Pearlie's latest Pot by dstanderwick.blogspot.com
(Laughing Loon)
Pearlie’s Pots
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Pearlie’s pots are
under my stairs. My linen drawers are
stuffed with her potholders. Her books by independent authors fill my
bookshelves. Some of her plants fill my flowerbeds. I have plenty of wall
space, so her paintings hang on the walls of our home.
No one else in the family knows who Pearlie is. Who is
this woman? Why does she have so much of her stuff in our home? I know who she
is, and whenever I open a closet and see a hand-thrown pot or
an original watercolor, I smile.
I first met
Pearlie about 1984 at an art show on the third floor of the Frank Russell building where
we exchanged a few pleasant words when I was on the Pierce County Arts
Commission. At the end of the show, I
was on my way out the door when I looked behind me and heard an elderly woman
carrying out a painting she’d purchased that was so big I couldn’t see anything
but her shoes. I only knew it was Pearlie because she was chatting with a
friend in line and I recognized her voice.
“Pearlie,” I
asked, “where are you going with that painting?”
“I’m going to my
car,” she said. Then she added, “I hope this thing will fit in the trunk!”
“Where are you
parked?” I asked.
She indicated that
she was parked on the street outside the building. “That’s a long way to go. Let me carry the
painting for you.”
I had no idea who
Pearlie Baskin was or the precautions that were made for her security. She
turned to a board member of the art commission and asked, “Is she good people?”
"The best,” the
person answered.
Still, Pearlie was
confident she didn’t need my help. I was so worried that she might take a fall
that I followed along behind. When we got to the elevators we discovered they
were turned off. The security man said we could use the stairs. I saw Pearlie
look at the long, steep stairs with trepidation. “Oh, no!” I argued. “Do you
want to take the chance of this woman walking down three flights of stairs?”
The man took one look at Pearlie and turned the elevator back on. By then, I
was rattled and through taking chances. When the elevator doors opened on the
first floor, I took the painting from Pearlie and said, “Lead the way.” I think
she only relented because she was getting tired.
At her car, she
and her friend safely loaded the painting into her car’s trunk and she asked me
to follow them to her house for tea. While we were waiting for her friend to boil
the water, she gave me a tour of her beautifully decorated home that was filled
with wonderful pieces of artwork in every medium.
I was well aware of how special my presence in Pearlie’s home was. It
was clear that not many outsiders were ever guests there. What a treat! I followed her down the hall
while she put her newest acquisition in a large closet because she had no more
room left on her walls. She opened the closet door wide and pointed out her
stash of art—possibly enough to fill a small gallery. When she saw my
puzzlement, she cheerfully explained that she and her late husband were art enthusiasts
and they regularly purchased artwork to
support artists.
And that’s how the pots—Pearlie’s Pots—got under my stairs. I was so
inspired by Pearlie that, through the years, I’ve tried to support the arts
whenever I could.
Pearlie is no longer with us. I wish there was a way for her to know that
she has now branched out into supporting musicians: last weekend, my husband
stopped at a street fair to toss some bills into the instrument cases of two very
young musicians. I was all in favor of supporting local musicians (My mantra is: Always tip the musicians!"). I was also relieved
he hadn’t stopped to buy a pot. Anything
but a pot! Our closet under the basement stairs is full!
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