This post is popping back up for a number of reasons: 1) It was Mother’s Day in most of the world including New Zealand (where I was mothered) yesterday 2) It is the most popular post I have written, getting hits on almost a daily basis 3) I’ve been contacted by a museum archivist about my collection and have completed a ‘material culture’ analysis of my pottery – its appeal, its use, its history. That was a lot of fun. And 4) because I’m just so lucky to be the keeper of these pieces. Thanks, Mum.
My mother always referred to her favourite collection of pottery as ‘The Lucie Rie’. This was a recurring refrain in my childhood.
“Don’t touch The Lucie Rie.” (self explanatory)
“Be careful that’s too close to The Lucie Rie.” (about any dangerous/ugly article breathing The LR’s blessed air)
“I’ll use The Lucie Rie.” (special occasions only)
And “Get down you’ll break The Lucie Rie!”
I did. The shards of smashed coffee pot glinted at me, still half way up the dresser, from their resting place on the kitchen floor. That evening I was closer to getting a smack than at any other time in my childhood. But even worse that that was the sight of my father holding my mother as she cried in his arms and I turned tight circles on my tricycle in the front yard pretending I didn’t care.
I was, as a child, not only fearful of…
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