Etched in Clay Read online

  trying not to stare

  at the stump

  that was my leg.

  “Does it hurt?” John asks.

  I nod.

  How can it be

  that I feel pain

  in a leg

  that is gone?

  On to Louisiana

  SARAH DRAKE, 1836

  With my husband gone,

  I am moving west

  to a new state

  and a new life.

  “Hurry now,” I say.

  “Lydia, George, John,

  we have a long way to go

  before dark.

  You can move faster

  than that.”

  See how she cries,

  so sad to leave Dave.

  Lydia knows Dave is not mine,

  and a one-legged man

  cannot walk to Louisiana.

  Even if he rode in the wagon,

  Louisiana is no place

  for a potter.

  There’s no clay there,

  no pottery works.

  Lydia knows this,

  but she doesn’t quite seem

  to understand.

  Why?

  DAVE, 1836

  Lydia and the boys,

  Eliza,

  my mother—

  all gone.

  Why, Lord,

  do you leave me alone?

  I know

  I have the stars

  outside my window

  like thousands of lights

  sparkling in the night.

  Long ago my mother told me

  you are never alone

  while you’re watching the stars.

  That’s what she said.

  But why, Lord,

  with all these stars,

  do I still feel

  all alone?

  A Helper

  DAVE, 1836

  Henry Simkins

  has crippled arms that hang useless,

  like shirtsleeves on the wash line,

  but his legs are strong.

  Henry is here

  to turn the wheel for me.

  Who knows?

  My two good hands

  to shape the clay

  plus his two good legs

  to kick the wheel

  might work out

  some kind of way.

  Carving Words

  DAVE, MARCH 29, 1836

  The clay is soft,

  the stick in my hand is sharp.

  Carefully I carve my poem

  deep into the shoulder

  of my jar:

  horses mules and hogs —

  all our cows is in the bogs —

  there they shall ever stay

  till the buzzards take them away =

  A poem is a valuable thing,

  for every word

  means more than it says.

  I know I could be whipped,

  or hung from the nearest tree,

  for writing these words.

  Let them punish me.

  Then who will mold their jars?

  To our masters we are just

  horses, mules, and hogs

  working until we die.

  But when I write,

  I am a man.

  Our Legacy

  REV. JOHN LANDRUM, 1836

  Pottersville is shrinking

  like a shriveled peach

  in the summer sun.

  Harvey Drake has passed,

  and his brother, Reuben,

  is going west to Louisiana.

  Still, here at my pottery works

  in Horse Creek

  our legacy lives on.

  The clay is fresh and waiting.

  My brother Abner

  has sent me his recipes

  for the finest glazes

  in all the land,

  scientifically developed,

  tried and true.

  And Reuben will sell me

  his one-legged potter, Dave,

  to turn our pots and jugs and jars.

  The Landrum brothers

  will remain

  a family of potters.

  Horse Creek

  DAVE, 1836

  Reverend Landrum has me sit

  in the wagon

  since my hobbling

  on a crutch

  is mighty slow.

  Good-bye, Pottersville.

  Good-bye, Edgefield,

  with your courthouse standing tall.

  Good-bye, my friends

  and relations.

  We’re finding new clay

  downstream

  in a place called Horse Creek.

  Henry Simkins,

  with his crippled arms,

  is coming too,

  to turn the potter’s wheel

  for me.

  A Loan

  REV. JOHN LANDRUM, 1839

  Not brilliant, perhaps,

  this son-in-law of mine,

  but Lewis Miles is kind,

  and he loves my daughter, Mary,

  from the bottom of his heart.

  Lewis wants to learn

  the pottery business too.

  For a modest fee

  I will send him Dave,

  the potter slave,

  to show him how

  to throw a pot on the wheel

  and mix the famous

  Landrum glazes.

  With the help of Lewis Miles,

  another pottery works

  in Horse Creek

  will grow and thrive.

