As I was lying in bed this morning, slowly waking up, I started reading this book that was recommended by our CEO, Matt. Butterick’s Practical Typography is exactly what it sounds like, lovingly presented. I was instantly rocketed back in time to the period of my life when I worked at Mackenzie-Childs.

I loved that job. It wasn’t so much the specific work itself, though it was also that, but the entire environment. I worked on the line, quite literally around a big workbench with five other people (three a side), hand trimming and smoothing clay pieces. We were the final quality check before firing, essentially. It was shift work, so I worked from 7am to 3pm. It was in Aurora, NY, while I lived in Ithaca, NY, which was about a 40 minute drive. It enabled me to quit the other three jobs I had at the time (American Eagle, Victoria’s Secret, and Jason’s Deli in Collegetown), so while I had to get up early, I only had one job.

I loved being able to get into a flow state, and just trim these individually pressed tiles that super rich people would pre-order for their homes (or second homes), or drill the hole in the back of drawer pulls, or whatever. It wasn’t big work, it was making the same small thing perfect over and over.

We worked in the big barn on the property, which also housed the production facility – so the pieces didn’t have far to go to be trimmed. On my break I’d wander around the floor and see how the vases were made. All the pieces that weren’t pre-order were made in bulk, so there wasn’t hand-throwing; it was all poured. So to make a vase, first a dummy would be made. That might have been thrown, or it could have been carved out of styrofoam. Then a negative mold would be made from that out of plaster. Once the mold was constructed, it was sliced in half so it could come apart in two pieces. The top had a hole in the middle. The two sides were cinched together tightly, and liquid clay was poured in the top to fill it up to the brim. With some experimentation, the team knew when to pour the clay back out of the mold, so that only a thin layer stayed inside the mold, adhered to the plaster sides. The plaster would leach the moisture out of the clay slowly, so it would start firming up from the outside in. That’s also why the entire thing had to be enclosed. Then after a specific amount of hours (usually on the order of days later), the mold would be released, a viola! a greenware vase. The temperature and humidity was as well controlled as it could be, but variation was expected. There would be 10 or 20 molds per design, and they’d all run on the same schedule so that the kilns could be filled and fired most efficiently. I absolutely loved it.

I had a pretty basic role (I was an untested kid with an undergraduate degree in art, and not much practical experience), but it felt important. I never felt like I wasn’t doing something worthwhile. For Mackenzie-Childs and the clientele they served, the details really matter. You pay quite a lot for each piece, and a lot of human effort goes into each one. Every piece is whimsical yet imbued with purpose. It was (and is) successful because of that sense of purpose, and a dedication to being purposeful.

When I left (which I only did because St Bonaventure contacted me and asked if I’d like to be part of their inaugural MA in English program, and who could say no to that), the crew gave me a cute and silly mug from the store, which I absolutely could not have afforded at the time, because their mugs are like $80. It was absurd and joyful, and never made room in the mugs cabinet for its plainer brethren. While it’s dumb to cry over things, I did cry when that mug eventually broke. It wasn’t a practical item, in terms of storing or for how much we moved, or for having young children. But it was beloved, and reminded me of a time that I deeply cherish.

Now I ask for a piece from Mackenzie-Childs from my parents for my birthday or Christmas each year. I was antiquing with my sister-in-law a few weeks ago, and saw a Mackenzie-Childs bunny weathervane, which I desperately wanted, but could already imagine my husband’s reaction. Besides, the enamel pieces don’t hold the same place in my heart as the ceramic. Ceramic has more warmth and meaning for me, and even though I can clearly remember the days that the clay dried out my skin so much that my autoimmune disorder was triggered (nothing heinous, I’d just get very itchy), I can’t help but think fondly of the feel of the clay in my hand, and the deep satisfaction of shaving off rough edges. Of making the piece the best it could be, and the joy it would bring one day, after firing, glazing, re-firing, and being put on display in the shop. That time in my life helped to clarify a lesson, that being purposeful means being lasting. The things we invest in with purpose and clarity of intent, are the things that will end up mattering the most over the long term. Especially when we give it away.