THE MIDDLE WOODLAND PERIOD: 200 B.C. - A.D. 1000

Although much of the pottery archaeologists find on Woodland sites in Ontario is skillfully made, every so often, we find pieces which have clearly been made with inexperienced hands.  In this story I have tried to zoom in on one small incident in the life of one small girl, as the art of making pots is transferred from one generation to the next... 

Her fingers were aching and swollen as the old woman pulled a handful of cold clay from the large pot and started to knead it. The little girl by her side watched as she worked the clay until it was soft and pliable, rolling it carefully between her hands into long thin flexible strips which she carefully laid on a piece of birchbark.

The little girl dipped her hand into the large pot and pulled off a fist sized chunk of clay. Working intently, she kneaded the clay as she had seen her Grandmother do. Within a few minutes another group of clay strips were lying on the birchbark.

The old woman had built up the sides of the vessel and was now working on the neck. By changing the diameter of the coils she lay, one on top of the next, she first constricted the neck, then widened it to flare out at the lip. She smeared each strip into the next with a deer rib so that the clay melded to form a cohesive whole. Once the basic shape was completed, she smoothed its inner and outer surfaces with a damp piece of leather until it was almost impossible to tell where the coils of clay had been laid. The cold clay felt soothing to her hands. It seemed to ease away some of the pain and inflammation.

She looked over at her granddaughter and vividly remembered sitting at her own grandmother's side learning how to mold the clay. How long ago had that been? So many seasons had come and gone. So many people she had known and loved had died. Yet as she watched the little girl moulding the clay strips in her inexperienced hands she recalled the loving patience her own grandmother had shown when, as a little girl, she had pulled some clay from the pot and tried to copy her.

Back in those days the sun had been warmer, it seemed, and her father had always managed to bring back something for them to eat. She could not remember ever being cold. Nowadays her old body only felt comfortable on the warmest days and she constantly fretted that the hunting would be bad or that the fish run would be late. Back in those days life had been one long summer of games and joy, of chasing dogs and splashing along the lake shore, of hunting frogs in marshes and of picking berries. She hardly remembered the winters at all. Now summer was a fleeting time, punctuating the long cold darkness of winter.

Her granddaughter began to add the strips of clay to her tiny misshapen base. Her clay kept changing shape in her hands as she held it too tightly, and she had to keep pressing it back so that it still resembled a pot. Her tongue was pressed tight into the corner of her mouth in concentration.

'Look Grandma' she said, 'mine's so small and ugly, we should throw it away!'. The old woman looked at her, remembering when she had felt the same way, all those years ago. She petted the girl on the head and picking up her pot told her that it was much better than she had managed when she was a girl.

'We could throw it away, but if we do that you won't need the tool I made for you to decorate it with. And I think your mother is looking forward to that present you promised her.'

The little girls face lit up as the woman passed her the small serrated stone tool. She had carefully notched both of its edges so that if you used it one way it left a series of notches in the clay, and if you used the other side, it left a sinuous mark like the side of a clam shell.

'Let's see how beautiful your pot looks after we have decorated it. I bet it will be the nicest your mother has ever seen.'

During the next hour the old woman slowly guided her granddaughter as they applied their pottery tools to the soft clay. She showed her how to arrange rows and lines of decoration to give a pleasing pattern of zones, and showed her how to use the end of a twig to push the clay from the inside to form bosses around the pots neck. By the time they had finished both were highly satisfied with their work. The process of decorating the little pot had helped to push it back into shape, so that when the old woman laid it gently down it looked like a minature of her own.

A few days later the old woman left her seat by the lake shore and collected the pots from where she had left them to dry in safety. The little girl was playing with her friends down at the water, but when she called her the girl lost all thoughts of play.

The old woman started to prepare a fire. She chose twigs and branches carefully and placed them on the dry sand in a special order so that when the pots were laid in the fire the temperature would be just right to fire the clay without cracking it. There will be time enough to teach her this another day, she thought.

After all the pots were safely positioned in the fire they covered them over with a matt of small twigs. The grandmother explained that the wood she had used would smoulder for a long time so that the pots would not crack or split, as they would in a racing hot fire.

'Now, you go and get some embers from the cooking fire and we will light it.'

The little girl scampered over to the fire, pulled out a burning branch and hurried back to her grandmother.

'Now, light it low down on the sides so that it burns from the bottom up.'

The girl did as she was told, and soon a plume of smoke was curling up through the heap of twigs, crackling in the drier branches.

'Well, my little one, lets get something to eat while the fire does its work. There's nothing more for us to do until the embers are cool.'

The fire burned long into the night and continued to smoulder long after the people had gone to sleep. Like many older people, the woman did not linger long in sleep, and was raking the ashes away from the pots before the little girl had awoken. Despite her efforts to control the heat, two of her pots had cracked. Never mind, she though, we can use them for storage until they break.

The little girls pot, being the smallest had sunk into the ashes and was nearly concealed. Gently the old woman pulled it free and inspected it. Parts of its surface had turned a fine reddish brown. She blew the remaining ashes out of the shallow depressions of the decoration and turned the vessel appaisingly in her hands. One day soon, she thought, this little girl will be crafting perfect pots for her own family.

Back in the lodge the little girl was just waking as her grandmother entered. 'Did it work Grandma?' she asked excitedly. The old woman didn't answer, but she smiled as she held out the still warm pot for her to inspect.

© Nick Adams 2000

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