The Pottery Farm

It had taken me forever to find this place. Obscure, all tucked away from the main roads. If it hadn't been for a broken down golf cart tilting into the ditch at the corner of where you turn into the drive, I would have missed the entrance completely. Never the less, I was here and ready to pick up a gift for my mother. If she wasn't so eclectic, I surely would have just purchased an amazon gift card and called it a day. But no, my mother had the strangest taste and so each year, I made it a point to find something more unique than the last gift to surprise her with for her birthday.

I'd never even heard of The Pottery Farm before and was shocked when I saw the ad on the side of my computer screen while reading a random article one night. Normally, I'm not distracted by ad space, but there was a picture of a woman with the most enchanting eyes, framed by long, dark lashes that had caught my eye. She was posed with a really intricate ceramic vase, her fingers holding it ever so gently and her stare... well, let's just say whoever directed her for the ad must have told her to stare at the camera as if it's the only thing you're connecting with on the planet. She nailed it. The more I studied the ad, the more I felt like she was calling me to click on it. I mean really, they could have used this woman for just about any advertisement and the clicks would roll in.

Once I clicked, I was redirected to The Pottery Farm's website. It wasn't anything spectacular. It looked as though they desperately needed a web developer or graphic designer to help them market better. Their font was simple, there wasn't much cause for eye movement around the site. The only thing it really had going for it was the landing page, where that woman was pictured again. Those eyes.

I couldn't tell if they were an olive green or a hazel. They were practically the same color as her light brown hair. I studied her picture again for a few minutes before even identifying what products they sold.

It was all antique and vintage looking pottery. Vases, jars, knick-knack keepers, you name it and they sold it. All of it was very detailed though, completely something my mother would have proudly displayed on one of her shelves in a room where she entertained. I wondered for a moment if that woman really worked there or if they'd just found some highly attractive model to stand in their store and hold things while they did a photo shoot. It definitely wasn't a stock image, I worked with marketing and web graphics all the time and she was no iStock model. The thought of possibly running into her excited me for the briefest moment and then I snapped myself out of if. Of course she didn't work there.

So here I was now days later, pulling in and parking on this dusty, gravel lot. It was a wonder how this place was even in business. How on earth could anyone find them here?

I stepped out of my car and watched the dust that my SUV kicked up began to settle on my shoes. Stepping lightly up the cement stair path, I hit the front door and entered slowly, not sure what to expect. A small bell rang above my head as I entered and I almost immediately laughed at the quaint, old-time feel. I didn't realize I had chuckled out loud until I looked up and caught those eyes studying me.

It was her, from the ad. She leaned against the counter from behind it and subtly tapped her fingers atop the glass as she did not remove her eyes from me. A shorter woman stood on the opposite side of the glass, fidgeting around and staring down into the case.

"Oh, I don't know," the older, shorter woman sighed. "Why don't you just wrap up that blue one for me. It reminds me of my grandson's eyes." The woman trailed into a story about her grandson and the one from the ad, behind the counter, opened it, reached in, and grabbed the small jar without breaking eye contact with me. I felt chills run down my back and nervously looked away. Making a superficial lap around the small store, letting the floorboards creek beneath my feet, I refused to look back up. That didn't stop the feeling of being watched.

I heard the older patron's voice chime in again, "Well thank you dear. I really appreciate you helping me out again today." Her voice cracked a bit as she jiggled the paper gift bag with wicker handles in the air and nodded her way toward the door.

"Anytime, Ramona." another voice sounded. It was deeper than I expected and buttery, almost with a hint of an accent. French? German? I couldn't help but look up. Just as I did, her eyes flashed over to me and her soft matte peach lips slightly parted revealing what seemed like a smirk. I couldn't tell, though. I swallowed hard before speaking.

"Hi." I said.

"Hello." She returned, nonchalantly. I felt like I had this connection to her, but had to urge myself to knock off the internal nonsense in my head, as I was just coming to buy a vase and she was just someone who worked here. I didn't know her, she didn't know me.

"Can I help you find something?" She probed as she stepped down from behind the counter. She suddenly lost a couple of inches when she did, I guess the register must have been on a platform. She still looked of average height though. Her hair bounced as she made her way over to me and a sweet smell of rain hit my nose. It wasn't raining though, but the air suddenly smelled damp and fresh all at the same time. She whisked herself in front of me, softly putting her hand on a decorative jar on the shelf that was at my shoulders.

"Let me guess..." her eyes sparkled. "You're not here for you, you're looking for a gift." She continued as she played with the jar, softly tapping it with her fingernails. Tingles started down my shoulders and I had no idea what the hell was happening. I gulped and she kept talking.

"Hmmmm..." she said, getting closer to me. "If I had to guess, I'd say you're here to get something for your mother." As the word mother left her mouth, I could hear her accent appear again. Where was she from?

"Yea...yes." I replied casually choking down how uncomfortable I was.

"What is her name?" She questioned.

"Huh?" I didn't understand this question in the moment, why would she ask what her name is? What does that have to do with anything?

"I said, what is your mother's name?" There it was again, that un-placeable accent.

"Mom." I said, letting my inner smart ass off its leash.

Her lips parted once more and she revealed, again, what seemed like a smirk.

"Okay..." she replied dully.

"It's Celine." I said, still confused as to what my mom's name had to do with anything.

"Ah." she exhaled. Then without saying anything else, without even looking at me, she walked off, tracing the shoulder-height shelf with her index finger as she made her way to another corner of the store. She stood for a moment in front of some bottles and tapped her foot gently against the creaky boards. I didn't see what she grabbed for until she turned back around and headed my direction.

"Here, it's perfect." The inflection on perfect sounded so French, but I still wasn't sure. I wanted to ask, but I'm sure she got that from just about everyone who came through here, so I refrained.

I took the bottle from her delicate hands and examined it. It was an old perfume bottled, empty of course. It had the tube that led to the ball pump, complete with a fancy looking tassel hanging off of it. It was actually really pretty and had shades of plum, a color my mother loved. It was indeed perfect and honestly a bit scary how this woman picked it out so quickly. I didn't know what to think of this whole interaction so I said, "I'll take it." and motioned to the counter.

"Great!" She said with a tiny fragment of excitement in her throat. She carefully pulled out sheets of really decorative looking tissue paper and began to wrap it up. She seemed to take her time as if no one else was in the store. This whole experience made me feel really weird and honestly, I just wanted to get the heck out of there.