In 1913 artisans at Panama Pottery brewed clay in a massive subterranean vat, nurtured their creations with time worn hands, and fired their work in kilns the size of a modern day studio apartment.
When you cross the threshold today, it’s as if you stepped foot into the industrial revolution. It’s as if the sweep of time passed around this place but never through it. The rusted clank of gears, belts and drives that once produced cuspidors and pickling crocks by the thousands now churns out a steady flow of contemporary clay creations — using the very same tools.
Marching to the beat of a different drummer in midtown Sacramento.
Roosevelt Jones Jr. lived like a stereotypical truck driver — and he paid the ultimate price. At 42 he suffered a massive heart attack while alone at home. He drove himself to the hospital, collapsed in the ER, and died in the ICU. The doctors would later tell my family that the entire left side of my dad’s heart was destroyed.
That day hurt. But I learned and took from it a great many things. The most important being the value of life, family, and time. And the relative insignificance of most everything else.
A few hours from now I will mark the beginning of my 42nd year. My day will be filled with an aggressive bike ride in the hills, lunch with the family, and a renewed appreciation for what really matters: My loving and supportive wife, Stacy. My compassionate, warm-hearted daughter Melia. My crafty and caring son, Gabriel. My ever-strong mother, Tamara. Willie Pearl, our regal matriarch. And Rosie.
To all those who’s lives have crossed my own, I thank you for your friendship and compassion. Today is truly the first day of the rest of my life.