Saturday, July 23, 2016

Home Base

There's a big boulder of granite -- nobody knows how big because nobody ever tried to dig it up -- but only the very tip of it rises just above the sod at the north end of the yard (in the shade of a long-spent, untended pear tree). That tip of a boulder acted as home base for thousands of hide'n'seek, kickball and baseball (played with a tennis ball) games (A home run was over the pines that lined the south end of the yard).

I used to cut that acre into walking paths and then, finally, after creating mazes, mow over the whole thing -- always after the grass was too tall to cut well. We mowed the yard with a series of cheap Sears mowers with bald tires and Briggs&Stratton engines that usually gave up the ghost by mid-Summer. Then we'd take turns mowing with a push mower.

Between the nine-apple-tree orchard and the pie shape of pines and at the edge of the property was our burn pile. Just about every other day one of us six kids would walk the burnable trash out there and set in on fire. On cold days we'd stand by watching styrofoam meat platters melt over cereal boxes. We could watch the image of the Wheaties athlete turning into a charcoal negative of itself. As black smoke sent rivulets upward into the sky, we'd warm our hands and enjoy the fire.

On hot Summer days like this one, we'd walk away from the fire -- leaving the only evidence of burning in the way the rising heat rippled and pushed its distortions through the air above the pile. Once or twice in my lifetime, we'd catch the adjoining field on fire. One of those times somebody called the fire department.

Across the yard and above the sand pile -- a sand pile we used for fun and Tonka Truck business, but dad put there to add sand to the mortar to build his rock wall -- was a tire swing. One of my brothers threw a weighted rope up into a horizontal branch of that huge walnut tree and then secured it around one side of an old bald, used tire. We'd swing high and we'd swing wide and just every now and then we'd swing around and kick off the trunk of that walnut tree.

And the walnut tree had a HUGE bee hive in its hollow. HUGE. I know it was. We used to poke sticks into it and then run -- sometimes making it all the way across the yard -- to safety. Sometimes we didn't make it. Bees are fast. They take offense at being poked.

There were two cherry trees in that front yard. They produced sour cherries (not that they tasted sour -- it's the kind of cherry they were). I ate as many as the birds would leave behind.

On the other side of the house was a catalpa tree. It was right out by Spring Mill Rd (Do you realize how close the spelling of "Spring Mill is to "Millring"? :) ). The catalpa tree was a big one and its shadow was entirely covered in square yards of wild day lilies. Adventurous and budding hoodlum impersonators, we'd smoke the hollowed, spent stalks of the day lilies. No, it didn't taste good. Yes it burned. Yes it was stupid. Was it the stupidest thing we did back then? Don't ask.

But the real glory of the catalpa tree was a long-ago sawed off branch that left four or five feet of horizontal, western saddle-shaped protrusion from the trunk, just about 8 feet from the ground. A fella could spend hours sitting in that saddle reading a book. Or so I imagine.

The sugar maple that grew closer to the house turned an impossibly brilliant orange in the Autumn. It was an orange of such florescence on a rainy day that I bet it could be seen through cloud cover from a satellite miles above earth. I'm guessing that the moon navigated the night skies by that tree.

And in the Summer, if you had the bedroom in the corner at the top of the stairs, you could enjoy itching all night as tiny bugs that populated that maple would completely cover the window screen. And the window screen kept those tiny bugs out of that bedroom to much the same degree as, say, chain link fence might hold back a fast-flowing river.

When I was twelve Mom brought home from Lumber Mart the very thing that changed the entire gravitational center of that yard. She bought me a basketball goalpost. From then on that driveway and that goalpost were the only thing that mattered in that yard. Maybe in my universe.

I had an AC/DC radio and I could listen to WNAP for hours. And hours. And hours. I shot baskets. I envisioned a car full of Indiana Pacers driving by, screeching tires, backing up, pulling into the drive, and challenging me to 2 on 2 games (I really only excelled at hoops when you reduced the number of players ). That never happened. I know, right?

That's the first hoop I ever dunked anything (a tennis ball) on.

The hoop was flawed. It had never been properly welded at the support, so if you missed and hit the front rim, the ball was likely to spring nearly as far in return as the distance from which it was shot. It was like the ball hitting the end of a springy diving board.

Up driveway from the hoop....and back about 7 years in time.... was the garage -- attached to the house by a breezeway. The garage was never finished on the inside. It housed the freezer. And junk. Lots of junk. The rafters had a few hundred (maybe?) bottomless galvanized garbage cans that were meant to be buried in the ground and used as what we in this day would call a compost cellar. It was supposed to rot away all the garbage. It was one of Dad's marketing schemes. Dad, as far as I know, never sold one. We didn't use one either (note my comment about the burn pile )

On the last days of the school year, I would come home through the breezeway door that faced Springmill Rd -- up the brick steps where Jimmy tripped on a wire used to deliver bundles of Indianapolis Star for us paper carriers. He bit all the way through his lower lip (I think he still has the scar more than fifty years on).

