Midmod Musings

Farewell, Lucy

Lucy was Paul's dog. You need to know that.

Certainly, she and I developed a bond over the last four years. I would pick her up and hold her like a parent might hold a child, and - when the mood struck her - she would give me kisses. One, two, or three -- sometimes as many as five! -- quick little licks on the cheek. How joyful those kisses made me.

When I brushed her, particularly when she was overdue for a grooming, she went limp and made a sound somewhere between a kitten's purr and a hungry stomach. It was a happy sound. (Until I tugged too hard on a snarl. Then she'd nip me to remind me who was boss.)

But in the same way you know, deep inside, that the guy you're dating never got over his ex, I knew that I would never be more than runner up in the pageant of her dads. Her excitement upon my entrance into a room was more about her (justifiable) confidence that I would soon be giving her a treat. Her genuine enthusiasm – the kind that made her bounce her front end up and down and grunt and yip in pleasure – that was reserved for Daddy Paul. Long after cataracts had diminished her vision, Lucy’s gaze and attention always pursued Daddy Paul first.

I say this as a disclaimer. For no matter how deeply I have grieved Lucy's passing in the last four weeks, my grief is second to Paul's. As Lucy's daddy for the last 13 years, his sorrow is the kind that weeps in the quiet hours of the day and steals the mirth from your eyes and the peace from your heart. I know this sorrow, from the time I lost Angus, but it is not my sorrow now.

But I do grieve.

I miss Lucy in the morning, when we used to walk around the block, and she would smell the ivy and pee on the mondo grass and trip on that same uneven sidewalk no matter what I did to alert her to its presence.

I miss Lucy in the afternoon, when I'd get home from work, and she'd leap up from her bed and try to figure out where I was and how quickly she would get her biscuit.

I miss her at bedtime, when I would take her on her last walk of the day. In recent months, she had not been sleeping through the night, so we would wait as late as we could to take her out, hoping that going potty at 11 or 11:30 might push her wake-up time back to 5 or 5:30 instead of 3. (It only rarely did.)

I miss the enthusiastic grunting sounds she made when devouring a treat. Those noises earned her the nickname "Piglet."

I miss calling her Piglet.

When I lost Angus, I think I was most struck by how much his absence disturbed my routine. Nothing went the way it had. Even something as mundane as eating a banana felt wrong. Angus always ate the last bite of my bananas. I didn't know what to do with that last little bit. I could hardly eat it myself. It wasn't mine.

What I realize now, with Lucy's passing, is how much we give of ourselves to our dogs. It's like our souls are velcroed together, and when a dog dies, there's this horrible ripping sound and something that is a part of us -- not just a companion, but a physical part of us -- is torn violently away.

Both Paul and I had behaviors, and language, that were exclusive to how we interacted with Lucy. We each had a tone of voice, a litany of phrases, a repertoire of gestures and actions, that were unique to Lucy. And we will never use any of them again. I'd say a good 30% of our daily selves abruptly became irrelevant with her passing. 30% of our daily affection and attention has nowhere to go. We can't use it. The sensation is unsettling. It's haunting. And it hurts like hell.

It makes tears roll down my cheeks to recall Paul calling Lucy "Baby." That was his special way of addressing her. He never calls anyone else "Baby." And I still hear him, huddled over her limp form as it grew cold at the emergency vet's, asking over and over again, "What am I going to do without you, Baby?" That is the sound of heartbreak.

If you asked me, on any given day, what I believe about God or life after death, I wouldn't be able to say anything with certainty. I'd say some noncommittal thing that shows a desire to believe but reflects an utter lack of faith in my own worthiness to enter heaven, should it exist.

Yet, ask me about what happens to dogs after death, and I will tell you with absolute conviction that they go to heaven. That their souls in heaven are like their physical bodies in the prime of life. That they have fields to play in, toys to chase, ponds to swim in, and endless supplies of treats. I will tell you that Jesus can carry messages to them, messages that they understand, messages that they are glad to receive before they bound away into a grassy glade dappled in sunlight. I believe this.

