The chemistry of color turned out beautiful and went awry, the millefiori textures of mint green, teal, and orange-red flaked off the clay into shards of intricate beauty. I saved them because I want to use that color scheme again for something.
We took a walk afterwards down by the water. I love the way it feels like a beach town, with the tattered carnival decor, the condos on the shore, the old doubles with pinwheels and petunias and chipped plaster saints in the flower beds. She used to work down there at an Irish pub with a stone patio, bocce ball courts, and
lovely metalwork all around.
She knows most of the neighbors and we stopped often, having conversations about hookers in the alleys, graffiti writers and art we've been loving, and hostas in our gardens, as the neighbor's radio played "Kashmir," the clematis coiled around trellises and along stone walls next to lush ferns and plants that look so otherworldly green and tropical one wonders how they grow in this land of rust and snow.
(these photos are stolen from a housing thread and look like they were taken in the fall and do not do this justice)
The red sun dropped further in the sky toward the waiting lake. If I could ever live down here in an old shotgun house with a scrap metal frame to grow grapes on I would, to be able to sit out on a porch and see the water, drink tea and scrawl in notebooks would be a dream come true.