And as I entered the house from that direction, I'd be greeted by the late spring, early summer smells of mom having opened up the house, ironing on the Ironrite, and doing the first preparations for dinner (which we had with almost unwavering consistency at 6:30 every night. And mom worked full time. Let that sink in for a minute.)

And we'd sit together -- no TV, no radio -- just conversations, teasing, arguments, silence, and simple food. But not until we said in unison:

Oh Heavenly Father, who doth feed our bodies with daily food, feed Thou our spirits with Thy heavenly grace that we might truly serve Thee,

Through Christ our Lord,


Friday, July 22, 2016

Swing Low

I've seen him around town for a few years now. He can be seen most mornings walking the streets around the edge of town and out into the countryside. He's beating the tall grass and bushes by the roadsides, looking for aluminum and scraps of metal to recycle. 

The reason I see him quite often is because the scrap metal yard where he cashes in his finds happens to be 1/8 mile from my shop.

But what actually made me start noticing him is his partner. Ever by his side walks a small red Pomeranian tethered to his belt with about six feet of string. 

The dog looks like a miniature chow-chow and I suspect that even without the string, he wouldn't wander too far off from his pal. I'm guessing the string is for the man's peace of mind -- working as he does along busy roads.

One hot summer morning I stopped my van alongside him to ask if he wanted some water for his little dog. He mumbled a ‘thanks but no thanks’ as he reached into the pack behind him to show me that he carries water for the dog.

Well, this morning as I was riding my bike to work I passed him heading out to the scrap metal yard. This time he was riding a bike. I'd never seen him with a bike. And behind the bike he was towing a two-wheeled cart filled with his cache to cash.

And in the front of that cart the fellow had built up a little bench upon which sat the Pomeranian -- wind in his ever smiling face, riding his chariot like he owned the road.

I smiled too. Most of the rest of the way to work.

Tuesday, July 12, 2016

Another Review

Fast on the heels of the last review -- I logged onto my Etsy site tonight to the following review:

"I have been collecting functional pottery for thirty years and I have never been as enamored with any piece as much as I am with this one. It is stunning. 

Everything about it is exquisite and perfect; the shape, the fit of the lid, the rich autumn colors of the glaze, the beautifully turned acorns and lifelike leaf impressions. Just gorgeous! I can't believe you "threw" the acorns on the wheel! 

Thanks too for the surprise treats. My mother is an "acorn nut," too, so I plan to give her the pin. I designed a tile entry way for her home that is leaves and acorns because she loves them so much. I am thrilled to be able to pass along a little of your creativity. 

I will be keeping an eye on your site. I'm already loving other items :) Thanks for creating and producing such fine work. What a gem this is!!!"

Monday, July 11, 2016

Glowing Review

I get the nicest reviews on my Etsy page.  I thought I ought to share this one, written by a faithful patron who has supported me for years now:

"There are no words to properly describe how utterly beautiful this piece is. The colors, the swirls, the shape...everything gives off a feeling of utter tranquility and perfection. It's like walking through a meadow of irises as dawn breaks. Incredible work of art! As always, John, you're the master."

Sunday, July 10, 2016

Wishin' and Hopin'

Wishin' and Hopin'

(no, that's not "Wishin' and Hoppin'", though I'll bet you read it that way first, huh? :) )

You're on "Let's Make a Deal!" and you're facing the three numbered doors. Monty Hall tells you that behind one of the doors is a million dollars (you just heard "meelyun dollllllars" in Dr Evil's voice, didn't you?)

...back to the story...

Monty tells you there's a million dollars behind one of the doors and you get to pick one of the doors, but behind the other two doors are mules. Much as you love mules, you pick door #1 in hopes of winning a million dollars.
But Monty's dealing doesn't end there.

Rather than first revealing what's behind door #1, Monty instead turns to Carol Merrill and asks her to kindly reveal what's behind door #3.

A mule.

Carol Merrill walks the mule off stage to much audience laughter. Mules are inherently funny.

But the deal making isn't done. Monty next turns back to you and says, "Tell you what I'm gonna do. I'll trade doors with you. If you want to, you can give door #1 back to me, and I'll give you what's behind door #2.

If you stick with door #1, you are wishing to win a million dollars.

If you take Monty up on the deal and trade for door #2, you are hoping to win a million dollars.

And that's the difference between wishing and hoping. And don't let Dusty Springfield tell you otherwise.

Real Dreams

He was showing me something on his computer monitor, so I happened to be standing over his shoulder and to his left when he opened his top desk drawer. In it I could see a whole stack of lottery tickets. Hundreds of them. Maybe. Okay, maybe dozens. I don’t know. I didn’t count them. But there were lots of them.