At night, when I walk my dog Murphy now, I will stop at the driveway where Lucy had her final seizure. I will make Murphy sit and I will kneel, and I will talk to Jesus, that great Western Union of Departed Canines, and send messages to Lucy. Sometimes I tell her what made me think of her that day. Sometimes I apologize for not realizing that she must have been in pain for a while. Sometimes, I tell her to go find Angus and play with him. Every time, I tell her how much her daddies miss her. I look up to the sky and I wish I could give her one more treat, or brush her one more time, or feel her kisses on my cheek. And I cry.

I miss you, little Piglet. Farewell.

It's like pornography...

As a midcentury modern enthusiast, I'm kind of like Peggy Lee: I know a little bit about a lot of things. So there's substantial delight to be found in meeting people who know a little more about some things. The folks at Mid2Mod are the kind you can geek out with. Walk into their new digs in Deep Ellum, and your curiosity will yield anecdotes about Jens Risom's "Playboy" chair, the kerfluffle that Edward Wormley caused when he designed a line for Drexel (while he was principal designer at Dunbar), and the genesis of Broyhill's hyperboloid Brasilia line. When something catches your eye -- and if you like modernism at all, something will -- just ask proprietor Joe Eggleston or one of his midmod mavens about it.

But be careful. That information can transform idle curiosity into unanticipated covetousness. Take that aformentioned Brasilia line. I had seen examples of it before, and admired it, but learning from Doni Biggs that it had been inspired by the architecture of Oscar Niemayer for the new capitol of Brazil in the early 1960s, well, it became that much more interesting. Look at this room divider: how can you not just sort of want it? Like in an "I've been eating cauliflower for a week and you're grilling a Texas ribeye RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME" kind of way?

I'd explain that the reason I didn't purchase this room divider, and tackle the shopper wearing a Gilligan hat who dared to look in its direction, was that Paul and I don't really have the need for one, or the money, for that matter.

But then how would I explain to you our visit to the Mid2Mod warehouse sale yesterday? Joe and fellow dealer Doni had a host of goodies in a darkened storefront space on Main Street in Deep Ellum. ("We get electricity next week," explained Joe.) These ranged from the swelligant (a marble-topped McCobb credenza) to the unusual (a bow-tie shaped wall mirror) to the funky (lucite tables and chairs). Unfortunately, they were fresh out of Danish modern sideboards, which is what Paul and I really were after. (We'd like something swankier to put our TV on in the living room.) Lots of items intrigued us, but they were not what we needed. And as far as "just because" purchases go, well... Finding the right midcentury accessory is sort of like pornography. You know it when you see it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As if on cue, Joe pulled a Danish modern valet chair off his truck and plopped it in the front window. Did I need this? No. Did I know anything about it? No. But I absolutely had to have it. It sang to me. It flirted with me. It asked to be in my life, and I said, "Okay." I'm not sure what it was about the object - the rope seat in perfect condition? The sculpted armrests? The slight "grasshopper" flair of the back legs? Who cares! We're soul mates and I don't care what anyone says. We'll elope if we have to.

Meanwhile, deeper in the warehouse, Paul was embarking on similar relationships with a sculptural Scandinavian lamp and a Milo Baughman recliner. He thought the chair was okay before he tried it out. Then he sat in it and leaned back. It was love at first recline. The best part, in Paul's view, is that it just looks like a normal chair. The foot rest hides up under the seat until you push back. Then, surprise! And it's so much prettier than a Barcalounger. As far as the lamp goes, I loved it too. I immediately thought of how great it would look on our hearth.

So Paul and I dug deep into our tax refunds and spent like sailors. The only buyer's remorse we felt that afternoon was for the ginormous breakfast platters we consumed at the All Good Cafe a few doors down. (I mean, seriously good food, but, whoa.)

Once home, Paul and I "installed" our new acquisitions in temporary locations around the house. We're not sure where the recliner or the valet will end up, but we're happy with the lamp on the hearth. So, too, it would appear, is Murphy:

Humble Endings

In Lou Reed and John Cale's musical tribute to Andy Warhol, Songs for Drella (1990), Reed sing-speaks the pop artist's aesthetic: "I think images are worth repeating/images repeated from a painting/images taken from a painting/from a photo worth re-seeing/I love images worth repeating."

