Many years ago, my sister worked with an English lady, Christine Coles, at a bank in our home town. Christine was chic and funny. She was the first person I ever saw wear midnight blue eyeshadow, and sheer dark hose. She was married to another Brit, who had an Austin Powers haircut but a tweedy English country look. It was the 1970s. They moved back to England with their cat, Fred Fanackapan, and got a divorce.
When my mom and dad and I went to England, Ireland and Scotland in 1978 we visited Christine in her new digs. She'd bought a great house that had been standing for centuries, and she rehabbed it in a Medieval / 1970s aesthetic, exposing some beams and plastering other parts. In a room that wasn't finished she showed us how the walls were stuffed with what you had around you, which in this case was horse hair and lavender. It was dreamy.
She took us around to see a friend of hers who had a pottery studio nearby. His name was Adrian Lewis-Evans. He wasn't in, but she happened to have a key to the studio. I saw a mug that I liked, so we took it and tucked some money under a different mug. And we took a business card, which is how I managed to remember the guy's name for so many decades.
When I went off to college, this mug was my favorite. It was barrel shaped, a mottled green, ribbed. And vast. But one day it fell from a height of one foot onto the floor of my room, which was cement covered with thin carpet squares. It broke in two and I really felt the loss. I kept the business card, which is how I managed to keep the artist's name in my head. Until a few months ago.
Could I retrieve that guy's name? Could I find one of his mugs? Both things happened. I now have a mug in a different shape. The handle just *slightly* tilts toward your thumb, making it a comfortable grip for lifting to your lips. And if you're carrying the mug you can put your thumb *into* the mug for an extra secure grip.
It makes me happy.
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