Thanks to two grandmas crashing a ceramics studio with giant piggy banks, I recently received a lesson on joy.
The ceramic shop is usually quiet except for country music wafting from an old boom box. Like other artists absorbed in their work, my nine-year-old Savannah fully commits to painting her giant peacock.
Bah Humbug!
As for myself, the smallest knick knack I find fits this occasion. I keep
eyeing a nearby table, where a father and his two middle-school age sons paint skull heads that have snakes sticking out of eye sockets. In my opinion, three skulls scream overkill, especially at $25 a pop.
Joy!
Then comes the bustle of an opened door. Two ladies with long, loose hair and flowing skirts, each holding giant piggy banks, greet the owner with gusto: “Where shall we put these, Brenda? We certainly need your help today!” Brenda points to the table next to ours.
Shaped like cinnamon buns, these grandmothers set their purple and pink piggies down and proceed to get their paints. It is a chit-chat here and a chit-chat there.
Bah Humbug!
I think, How can they be so merry? They’ve ruined the ambiance, and they are totally unaware.
Joy!
“I like your piggy bank,” compliments Savannah.
“Thank you, sweetie,” says the one named Rose. “I like your peacock.”
“And what do you have?” She asks, smiling as she eyes my humble bookworm caterpillar.
I mutter something like, “Savannah’s the artist.”
“Ooooh, but yours is nice too. I like the butterfly tattoo on its head.”
She continues, “This is my 16th piggy bank for the 16th grandchild. I only have one more to go. It’s important for them to save their money, you know.”
Now financial stewardship is something talkative Rose and I agree upon. Rose rambles for a half-hour, sometimes at me, most often at her friend, who is having trouble getting that right color of purple on the porker.
Somehow, Rose turns the conversation to her work as a professional costumer, and how 40-plus years ago she and 80 guests had a saloon-theme costume wedding in a nearby park.
“And what did the bride and groom wear?” I ask.
“My husband was the sheriff with a leather vest and gun holster, and I was the saloon madam in red velvet.”
“I can picture it,” I say, thinking of Matt Dillon and Miss Kitty from the TV show Gunsmoke.
Rose brightens. “My granddaughter wanted a fairy wedding so I did her dress, plus all the bridesmaids.” She dreamily pauses and adds, “Complete with fairy wings.” Her generous smile makes her glow.
“You’re an exceptional grandma,” I say, feeling a tad tired from her energy.
Savannah still perseveres on her peacock, as Rose and her friend swish out of the studio as quickly as they have come in. Laughing all the way, they roar off in a rusty Buick. Once again quiet order is restored except for the country singer addressing broken hearts and hangovers.
Really, I am ashamed of myself. Who can fault these women’s joy of life, of giving away piggy banks to grandchildren, of friendship with each other, and of extending hospitality to table strangers?
I need to recalculate.
Their joy seeds joy in spite of my prejudices—I just have to catch it and pass it on.
I am still thinking about them.
