The Red Glazed Ashtray I Made in Kindergarten With the Kindness of Mrs. Goodwin
One treasure on the two-drawer chest in the middle, more or less, of my study, is the red glazed ashtray, or what remains of it now, that I made in kindergarten, my only year at Sylmar Elementary School. What has mostly survived is the flat bottom part of the ashtray, about four inches across, with the once completely encircling upright rim – I always thought of the rim as little walls – mostly gone, broken off or chipped away, though I don’t know how or when that happened, with only about an inch the of the rim unchipped and completely intact.
What remains of the bottom and the rim are still covered with a rich, deep, dark plum-red glaze, still shiny and beautiful when you polish it clean with your fingers, still smooth and wonderful to run your fingers over it, which I loved doing as a young child.
I formed the ashtray with my little five-year-old fingers in kindergarten by pressing the clay down on the bottom, the ups and downs of my little fingers making little depressions and gentle rises. For the side rims, I pressed more clay all around onto the outer edge of the bottom then made little walls all around using both my hands and all my fingers and both my thumbs to squeeze and press and form the wall of the ashtray all around. I thought all of this was interesting and fun. And the clay – cut from a big moist block of it in a plastic bag, smelled like clay, of course, a pleasant earthy smell I thought, and I remember it tasting of chalk, so I must have put my fingers in my mouth, and by extension, I must have already tasted chalk, which makes sense, as I used to taste everything as a child at least once. I also liked the consistency and feel of the clay, much nicer than mud, which I never really liked, though I would sometimes play with it and in it.
Where the ashtray was broken, the light gray-white of the clay was visible, as was with the bottom of the ashtray that was unglazed and was crossed with lines like meandering rivers showing where I folded the clay or put different pieces of clay together with my little hands. My name and identifying information is printed on the bottom – Christopher 2 AM ( translated: Christopher in the second morning class) – by my teacher very tall to me with glasses, Mrs. Goodwin – a good name that was – for she was always nice and kind to me even when she had to send me to the principal for infractions against other children, such as, to me, logically taking blocks away from them when I needed their blocks for what I was building. She also never spoke harshly or raised her voice to the children and she always asked me if I wanted to do a little more on many of our projects, like finger painting. I loved finger painting. Mrs. Goodwin was always helpful and always seemed next to me gently directing and encouraging my efforts. She was a good kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Goodwin of the good name.
When I was done with the ashtray, Mrs. Goodwin asked what was my favorite color, and I said red. I remember thinking her question had something to do with the ashtray, but being five, some other activity quickly distracted me and I quickly forgot all about it. I was surprised then, and very happy, when I received the ashtray back, maybe a week later – though I have no real concept of how long it was before it came back. Of course, time when you are five is not the same in terms of duration as when you are older, and an item you see only briefly, even if you made it, and then it was gone, does not engage a five-year old in remembering it, or the concept of it even returning.
When the glazed and fired ashtray returned to the kindergarten class, the nice Mrs. Goodwin placed the ashtray back into my hands and wide-eyed I thought it was wonderful and marvelous, though I don’t know if I even knew those words at that time, but that was what composed the happiness of my mind. Mrs. Goodwin then asked me what color tissue paper I wanted, and I seem to remember she had green and red, because it was Christmas time, and I think I said red, still going with my then favorite color. I then watched as she showed me how she was wrapping up my ashtray in the red tissue paper and tied it up with a green ribbon. Here it was, she said, a Christmas present for my parents. I was thrilled and because of how nice Mrs. Goodwin was, and how pretty the wrapped gift looked, this is probably the reason I love tissue paper to this day for presents, especially red and green tissue paper combined together for Christmas gifts.
I was then happy, mostly, as I had a present for my father and mother, my first Christmas present for them, and that was growing up, and I was mostly happy about that. But I really wanted to keep the ashtray for myself as I liked it so much and I was amazed and pleased at how nice it turned out, this first thing I made as a gift. So, I brought the already treasured ashtray home and I watched as my mom placed my gift under the Christmas tree in the living room. I was excited about that, and even more excited when on Christmas morning, as I watched my dad unwrap my gift, and I saw again the rich deep plum red ashtray.
I told my dad I made the ashtray, and that it was red because red was my favorite color. My dad looked at it and said something nice about it and to me – though I could see he was not as excited as I was about the ashtray, and I remember thinking that it did not seem really special to him, not as special as it was to me. I also remember thinking, however my five-year old mind thought it, that I was still going to sort of think of the ashtray as mine and sort of take care of it. That Christmas day, he put the ashtray down on one of small side tables in the living room, and he used it as an ashtray for many years until he and my mom read in the newspapers that cigarettes were bad for you, and my dad gave up his Lucky Strikes, and my mom gave up her Tareytons.
The ashtray, no longer needed for cigarettes, disappeared from sight and memory for many years. And then, when I was married with at least two of my daughters already, and a few years after my dad died, I saw it again in the house I grew up in, as we helped my mom pack and arrange things for her move to a second home she had just bought. I was elated when I saw it, even as broken as it was, and I showed it to my mother and asked her if I could have it. She took the ashtray from my hands and looked it over for a moment without much interest, then said yes, I could have it. She was much less sentimental about it than I was, but then again, that was the English within my mom.
So I took the old broken ashtray I made in kindergarten home with me and I kept it somewhere, moving it somehow from our first house to our second home, and eventually keeping it safe with me for even more years than it had been in my parent’s house. I probably stashed it in one of the large trunks my mother brought with her from England in 1946, one of my older, larger treasures, in which my mother herself had brought many treasures of her own from England to California, such as her diaries and the letters written between her and my dad during the war, and in which I have already deposited many of the treasures of my childhood and later life.
Then just a few years ago, I finally began to organize all my writings – after constant reminders from my youngest daughter that I was not getting any younger, true, with the implied pointed argument that if I really wanted to be a writer I had better get a move on it now, also really true. I also decided to arrange some of my little treasures on the two drawer desk in my study, to inspire my writing, to suggest stories, and to create connections to my past and to those people and events important to my life, which included the ashtray I made with my two little hands in kindergarten when I was five.
The broken ashtray now resides permanently upon the chest, or as permanently as my life is permanent, surrounded by many other treasures, but instead of my father’s cigarette ash as of old, it now holds several stones of a brownish hue and one of black that I randomly picked up from the walkways of Versailles. A treasure now holding other treasures, and those treasures, also possessing memories and stories of their own.
And when I now see the ashtray or look at it, which is often, I again relive the fact that it was glazed with my then favorite color, red, and that I was helped with kindness in its creation by my kindergarten teacher of the good name, Mrs. Goodwin, of Sylmar Elementary School. Those are good things to be reminded of and dwell upon, the kindness of those in our past, whose kindnesses still compose a part of the good of what and who we are today.
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I love this…., so beautifully written. The memories were not mine but I saw each and every one!