Flying Fingers Broken Mugs Fired Pottery
Here, it’s been a..
“Boring week!” I exclaimed. “Nothing happened.”
“Now Dan..” Nazy began.
“Absolutely nothing happened. I don’t even want to write my weekly letter.”
“You’re an expert at writing, (at great l e n g t h) about nothing.”
“Nazy..”
“Besides, a lot of things happened.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“There was my finger...”
“You should have come earlier.” Nazy grumbled.
“Sorry,” I replied (by reflex action.)
“I cut my finger off while chopping lettuce.”
“Where is your finger?”
“I threw it out.”
“What?!”
“You didn’t even help light the candles.”
“Let me see your finger.”
“If you want to see that, you’ll have to look in the garbage. Just serve the salad. My salad is the one with the bloody lettuce.”
I thought that Nazy was exaggerating - until I stepped into our bathroom to wash my hands. There were blood spots everywhere. I rushed back to the kitchen.
“Are you all right?” I demanded.
“Of course I’m not all right, Dan.” Nazy replied. “I have 9½ fingers.”
“If you were careful..” I began (stupidly). “I’ll take you to the emergency room.”
“I’m not the only one who injured a finger.” Nazy replied. “If you check the family archives, you’ll discovered that in November, 2006 you..”
“Emergency room?” I continued.
“We can talk after dinner - and after you wash the pots and pans. I can’t get my finger wet.”
“Your finger, my dear, is wet. Don’t let it drip in the spaghetti sauce, we’ll never be able..”
“Funny, Dan.” Nazy concluded.
After dinner, Nazy refused to go to the hospital - she just wanted to sleep. The next day, she continued to refuse to go the hospital. I sent an SMS and several emails to Darius demanding that he call her and tell her to “GO TO THE DOCTOR”. And...
“See Dan,” Nazy interrupted. “I told you that we had some excitement this week. You should thank me.”
“Thank you?”
“Thank me for the sacrifices that I made to maintain The Weekly Letter.”
“Half of a weekly letter.”
“What about Darius’ mug?”
“Hmm..”
In Hanover, New Hampshire in 1987, six year old Darius Martin was in handicraft class. He constructed a clay mug that he “fired” and painted (or painted and fired)..
“Fired?” Nazy asked.
“He was preparing to be a big-business executive,” I replied. “Firing practice is mandatory.”
“I thought they called it down-sizing.”
“The current term is right-sizing. But in 1987 it was ‘fired’ - or ‘sacked’ or ‘riffed’ or ‘terminated’ or ‘executed’..”
“After you jostled it with the spatula...”
“ ... that was on the counter because you didn’t put it away..”
“ .... since you had hidden the ‘random stuffs’ jar..”
“ ... because you kept putting the wrong stuffs in that jar..”
“Wrong stuffs? How can anything in a ‘random stuff’ jar be wrong?”
“Dan..”
“How do you think Darius will feel when I tell him what you did?”
“Dan..”
“I wonder if he’s home?” I asked. “I’ll call him now.”
“I’m going to glue it back together,” Nazy insisted.
“It will never be the same,” I replied. “I need to get in contact with Darius. I’d hate to have him discover this treachery by reading The Weekly Letter.”
I called Beirut and began diplomatically:
“Your mother doesn’t love you anymore, Darius.”
“Dan!” Nazy shouted.
“What?” Darius asked.
“She broke your mug. The one you made in 1st grade.”
“I don’t recall that mug.” Darius replied.
“He’s heart-broken, Nazy.” I shouted.
“I want to talk to him,” Nazy retorted as she headed toward me - and the phone.
“Tell her to take her finger to the doctor,” I whispered before handing the phone to Darius.
Darius tried - unsuccessfully. So, I now resort to crowd-sourcing:
“Boring week!” I exclaimed. “Nothing happened.”
“Now Dan..” Nazy began.
“Absolutely nothing happened. I don’t even want to write my weekly letter.”
“You’re an expert at writing, (at great l e n g t h) about nothing.”
“Nazy..”
“Besides, a lot of things happened.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“There was my finger...”
