Memories of Mom

Mom had a ceramic kiln which was a metal cube about two and half feet on each side with a heavy, hinged lid on top and a very small window in the front. The kiln was lined with bricks of some kind and heated by electricity. She had molds in which she poured liquid clay and then then after a time, when a layer of clay had solidified against the inside surface of the mold, she would open the mold and remove the casting (I’m not sure if that is the correct term). The casting would then be put in the kiln, probably with a few others, and “fired.” She could tell when the firing was done by looking in the little window in the front of the kiln to see if the little test cone that she had put in with the castings had begun to melt. The kiln would then be turned off and allowed to cool over some hours after which the fired castings could be removed and painted. She would paint all sorts of detail on whatever it was she was making. I remember most her Santa Claus mugs which were about the size of a coffee cup with Santa’s face on one side and the stocking hat serving as the mug handle. After the castings were painted they had to be fired again to make the paint a permanent part of the finished piece. I don’t know when she quit doing ceramics or what happened to the kiln. Does anyone have any of her ceramics? Maybe a Santa Clause mug?

Mom was a stalwart in the ward. She served as Junior Sunday School Coordinator for many years. She was always one to be concerned for others and to help anyone whenever and however she could.

I never thought we were poor or deprived in any way but I know that it was not easy to make Dad’s income meet all our needs. She was always looking for ways to save or make things go further. One of her friends told Mom about her husband going pheasant hunting and bringing home some pheasants which made a great meal. Mom thought that sounded like a good way to save some money on her grocery budget so she talked Dad into borrowing somebody’s shotgun and going pheasant hunting. He took Gar and me with him and one Saturday afternoon we tramped all over some fields somewhere in south Salt Lake Valley trying to no avail to scare up pheasants. Gar and I were terribly disappointed because we thought that if Dad shot a few then maybe he would let us shoot too. Dad finally gave up and we were headed back to the car with Gar and me begging to be allowed to shoot the shotgun at least once each. Dad let us have our way and Gar shot first. He held the gun properly, tight against his shoulder, and the kickback was obviously powerful. He admitted to me that it hurt like crazy. So I was afraid to hold the gun against my shoulder. I held it rather loosely with the stock barely under my arm against my ribs. When it went off the stock kicked up against my jaw ramming my lower teeth into my uppers and breaking a piece off one tooth. The tooth had to be ground smooth by a dentist who did not perform his services for free. Rather that saving money on groceries, the pheasant hunting trip turned out to be a considerable expense. It is the only time I know of that Dad went hunting.