Tammie parked her car and turned to me and asked, “Are you excited about our class?” A hot, midsummer sun baked the Door County parking lot.

Not sure how to answer, I wrinkled my nose and shrugged before finally admitting, “I wouldn’t describe how I feel as excited. I feel more nervous than anything, because I want to do well, but I don’t know if I have what it takes.”

 Inside the pottery shop next to the parking lot, we found our instructor preparing a pottery wheel and gathering supplies for our appointment. My daughter had arranged this class for us because I wanted to experience using a pottery wheel. Making one clay bowl wouldn’t make me an experienced potter, any more than watching brain surgery on television would qualify me as a brain surgeon, but I wanted to feel damp clay and make something beautiful.

Our teacher was in his fifties, had a bushy, salt and pepper beard and a durag tied around his head. His clothing was spotted with dried clay and paint. Shelves on both sides of the narrow room were full of different types of clay, paints, and other supplies. Next to the pottery wheel was a water faucet and below it, a drain in the floor.

After greeting us, our instructor handed us plastic aprons to wear, then went back to work. He explained, “Properly centering clay on the wheel takes a lot of practice. Since this is a onetime class, I’m doing it for you.” After demonstrating how to sit at the wheel, he explained that it was very important to keep our hands wet as we worked with the clay.

Tammie and I took turns at the wheel. Frequently dipping our hands into a bowl of water and a lot of assistance from the instructor we each managed to make an unremarkable small bowl. Before taking my last turn at the wheel, I commented, “I’d really like to make a small vase.”

“Let’s try it!” The instructor agreed but warned, “Just relax and take it slow.” Our creation grew in height, but I pinched too hard. He said, “Gentle,” and corrected the deformity I’d made. While trying to give the vase a flared middle, I kept pressing too hard and too quickly. His and my hands played a tug of war with the gray, gooey clay. I damaged the creation while he struggled to give it shape. At one point he glanced at me and commented tartly, “You like being in control, don’t you?”

On our way home, I asked, “Tammie, you don’t think I’m controlling, do you?” Without waiting for her answer, I laughed, “That’s absurd!”

Our dishes and vase were dry when Tammie and I came back to paint them. The next step was to have them fired in a kiln. The paint we used turned into a beautiful shiny glaze by the heat. I enjoyed our Door County pottery experience but realized that I did not have the right temperament to take up “throwing pottery” for a hobby.

To celebrate my most recent birthday, my daughters took me to eat at a special restaurant in Wausau and afterwards we spent a few happy hours at Clay Corner Studio. This business has a wide range of dishes, bowls, and figurines to choose from, so it took us a while to decide what clay creation we wanted to paint.

We sat together at a table, each working on our own projects. Multiple layers of paint was needed, but the paint dried quickly on my clay vase causing me to be unsure which coat had been completed. It concerned me that my creation looked drab and chalky because I love bright colors. Everyone assured me that after it was fired in the kiln, the green, blue and yellow paints that I used would be vibrant.

On the way home from painting pottery, I told Tammie, “I enjoyed what we did this afternoon. But it made me remember the experience you and I had in Door County with the man teaching us how to use a pottery wheel. Ruefully chuckling I commented, “The pottery guy had me tagged as a person who wants to always be in control just because my fingers didn’t move the way he wanted them to. I wasn’t completely sure what he wanted, so my fingers did seem to have a mind of their own!

“I’d be willing to try using a pottery wheel again someday. But one thing I’d do differently is use the pottery wheel with just my hands touching the clay. It really unnerved me having the instructor trying to make my fingers do the things he wanted them to do. In the meantime, I enjoy having the clay already formed and dried, waiting for me to paint it at this store.