“What’s with the lottery tickets?” I asked.

“I like to buy them.” He answered.

“So, are those tickets winning tickets or losing tickets or what?” I prompted.

“I have no idea.” He said. “I just buy them and keep them in the drawer.”

“You mean you’ve never checked them out to see if they’re winners?” I continued.

“There’s really no point.” was his response.

“No point? What if one of them is a winner?”

“They’re not.”

“Well, if you’ve never checked them out, then how do you know there’s not a winner in there?”

“Odds.” He said. “The odds of winning are astronomical. The odds of winning are about the same as being hit by lightning. I’ve not yet been hit by lightning, nor a train (which occurs with just about the same frequency), nor have I contracted a rare blood disorder, nor have I defied the odds in any other way. Probability tells me that there is no winner in that drawer.”

“So, then, why buy the tickets?”

“They allow me to dream.” Was his reply. “I like to dream about the things I would do if money were no object.”

“Can’t you dream without buying a lottery ticket?”

“That would be utterly futile. I’m a realist. Do you think I can believe that money like that would just appear out of thin air?”

“So, you buy lottery tickets so you can dream?”


“And you don’t check them out because you’re a realist?”


STARwhite Carolina Clay

I've had this North Carolina stoneware in the shop since last Autumn. I bought it to use with my sunburst glaze, but it has the annoying property -- fired cone 10 gas -- of creating only one or two blisters per pot....each right in the very center of the most important visual space of the entire piece.
So I put the clay aside.

Meanwhile, this Spring I resurrected my working with porcelain and came up with a look I like. 

Then one day I happened to be thinking porcelain but looking at my languishing stack of STARwhite clay.
Hmmmm, says I.


If my dog, Breeze, drank black coffee
I’d make sure my mugs fit his paws
His dewclaw could wrap ‘round the thumb rest
The rim wide enough for his jaws

We’d take our coffee out on the back porch
The red birds would sing us awake
As we sat hip to hip on the swinging bench
Everything rosy, everything jake

I might turn to him and ask “What do you think?”
He won’t look. He might flick an ear.
And though he has yet to utter a word
I know he likes having me there

That’s just how things are with me and Breeze
I’m a man of too many words
And Breeze, the quiet but thoughtful type
Just sitting, enjoying the birds

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Profiles In Love

I read somewhere that dogs recognize profiles. The idea behind the study was that if you ever wondered why dogs respond in predictable ways to other dogs with pricked ears or a certain sweep of the tail, slope of a back, or bulk, it’s because they recognize those general dog silhouettes. That’s how they seem to recognize their own breed. And that’s how they recognize each other – though they’re as likely to take such recognition cues from smell as they are from sight.
My dogs have always seemed to prove the rule. My Malamutes have always seemed to recognize the outlines of dogs that appear similar to the dogs they already know. Breeze seems inclined to think, for instance, upon meeting Deacon (the Lab) that Deacon is okay because he appears much as his friend, Jewel – a very similar looking leggy Lab.

And that’s also why my Malamutes have always seemed particularly alert when they come across other Northern breed dogs – Huskies, Samoyeds, and other Malamutes. When Breeze sees pricked up ears and a tail curled over the back, he immediately seems to suspect “family”. 

And so it was the other day as Dar was walking Breeze in a neighborhood they don’t usually walk, Dar’s attention was caught by some movement off to her left. In the back yard of a nearby house was a Malamute. And not just any Malamute either, but a Malamute with a profile so similar to our dear, departed Ariel’s profile that Dar's breath caught and she stood there frozen. Her heart raced for the split second it took before her brain could remind her heart that there was no hope. It couldn’t (of course) be her beloved Ariel.

And then she looked down beside her. There stood Breeze. Frozen in his tracks. Full recognition in his eyes. And hope. His heart wasn’t getting the message of reason. Such a hopeful optimist, bless him.

They walked on. 

Breeze looked back.

Sunday, May 22, 2016

Things Aren't Always What They Seem

See that pie plate over there on the wheel? Yeah, I know. It doesn't look much like a pie plate.

I was throwing jars early this morning with the clay I'd brought back to life with water and my pug mill. It was really lifeless and sloppy while working on the jars. So I figured I'd make pie plates -- where soft and sloppy would actually be to my advantage.

Funny thing, though. This third or fourth time through the pug mill and the magic happened. As I was centering the first pie plate it dawned on me that the clay had come to life. So I made a taller pie plate with a spout and, you know, a place for a handle in back. So you can pour your pie. Or beer.



What would happen if potters
Started making guitar player faces?
What if we broke into grimaces
Even though we’re just turning vases?