I flashed back to Thursday: We had guests (John and Hamid). In the living room, I was opining about the Euro crisis while, in the kitchen, Nazy was preparing dinner. I could tell that it was about time to eat when I saw Nazy light the candles. I went to the kitchen to help carry the plates to the table. [Nazy claims that I didn’t come until she called.]
“You should have come earlier.” Nazy grumbled.
“Sorry,” I replied (by reflex action.)
“I cut my finger off while chopping lettuce.”
“Where is your finger?”
“I threw it out.”
“What?!”
“You didn’t even help light the candles.”
“Let me see your finger.”
“If you want to see that, you’ll have to look in the garbage. Just serve the salad. My salad is the one with the bloody lettuce.”
I thought that Nazy was exaggerating - until I stepped into our bathroom to wash my hands. There were blood spots everywhere. I rushed back to the kitchen.
“Are you all right?” I demanded.
“Of course I’m not all right, Dan.” Nazy replied. “I have 9½ fingers.”
“If you were careful..” I began (stupidly). “I’ll take you to the emergency room.”
“I’m not the only one who injured a finger.” Nazy replied. “If you check the family archives, you’ll discovered that in November, 2006 you..”
“Emergency room?” I continued.
“We can talk after dinner - and after you wash the pots and pans. I can’t get my finger wet.”
“Your finger, my dear, is wet. Don’t let it drip in the spaghetti sauce, we’ll never be able..”
“Funny, Dan.” Nazy concluded.
After dinner, Nazy refused to go to the hospital - she just wanted to sleep. The next day, she continued to refuse to go the hospital. I sent an SMS and several emails to Darius demanding that he call her and tell her to “GO TO THE DOCTOR”. And...
“See Dan,” Nazy interrupted. “I told you that we had some excitement this week. You should thank me.”
“Thank you?”
“Thank me for the sacrifices that I made to maintain The Weekly Letter.”
“Half of a weekly letter.”
“What about Darius’ mug?”
“Hmm..”
In Hanover, New Hampshire in 1987, six year old Darius Martin was in handicraft class. He constructed a clay mug that he “fired” and painted (or painted and fired)..
“Fired?” Nazy asked.
“He was preparing to be a big-business executive,” I replied. “Firing practice is mandatory.”
“I thought they called it down-sizing.”
“The current term is right-sizing. But in 1987 it was ‘fired’ - or ‘sacked’ or ‘riffed’ or ‘terminated’ or ‘executed’..”
“Dan..”
In any case, we carried that precious mug with us to Holland, back to Hanover and then on to Switzerland. Proudly displayed on our kitchen counter, the mug radiated emotion, connection and family values... until Nazy threw it on the floor.
“It fell!” Nazy proclaimed.
“After you jostled it with the spatula...”
“ ... that was on the counter because you didn’t put it away..”
“ .... since you had hidden the ‘random stuffs’ jar..”
“ ... because you kept putting the wrong stuffs in that jar..”
“Wrong stuffs? How can anything in a ‘random stuff’ jar be wrong?”
“Dan..”
“How do you think Darius will feel when I tell him what you did?”
“Dan..”
“I wonder if he’s home?” I asked. “I’ll call him now.”
“I’m going to glue it back together,” Nazy insisted.
“It will never be the same,” I replied. “I need to get in contact with Darius. I’d hate to have him discover this treachery by reading The Weekly Letter.”
I called Beirut and began diplomatically:
“Your mother doesn’t love you anymore, Darius.”
“Dan!” Nazy shouted.
“What?” Darius asked.
“She broke your mug. The one you made in 1st grade.”
“I don’t recall that mug.” Darius replied.
“He’s heart-broken, Nazy.” I shouted.
“I want to talk to him,” Nazy retorted as she headed toward me - and the phone.
“Tell her to take her finger to the doctor,” I whispered before handing the phone to Darius.
Darius tried - unsuccessfully. So, I now resort to crowd-sourcing:
Author request: Please send email to Nazy (nazmartin@hotmail.com) with
Subject: Take your finger to the doctor.
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