Warhol was one of the most famous collectors of Russel Wright's work, and many of us today share a Warholian passion for repeated images in our one-of-a-color collections of Wright's designs. There is something captivating about a shape, repeated in multiple hues, occupying a shelf or cabinet. Repetition reveals the nuances of the form. At the same time, juxtaposing the different colors on like forms shows the brilliance and subtlety of Wright's glazing.

I have several one-of-a-color collections, but the first one I began was a set of American Modern creamers. Sure, the American Modern pitcher, with its imposing, coal-scuttle shape is clearly a more iconic form, but who has room for ten of them -- 11 if you count Steubenville Blue? I opted for the smaller, streamlined, birdlike creamer. Its spout seemed to have been formed simply by pulling one's finger through the clay, and yet its proportion and sleekness are precise and elegant.

I didn't intend to collect one of each color. I had started a service in Chartreuse, and I merely purchased a creamer to go with it. Then, I started finding other creamers, inexpesively, at antique shops. Seafoam. Black Chutney.  Coral. When I displayed them side-by-side, they reminded me of the cartoon birds in the opening credits of The Partridge Family. I started to obsess about getting all of the colors. By the late 1990s/early 2000s, I was patrolling eBay to get the rarer colors: Cantaloupe. Bean Brown. Cedar Green. White (uncrazed!). Of course, it was the peak of the market then, but if you average all of the creamers together, I probably paid about $25 for each. The more I got, the more fun I had arranging them. In a row. In a zigzag. Like a school of fish.

I stumbled upon a Glacier Blue creamer out in the wild one day, and I realized that the only one I was still missing was Granite Gray. Common, ubiquitous, humble Granite Gray. You could probably walk into any antique shop in America and buy one tomorrow. Torn between the drive to finish the set and the letdown that I knew would ensue once I did, I made a deal with myself. I would not buy a Granite Gray creamer unless I found one for $7.50 or less.

The number was arbitrary, but let me tell you, it kept the quest going for 10 years! In that decade, I must have come across dozens, possibly hundreds of granite gray creamers. But none was priced right. Around 2008, I wondered if perhaps I should adjust for inflation, and increase the price to $10. But I stuck with $7.50.

And yesterday, in Mesquite, Texas, I found a granite gray creamer marked at $6. I picked it up, along with a granite gray pitcher marked at $20, and marched to the cashier. The search was over. The collection was complete.

Now all I have to do is find the box with the other nine. I know it's here somewhere.

P.S. If anyone has documentation of a Steubenville Blue creamer, I don't want to hear about it. I'm done. I'm focusing on that redesigned Casual China mug in Charcoal now.

P.P.S. If anyone does happen to have proof that the American Modern coaster exists in Cantaloupe, please send me a picture. I can't tell if I'm on a snipe hunt with that one.

Eva Zeisel: 1906-2011

When my grandmother died a few years ago, my grief was deep and stubborn. It held on tight, like a parasite, to my beating heart which gave it life. I could not get past my sorrow until Janet Wheelock, the first priest with whom I ever sat down to pray, coaxed the grief out of me. Amid cathartic tears, I had a vision. And when I say that, I don't mean an apparition that floated above me like an angel in some Medieval triptych. But I had a clear image in my head of my grandmother, my Oma, in white robes, looking like she did in my earliest memories of her. She gazed at me silently with such peace and  contentment that my sorrow melted like the dirty, crusty pack of snow that finally, in May, becomes water and washes down the gutters. I felt certain that Oma was happy, and I felt whole again.