What if, while wedging four-pounders
We sneered for all that we’re worth
Or mimicked an expression of abject pain
Like a woman enduring child birth?

Oh! Better yet! What if we envisioned
Adoring fans holding out candles
And adopted naughty, lascivious grins
While languidly pulling our handles?

Would our pots reflect our hip attitude
If we looked like we couldn’t care less?
It seems to work for guitar players
Could this be the key to success?

Saturday, May 21, 2016


Just over in the corner to the right
If you look real close with a flashlight
And a pile of old clay boxes rests upended
Well, I found just what I need, sayin’
A thousand pounds of stoneware clay an’
Just like that, yeah, I was in business
I was in business

Oh, oh, what a mess
So rock hard, I should have guessed
As box after heavy box I lugged it. Still
I’m watering it down
Pound after pound after too hard pound
Just thanking the Lord for my pugmill
For my pugmill

Sunday, May 15, 2016

Home Sweet, Sweet Home

My pots are getting to go places I wish I could go.  I had to post this one because the photo is just so darn winsome.  A perfect home for my new mugs.  Meet Paul.

Sunday, May 8, 2016

Baumonet Mugs

 If you asked me what was my earliest childhood memory, there might be two events vying for first. One would be the birth of my baby brother, Jim. The second would be a visit to my Uncle Irving's home in Upstate New York.

It's not that I remember my Uncle Irving. I really don't. I was probably 4 years old at the time of the visit. And Irving was actually my Dad's uncle -- an old man by then, being the oldest of 3 brothers (Walter -- an WWI invalid, and my grandfather, Elmer, being the other two).

But I have distinct memories of Irving's New York house. More precisely, I remember his basement painting studio. Open rail stair case leading down. Dark to the right. Lighted to the left with easel, workbench, and paints. The smell of linseed oil and turpentine. Oh, the smells. Canvases leaning low against the walls or laying flat on tables. A dirty, clouded glass door at the end of the small room leading out to an unkempt meadow. From the cool of the basement, I could see dragonflies buzzing about on that hot summer day.

I don't know what Irving did for a living. Whatever it was, it never stopped him from painting. He was prolific. Many of his paintings still warm the walls of Bauman family homes. The harbor scene -- dated 1911 -- is on my living room wall.

The romantic me -- which is, admittedly, a too big part of me -- has always been fascinated with painting. Fortunately, pottery took me away from it. But I've dabbled around the edges of expression with a brush and color. And that's what my newest explorations have allowed me. Painted mugs.

Saturday, April 16, 2016


"Come here."

"I'm already here."

"No, you're not. I want you here."

"Again, I'm already here."

"I mean I want you by my side."

"Well, you didn't say that. You said 'I want you here'. Now you're changing the subject."

"No, I'm not changing the subject. I've said all along that I want you here."


"Exactly what?"

"Exactly, you said you want me here. And, as I said before, I'm already here. Asked and answered, as they say."

"Well then, I want you there."



"Okay. I'll go there."

"No, I was complying with your use of language. If you won't come here because you are already here, then I want you there."

"And I complied. I moved there."

"But aren't you here now?"


"Well then, how do I get you here?"

"I think you just did."

"No, I mean here."

"I know."

"Okay, let's try this. You come to where I am."

"I can't."

"Why can't you?"

"the Pauli exclusion principle."


"Two things cannot occupy the same space at the same time. Therefore, I cannot be where you are."

"I didn't mean exactly where I am."

"You didn't specify."

"Well, I'm specifying now. Come here."

"I'm already here."

"No, I mean come close to where I am."

"I'm already close to where you are."

"No you're not."

"Yes I am."

"No, you must be at least 20 feet away from me."

"Right. That would be my guess too."

"So you are NOT close to me."

"Yes I am. I'm way closer to you than I am to, say, the sun."

"I suppose that's so. But you are far enough away that you and I are not occupying the same space."

"Right. Pauli exclusion."

"But you're not close to me."

"You mean you're now excluding me from your circle of friends?"


"You said "you're not close to me".


"And I always thought we were fairly close. I've even told you some of my innermost feelings. Now you're saying that you're not close to me."

"I didn't mean 'close' that way."

"Then you mean 'close' like 'close the door'?"

"No, that's not even pronounced the same way."

"It's not?"

"No, one has a soft 's' sound and the other has a hard 's' sound."

"So one is harder to say?"


"You said that one has a hard 's' sound."



"No, that doesn't mean it's hard to say. I refers to the sound it makes."

"But aren't you then being deceptive?"

"How so?"

"You said "the sound it makes." "


"But an 's' doesn't make a sound. Your voice makes the sound, right?"

"Technically I suppose you're right. But I didn't mean to be deceiving. I was just saying that it was the sound an 's' makes when you speak it."

"There you go again."

"Where do I go again?"


"No, I'm not. I'm here."