  Luck Is Here

  LEWIS MILES, 1839

  Who would believe

  that my father-in-law

  has lent Dave to me

  to shape the jugs and jars

  at my own pottery works?

  I am not yet skilled,

  and the clay is lifeless

  in my hands.

  But learning does not happen

  overnight,

  and I have time.

  Luck is here with me

  at Horse Creek,

  where I found my love

  and my life.

  I Made This Jar

  DAVE, JANUARY 27, 1840

  He is a generous man,

  this Lewis Miles,

  giving money to every beggar,

  more than what is even asked.

  On my jars

  made in his turning house,

  I’ll put his name

  with a fancy M,

  and I’ll write my name too:

  Dave.

  They gave me this name,

  so can I not use it?

  This jar is mine.

  I made it

  with my two good hands.

  I made this jar.

  A Master Potter

  LEWIS MILES, 1840

  Dave has but one leg,

  yet I have never seen anyone

  make a jar so big

  and strong

  and handsome.

  He shows me how to draw

  the jar up slow,

  knuckle bent,

  taking each ring of clay

  a little at a time.

  Then when the clay

  cannot be thinner,

  we let it set.

  “The sun is low,” I tell Dave.

  “Time to eat.”

  He shakes his head.

  “I still have work to do.”

  “When you’r
e done,” I say,

  “there’s soup waiting at the house.”

  I leave him there alone,

  a potter like no other,

  and a patient teacher too.

  Sometimes I forget

  Dave’s skin is black.

  This Jar Is Bare

  DAVE, JULY 13, 1840

  I know it’s late,

  but this big jar

  is looking bare.

  What should I write

  across the top?

  My stomach growls,

  and I can smell the soup

  boiling at the house.

  I pick up my stick and write:

  Dave belongs to Mr Miles /

  wher the oven bakes & the pot biles ///

  Then I set the jar on the shelf,

  take my crutch,

  and hobble up the hill

  for dinner.

  To Lewis Miles

  REV. JOHN LANDRUM, 1841

  My dear son-in-law,

  have you heard the news?

  In Augusta a group of slaves—

  and mind you some could

  read and write—

  plotted to burn down the town

  and kill the residents.

  Now this is serious.

  You cannot continue

  to be so lenient

  with Dave.

  You must make him

  stop his writing.

  Any jars and jugs found

  with his words around their necks

  should be shattered,

  and the potter slave

  whipped.

  Write No More

  LEWIS MILES, 1842

  Dave, for many months

  you have taught me here,

  in the turning house,

  to form our pots and jars

  with handles thick

  upon their sides

  and glazes bright

  upon their walls.

  But listen.

  Now it’s my turn to teach.

  You must put down your stick.

  It is too dangerous

  to let others know

  you can read and write.

  Your words inscribed in clay

  can be no more.

  You understand me, Dave?

  Any pot or jar or jug

  that you write on

  will be destroyed.

  The Choice Is Mine

  DAVE, OCTOBER 13, 1843

  The clay is wet

  and the choice is mine.

  No matter what Lewis Miles says,

  I will write my letters

  small and big

  on this jar.

  My head is not

  full of verses today.

  I know:

  L. Miles and Dave—

  our names—

  that’s all this jar

  will bear.

  Stubborn

  LEWIS MILES, 1843

  Stubborn Dave,

  he continues to defy me.

  I have no choice

  but to smash his jar

  into shards so small

  no one can read

  our names in the clay.

  A handsome jar,

  it breaks my heart

  to destroy it.

  I hoist the thing

  above my head.

  Wait.

  Is there some way

  to save it?

  No, I cannot take the chance.

  I throw the jar hard

  against the wall

  and listen

  as it shatters.

  Silence

  DAVE, 1844

  I center the mound of clay,

  draw up a jar,

  slice it off the wheel,

  and set it on the shelf

  to dry.

  Now I am a silent potter machine.