I bring this up because I am trying to grapple with the grief that is absent upon designer Eva Zeisel's passing. To be sure, when I read the news on my phone last Friday after leaving the chiropractor's office, I uttered a wail of "Oh, no!" that came from the bottommost well of my emotions. Paul (who was driving) worried that my back had flared up again. I told him no, "Eva Zeisel died this morning." In a strange, egotistical way, I wondered to myself if her passing had occured the moment my back went out. Because I could believe that. I could believe that Eva's departure from this plane would rupture not just my physical body, but the bodies of all my collector friends. We speak of her by using her first name. We use her objects, and feel like we have her in the room with us. Her spirit occupies our homes and our hearts. Why shouldn't her death crumple some of us in pain?

But a moment later, the deep pang left me. I had this thought: If Eva could create the designs we love on earth, constrained by the laws of physics and the infirmities and frailties of her human self, what resplendent ideas had suddenly been unleashed in heaven? What inconceivable beauty was suddenly unspooling from her spirit on another plane?

I'm not typically spiritual in that way, but that's where my head went. I imagined all the souls in heaven with fantastic dinnerware.

I thought I would take a moment to cite a few favorite designs here on this plane, photographed above. Starting with the gravy boat in front and going counter clockwise:

9. The underdog of Eva's oeuvre, Meito Norleans is an underappreciated line largely due to the floral decorations applied to her shapes. But if you consider the exquisite quality of the china (manufactured in Occupied Japan) and the fine gilding prominent in most of the patterns, you can understand the line's popularity in postwar homes, prior to the height of minimalist modernism in the 50s. The fact that the indentations on several items (like the underplate pictured) were intended to evoke a baby's bottom drives some collectors batty (I'm talking to you, Scott Lindberg), but I find this uniquely feminine. I don't think a male designer would ever have thought of that. And clearly, it resonated with American housewives, at least on a subliminal level. The gravy boat is a precursor to the multifarious forms of the Hall Century line -- squat from some angles, slender from others, it surprises the beholder at every turn.

8. The crystal candleholder designed for the Orange Chicken in the 1990s is a heavy, gorgeous piece of glass that refracts and reflects light like no other object I have seen. And though it may seem like an heir to Eva's earlier buttocks-inspired shapes, I encourage you to imagine it with a candle in place and see what other anatomical reference comes to mind.

7. The Riverside goblet ranks among my favorite designs of all time. The delicate, almost translucent china gives it a ghostly presence, and its bulbous, ergonomic form begs you to hold it. As your fingers clasp the neck, they feel comfortable, at home. This object was meant to be touched.

6. The cruet for Tomorrow's Classic by Hall is my favorite form in the line. True, I haven't figured out how you get oil into the cruet's slender opening without spilling, but who cares? It has grace and proportion and presence. The example pictured features the "Buckingham" pattern, which Eva helped design, and was based on the wrought iron gates in the park near her New York apartment.

5 and 4. Eva's late-career, short-lived collaboration with Nambe yielded several exceptional designs that made you scratch your head and ask, "How old is she? And she designed this just now?" Her stemware features unique, trumpet-shaped stems that flare at the bottom. Her metal alloy vases exploit the reflective surfaces and create a funhouse mirror effect for the onlooker. Genius.

3. Castleton's Museum ware, comissioned by the Museum of Modern Art, earned Eva the first one-woman show at the museum. A lot of people (rightly) point to the teapot and coffeepot in Museum White as enduring icons of modern design. I happen to collect the line in the Mandalay pattern by Chinese artist Ching Chih Yee. The red and gray Asian botanical design seems very 1950s to me. And as sublime as the other Museum pouring pieces are, the water pitcher is perfection. It reminds me of a stately male bird, puffed up to woo a mate. I don't know how Eva did it, but with that pitcher, she created the perfect, dripless spout.

2. Silhouette, by Bryce Brothers, is a rare line of glass that came in luscious, jewel-like hues. The thick glass at the base is a rich repository of color, and the thinness of the bowl allows to color to dissipate and almost vanish. It's like the color of the glass is evaporating, and you are witnessing its evansecence.

