just produced the bag and handed it to them. It worked like a dream. Part of my reasoning for this added step was that, since I’d brought so little, I didn’t want my regular customers to be disappointed when they showed up for just the one thing, and I had to tell them I was already sold out.

I brought some boxes to the market as well. These were crude, wooden things I’d screwed together, thinking they would be useful way back when. Made of thin plywood, they were still in good shape, and even had hinged doors. Nothing really fit correctly on them, since my skills in that regard leave something to be desired, but they looked and acted like boxes, and you could even sit on them if you wanted to. I had two of them—and wanted to give them away to the first takers. They were just taking up space, were some of the many items I’d cleared off the front porch. I loaded them into the truck that morning—remembering as I left the house that I wanted to be rid of them.

My neighbors with the Christmas trees took them. I offered them first choice—or “right of first refusal” as people like to say. I approached the man with the severe expression, who’d helped me two weeks ago with my trees, explained that I was going to put the boxes out for someone to take away, and could they possibly use them? He consulted with his elderly partner, they agreed that there was maybe some use they could put the things to back at the farm, and took them over to their space. They positioned them next to the truck and sat down on them—one box per man. I was elated. They’d already found a better use than they'd seen on my front porch.

I’ll romanticize about the boxes for a little while now, reminisce into the future about their fate, their workings, their outings in a hay-field, the crop dry and ready for mowing. A wrench or some heavy cable maybe stored in the box, possibly a small quantity of feed for an ailing calf with its concerned mother, lying side-by-side in a distant pasture too far from the barn.
“Just shovel some feed into that box, we’ll drive it out there, see how they’re doing.”
A sunlit august afternoon, the shaft of light splintered into thousands of flecks as the barn’s doorway welcomes the summer day’s warmth. The boxes stand under some hanging tools, now there is dried dirt at the base, dust coats the worn wood. A boy, the youngest of the neighbor’s, sits to watch the men work on a machine that needs repair. Wanting to be out of the way, for fear they might holler at him, he sits on the tall box, rocks the creaking thing back and forth, the day unfolds slowly to his unknowing rhythm.