On a bright spring day, a group of young academicians gathered at the banks of the river to challenge each other’s skills and provide a spectacle to whomever had the patience and the interest to stand by and watch. The day before, it was the naturalists who were testing themselves. But on that day, the architects had gathered, and their challenge was to build a tower of stones and pebbles, gathered from the banks or within the river itself, for it flowed softly where they had chosen to hold their contest.
I found it at a garage sale. Someone was getting rid of their family heirlooms. Not jewels or ancient scrolls or photo albums from bygone eras. Just cookware and cutlery, end tables, mismatched dining sets, and the like. I was supposed to be looking for something specific and practical. A desk. But something else caught my eye. It looked exactly as I would imagine a witch’s pot would look like. Coal-black cast iron. Bulging, maybe three or four quarts big, with three stubby feet and a handle. I paid five dollars for it. Continue reading