1. It's hard to select a favorite shape from Red Wing's Town & Country line. Even non-collectors love the "Schmoos," the salt and pepper shakers that nestle together like mother and child (another feminine motif). The gaping mouths of the pitchers, the tilt of the plates, the ergonomic handle of the casserole, the grace of the syrup pitcher. Really, how do you choose? Simple. You look at the teapot. You look at it from every angle and try to understand how it works. How does that squat, off-kilter blob of a teapot achieve mystery and majesty? How can that handle so perfectly counterbalance the weight of the full pot? How can that slender spout pour so effortlessly? How in God's name does the lid stay on? The first time I encountered one of these teapots, it was like I was having a conversation with it. It was a character, a presence, a lively sprite, teasing me with questions, longing for interaction. The fact that it was made in my home state only makes it more wonderful.

I could easily have cited a dozen more "favorite" designs, but I stop here. I was lucky enough to meet Eva once, briefly, and thank her for the joy she had brought to my life through her work. One rarely has the chance to tell that directly to one's heroes. It was a blessing. And I say thank you, again, Eva, for a long and creative life that inspired so many others.

Rest in peace.

Before He Was Modern

When I look at the early work of my favorite designers, it's usually easy to see that they had the modern impulse from the get-go. Russel Wright's aluminum designs, Eva Zeisel's ceramics for Schramberg Majolica Factory -- they are trend-forward, exploring materials, shapes, and ideas with a distinctly cutting-edge aesthetic.

In 1940, Red Wing Potteries hired Charles Murphy to set up hand-decorated dinnerware production. His first foray was Provincial Luncheon Ware, designed to evoke French provincial styles. The teapot above is in the Brittany pattern, which he also designed. In form and decoration, the Brittany teapot is decidedly, deliberately, not modern. The bright floral pattern feels quaint and, well, provincial, and the rosebud that serves as the knob on the lid, while charming, is rather twee. No one looking at this teapot in 1940 would feel the shock of the new.

And yet, knowing where Murphy's designs would go allows one to see glimmers of his soon-to-be modern spirit. That spout balances the handle gracefully, and that selfsame knob I called twee two sentences ago has a playfulness that urges you to pick it up. In fact, if anything, Murphy's designs for me always have a compelling, tactile presence -- they invite touch and handling. Compare the Provincial shape teapot with his later designs for Red Wing, such as True China and Cylinder (shown below in the Vintage and Pepe patterns), and there is some continuity. You can see they sprang from the same mind. But if you're like me, you're glad that Murphy's aesthetic evolved.

Sincere Flattery?

As a dinnerware collector, I try to love all my dishes. But, entre nous, I have my favorites. It was a slide in an art history class taught by Susan "Easy A" Fillin-Yeh that first sparked my passion for midcentury design. That slide depicted three objects by Russel Wright: an American Modern pitcher, gravy boat, and celery tray. That image was seared in my memory, perhaps on a part of my soul. Something inside me awakened when I saw it. Until that time, I had only ever collected comic books, other than a rather pathetic attempt at numismatics. (Four highly worn Walking Liberty dollars and some buffalo nickels do not a coin collection make.) But that day, in art history class, I knew I would one day own an American Modern celery tray. It was the seed of my obsession.

I love that celery trays were de rigeur in mid-century households. It is hard to live in an era where the phrase "celery tray" doesn't conjure a mental picture in most people's minds. Slender dishes designed to present, well, celery. Russel Wright's dish, though, was revolutionary. The simple way it folded in on itself made it a more versatile vehicle for serving your guests. Celery looked great in it, sure, but a row of crackers or cookies undulated gracefully along the length of the dish. Those rolled edges made the dish spectacular.

Wright designed American Modern in 1937, and it was produced and released in 1939. In 1941, Red Wing Potteries in Red Wing, MN, released its Party Ware line. Designed by Charles Murphy, this eccentric service included bowls, cups, plates, and serving dishes in four patterns (apples, grapes, pears, and cherries) with three solid glazes on the reverse (bronze, chartreuse, and grey). The fruit decoration is quintessentially early Murphy - it has the same feel as patterns like Picardy, Brittany, Orleans and Fruit Set. This casual dishware featured incongruent, curvy forms with rolled lips.The collector of Party Ware is blessed with myriad combinations to sustain his hunt (7 shapes x 4 patterns x 3 backing glazes = 84 possible combinations); he is cursed, however, because none of the amoebic shapes stack. He needs a LOT of cupboard space.

