The kiln yard is finally clear of the rusting steel shell of the old kiln. Two nice men, one of whom looked like the Incredible Hulk, the other like sunshine-fresh Mr. Clean, carried it off yesterday free of charge. The kiln yard looks, if not clean, at least spacious: gone is the maze of rusty hulks to negotiate while carrying boards or buckets. As I understand it, Misters Clean and Hulk will sell the scrap steel, and everybody's happy.
The worst pots from the last firing, way too many of them, I've smashed with a hammer. There were many seconds: bowls with kiln kisses resembling wads of spittle in the middle; a casserole that looks perfect until you turn it to see a crawl spot the size of a dollar bill; mugs that have (now ground) kiln drippings right on the lip. These I've tagged to sell when I put out the front-yard shelves again: if you live in Augusta, stop by. There will be a lot of offerings this week.
I compared the last firing to a bad kiss; and (as a commenter pointed out) like kissing, a bad one won't stop us, because the good ones are so very good. The keepers are priced and sorted, and I have nearly enough ware for a bisque already.
So I'll have an Altoid, apply a bit of lipstick - not too much! - and pucker up again. I have a pretty good hit rate for toads-to-princes, so I am undaunted.
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