  In my head,

  I cannot stop the words from flowing:

  lamentable,

  philanthropic,

  disenfranchised,

  vulnerable.

  But I don’t write them down,

  and the words float away

  like twigs in a stream,

  stuck on a rock

  for a moment

  and then gone.

  My Father’s Death

  MARY LANDRUM MILES, 1846

  My father,

  the Reverend John Landrum,

  lived eighty-one years;

  may his soul

  rest in peace.

  My husband, Lewis, says

  Dave must now be ours.

  He has been on

  a permanent loan to us

  for so many years.

  But my father’s will

  says nothing in particular

  about Dave,

  and a loan

  is not forever.

  For Sale

  LEWIS MILES, 1847

  Before his death,

  Reverend Landrum

  did declare in his will

  that when he passed on,

  all his goods should be sold

  and the money raised

  be divided

  among his kin.

  Dave knows, I know,

  the time is near.

  He will be auctioned

  on the block once more,

  and I fear I do not have

  enough money

  to buy him.

  Sold Again

  DAVE, FEBRUARY 22, 1847

  The auctioneer shouts,

  splitting the morning air

  with his voice,

  splitting husbands

  from their wives,

  mothers

  from their children,

  me from Eliza,

  Lydia, John, and George

  long ago—

  loved ones

  all scattered like seeds

  upon the wind.

  When it’s my turn,

  I have no fear.

  Everyone knows

  my leg is gone,

  but the jars I make

  are big and handsome.

  The auctioneer calls,

  and names run

  through my mind:

  Harvey Drake—Doctor Landrum—

  Reverend Landrum—Lewis Miles.

  Surely Lewis Miles

  will buy me today.

  But here’s Franklin,

  son of the reverend.

  Franklin waves a stack of bills

  thicker than all the rest,

  and I am his.

  A High Price

  BENJAMIN FRANKLIN LANDRUM, 1847

  Eight hundred dollars

  is a high price to pay

  for a one-legged slave,

  but my pottery works

  can use his hands.

  He’s the very best potter,

  white or black,

  in all of Edgefield County.

  My brother-in-law,

  Lewis Miles,

  glared at me

  across the auction field.

  I know he wanted Dave.

  Then Lewis bought that cripple,

  Henry Simkins,

  as if he’s the only one

  who can turn the potter’s wheel

  for Dave.

  I have a boy,

  only twelve,

  who can surely do that job.

  Get to Work!

  BENJAMIN FRANKLIN LANDRUM, 1848
/>   That Ann,

  sullen and mean,

  she needs a lashing,

  and I’m ready to start

  today.

  It takes a strong whip

  to control these slaves.

  Forty lashes

  the Bible says.

  I tell Ann to carry the pots

  to the shelf

  and sweep up the floor,

  and she says, “I’m tired, Master.”

  “You are what?” I ask.

  “I won’t clean today,” she says.

  “I’ll clean tomorrow.”

  We’re in the turning house

  with Dave and the rest,

  their white eyeballs popping out

  to see what will happen.

  I raise my whip.

  “You get to work

  NOW!” I shout.

  And when she doesn’t budge,

  my lash comes down

  in designs

  across her back.

  “Get to work!” I shout again.

  When she refuses,

  I tie her with a rope

  and leave her be.

  That will make her

  think about

  her behavior.

  Wait for Night

  DAVE, 1848

  A young boy kicks the wheel

  and I’m throwing jar after jar,

  not watching the whip come down.

  But the sound—

  What can we do?

  The Master stomps

  out of the turning house.

  After his footsteps

  fade on the hill,

  I whisper, “Ann?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  I know she’s tied behind the wall.

  “Wait for night,” I say.

  “I’ll bring you a drink.”

  Must have been

  she tied a brick

  to one end of that rope

  and threw it over the rafters.

  When I bring the water,

  Ann is hanging limp,

  and her pulse

  is gone.