The celery tray in the Party Ware line clearly shows the influence of Wright's dish. (Given the near-instant popularity of American Modern, Murphy surely had an awareness of the Wright form by 1941). But instead of pure imitation, Murphy gives the dish his own flair. He allows the long sides of the tray to curve in and out. The rolled edge - so pronounced in Wright's design - is more subtle in Murphy's. Murphy succeeds in giving his shape a life of its own, despite being virtually the same size as Wright's. And as much as I admire Wright's solid glazes -- so astonishing in the way they complement the foods presented on them -- Murphy's festive fruits and leaves are an exuberant and appealing flourish, giving the tray life even when it's not in use.

Wright's shape may be my first love, but I do let my eye wander to Murphy's from time to time. What do you think?

Home

We moved into our new house on August 22. It is now October 8. These are ways I could mark the time:

- One season at Dallas Theater Center ended and a new one began.

- The dogs have had 2 monthly doses of heartworm/flea medication.

- I have made six visits to The Container Store, and four to Bed, Bath & Beyond.

Despite the amount of hours elapsed, of midnights come and gone, of cycles of the moon waxing and waning, the house has only recently started to feel like home. It helped when we discovered Dallas Design District Auction, and I could buy some midcentury case goods to house the sprawling collection that remained largely in big ugly boxes on the hearth until last weekend. For instance, this sideboard (a G Plan design from England) now houses my American Modern glassware, Casual Living serveware, assorted liquor, mugs, and vases.  (Oh, and my one new pottery acquisition over the past few months: a Mary & Russel Wright gravy boat for Sovereign Potteries. It's the blue thing with the arched handle on top.) This effectively reduced the number of boxes by about six. We can now see the fireplace. We'd almost forgotten we had one, let alone that it was one of the selling points of the house. A smaller bookcase houses some pouring vessels behind glass. Another box gone. I'm down to one lone box haunting the hearth, which I fully intend to do away with this weekend.

But as Dionne Warwick might tell you, a house is not a home when the dinnerware's not in use, and vases feel like an old recluse. (OK, she might not really, but work with me.) So last weekend Paul and I had some neighbors over for dinner. This was cause for celebration in the land of neglected ceramics. A Belle Kogan gladiolus vase emerged from bubble wrap to spruce up the dining room, and I brought out the long-dormant American Modern dinnerware to set a fall table and cook Russel Wright's Irish lamb stew. 

And let me tell you, cooking a meal and setting a table -- these are the tools by which to feel at home!

For me, these acts transformed the idea of home into the reality of home. And as fellow collectors might understand, sharing one's collection with new friends gives you a whole new excuse to blather on about the designs, their history, and their philosophical underpinnings while your partner more or less patiently pours a third glass of wine and mouths along.

And after all was said and done, even Murphy -- crazy, kinetic Murphy -- was able to settle down and feel comfortable lounging in the living room. Even if he did have to stare at the one remaining box.

In Praise of Pattern

For many, "modernism" and "minimalism" are synonyms. The mid-century aesthetic of simplicity bears with it an overwhelming predisposition for unadorned surfaces. This is particularly true in the dinnerware world. Eva Zeisel's "Museum White" is the paragon: sculptural forms in a glossy, creamy white, revealing the sculptural forms of the dinnerware in a pure, sublime way. It's hard to argue with Eva at her finest.

Pattern, when applied, only rarely meets with approval from modern-day modernists. Pattern is seen as a concession to mass-market tastes, a cheap gimmick to catch the eye of  unsophisticated homemakers who really didn't deserve such well-designed china in the first place. Perhaps that is because only rarely did the dinnerware designer design the pattern. None of the patterns that Castleton China used to adorn the Museum shape were Eva's, though they did have the good sense to contract notable artists of the day. Hall China issued more than a dozen patterns for Zeisel's "Tomorrow's Classic," but only two ("Buckingham" and "Dawn") had input from Zeisel.

In our never-ending move to our new house, I have been packing and unpacking more dinnerware than I remembered having. When, I ask you, did I ever acquire three sets of Russel Wright's "Home Decorators" melmac (in three different patterns, of course)? I have a vivid memory of finding the huge set of "Gay Time" (aka "Bow Knot"), which was my first encounter with Wright's plastics. But the other two sets? I only have a dim recollection of thinking, "this would be fun for outdoor barbeques" and "how charming for a breakfast set."

But in handwashing vast quantities of melamine, I paid considerable attention to the way Wright applied pattern to these shapes. Each shape has a different treatment. Look at the example I have photographed above - the set with a turquoise ground and white and blue leaves and branches. The dinner plate has a bold branch across the middle; the salad plate, smaller swooping branches on the top and bottom; the saucer, the flourish of a single leaf. It makes each piece in a setting a little bit surprising. The tabletop becomes a visual playground.

Wright was quite elaborate in all of his patterns. From his first use of incised pattern with "White Clover" for Harker, through his applied pattern to the late run of Casual China for Iroquois, he distinguished each piece in the line with a distinctive variation on a theme. His meticulous designs reached their zenith with "Esquire" for Knowles, adding subtle gilding to several of the patterns. Of course, he achieved something truly unique with the "Ming Lace" pattern for the "Flair" line of melamine - embedding real, tinted leaves into the plastic. No two pieces are the same.

As I fastidiously towel-dried the melmac and tucked it away in the new house, I had a new appreciation for Wright's imaginative use of pattern. Would I rather have a complete set of "Residential" in the solid "Copper Penny" color (which has actual copper flakes in it)?

Hmm.

I'm not sure I understand the either/or proposition.

As Paul and I move, in stages, to our new home six doors down from our rental house, I am overwhelmed by the volume of my collection. Finally opening boxes that have been lying untouched since our move to Texas, my emotional journey is something like this with every new package:

1) Holy crap. I never want to see bubble wrap again.
2) My collection is out of control. I am a bad person. I have spent too much money on pottery. I need therapy.
3) Oh my God. When did I get this? I didn't know I had this.
4) Repeat #2.
5) Oh, this. THIS. I love this piece. I've missed this piece! I can't wait to display this. I love my collection.

Murphy's Third Birthday

Today is the third birthday of my goofball dog Murphy. (Technically, it is the second anniversary of his adoption, at the time of which he was considered to be a year old.) The Beast has become a part of me. His personality -- sometimes exuberant, sometimes comic, sometimes frustratingly stubborn -- enlivens my spirit. In honor of his third birthday, here are my three favorite things about Murphy.

1) He plays a mean game of fetch. Even in the 106-degree heat of a Texas summer evening, nothing pleases Murphy more than a trip to the dog park, where he will retrieve balls with vim and vigor. He finally understands the commend "drop." In fact, after chasing down a tennis ball, he will bound toward me and drop the ball about five feet away, so that the forward momentum of the ball will roll it, with pinpoint accuracy, to my toes. When the heat finally overwhelms Murphy, he brings the ball toward me, and instead of dropping the ball, he will sit on my right foot and survey the goings-on in the park, ball in mouth, drooling.

2) His persistent pursuit of The Evil Cat amuses me. Our across-the alley neighbor, Mary Charles, has a cat. Every eighth time we walk past her front door, The Evil Cat is on her stoop. Murphy goes ballistic when he sees her. Then, for the next seven times we pass Mary Charles' house, Murphy sneaks up on the imagined feline, erupting in an insane display of barking and hyperactivity on the front lawn, even when she fails to appear.

3) His expertise at identifying his toys by name is improving. Paul and I saw a TV show in which a very clever Australian shepherd could pick out any single toy by name from among hundreds of toys. We showed this segment to Murphy. We tried to get him to understand the challenge. He now has about a 75% success rate in picking out the correct toy when given a choice. Where's Mr. Bill? Where's Red Dog? Which one's Lambie? If only he could distinguish Monkey from Funky Chicken, I'd be so proud. They're not even the same species.