There was once a family of potters that worked hard to make just enough to feed themselves. There was a grandfather, his son and daughter-in-law, and his granddaughter. The grandfather had once worked hard as a potter, carrying clay from the hillside, shaping pots as he pumped the wheel, keeping the kilns burning hot, and mixing the glazes to paint the pots bright colors. He had taught his trade to his son and together, they taught the son's wife when they married.

As the grandfather grew older, it became difficult for him to carry the heavy clay from the mountainside. Pumping the foot pedal to turn the potter's wheel caused his arthritis to flare up in his knee. Chopping the firewood and bending to put it into the kiln's oven door hurt his back. So the grandfather spent his time teaching his granddaughter to shape pots, watching as the girl pumped the wheel and helping her hold her hands "just so". Then, together, they would mix bright glazes in shades of blues, reds, even purple, and paint the pots with intricate designs. As they worked, grandfather would tell his granddaughter stories throughout the day. The shaping and the painting of the pots were all influenced by the story that had been told at the time it was made. If grandfather told a story, such as,

"There once was a great ship with brilliant sails, that set off across the ocean to see the world."

Well then, the pot that the girl made would be oval and have bright stripes flaring like flags in the wind across the sides. If the grandfather told the girl,

"A long time ago, there was a tiny bird building a nest in the spring."

Then his granddaughter would shape a delicate bowl in the colors of eggshells. The more the girl practiced, the better she got and her pots began to sell more often than those made by her parents.

By and by, the old man could no longer hold his hands steady to help shape the pots or to paint the glazes on the pots, for his hands shook from age. His family had to take over grandfather's part of the work. Grandfather felt so strange, sitting idle in the workshop where he had toiled for so many years. He began to tell his son and daughter-in-law how to improve the shape of their pots or how to make the kiln burn hotter or how to get a better shade of color when mixing the glazes.

"Father," said his son, "I've been doing this for years now. You don't need to teach me as if I was a child."

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable in the house?" asked his daughter-in-law, "You keep knocking over the pots with your cane when you come in here and we can't afford to lose them."

So, the old man stayed in the house while the family worked next-door in the pottery shop.

It was lonely in that house during the day for the old man. In the evenings, at the dinner table, grandfather would question his son and daughter-in-law about the business. When he heard that the pots weren't selling as well, grandfather began to tell them what they must do to improve the pottery.

"Are you keeping the kiln hot enough?" he would ask. "Are you mixing the glazes properly?"

"Yes! Yes!" his son would insist. "Stop badgering me with questions. You don't have to worry about the pottery anymore. Leave that to us."

But the old man couldn't stop asking about the pottery. Making pots with his family had been his whole life and so every evening when they sat down to dinner he would question them more. One night, he asked, again, for the third time that week,

"Are you sure you're digging the right kind of clay. You're not letting that clay dry out too much before you use it are you?"

The son exchanged looks with his wife and said,

"I wish you paid as much attention to your eating as you do to telling us what we do wrong. Look at yourself. You have half of your meal spilled down your shirt. It's disgusting."

Grandfather looked down at his shirt. His hands shook so much any more that he often spilled his meals on his clothes.

"I can't even get the stains out of your shirts or the tablecloth anymore when I do the wash," added his daughter-in-law.

The old man looked long at his son and his sons' wife and then slowly rose from the table. With his cane in one hand and his bowl in the other, grandfather tottered over to his chair in the corner and sat there to finish his meal alone. When the girl got up to join her grandfather, her father said,

"You sit back down and finish your food right here at the table. I wish you were as concerned about your work," her father told her angrily. "We haven't sold one of your pots in a long time. You're just not working as hard as you used to."

The girl looked up at her father and said,

"To make beautiful pots, I need grandfathers' beautiful stories."

"Nonsense" growled her father.

And he pounded the table with his fist to show that was the end of the discussion.

From that night on, grandfather continued to eat his meals in the corner in his chair. He would balance his bowl with one hand and spoon his food with the other. Since his hands shook, he would sometimes loose his grip on the bowl and his dinner would drop to the floor, the bowl crashing to pieces.

"That is the third bowl that you have dropped now. I can't keep making bowls just so you can break them" his daughter-in-law complained.

The old man sat in his chair with tears in his eyes. A few nights later, grandfather was telling his granddaughter stories, sitting together in what was now referred to as grandfathers' corner, when the girl's mother walked up to them with a wooden bowl in her hand.

"Here, I bought this at the market today for you, spending the little money that we have. Maybe now you won't break your dinner bowl anymore."

The old man just sat there, looking down at the floor, so his granddaughter took the bowl from her mother and looked at it, turning it over and over in her hands.

"Grandfather, may I borrow this for awhile," she asked.

Her grandfather shrugged sadly and the girl set off to the pottery shop.

In a little bit, the girl returned with a block of wood and a knife and started whittling, seated on the floor by her grandfather. Every now and then, the girl would stop and compare the block of wood to her grandfather's bowl. The girl's parents were setting the table with the evening meal. Her father came over to see what his daughter was working on.

"What's this? Have you given up on pottery altogether and decided to take up woodworking?" her father joked.

"I thought I'd better learn how to make wooden bowls too," the girl answered, keeping her eyes on her whittling.

"Whatever for?" asked her mother, walking up beside her husband.

The girl stopped her carving to look up at her parents.

"So that I will be able to make bowls for you and father when you are old and eat in the corner."

The husband and wife looked at their daughter in shocked silence and then they turned to see tears in each others eyes. This time, it was their turn to shake, as they slowly sank to their knees and begged grandfather to forgive them. Grandfather ate his meals at the table with the family after that. And he always ate out of a pottery bowl made by his family.

"After all," said his granddaughter, "It was grandfather who taught us all how to make them."

Grandfather was asked by his family to please come back into the pottery shop again. So the old man would spend his days in the shop, at times dozing in a chair, but usually he would be telling his granddaughter stories while the girl worked on her pots. Sometimes, grandfather would say,

"There once was a great dragon with shining green wings."

And his granddaughter would listen and make a deep shining green bowl with handles that stretched wide. Other times, grandfather may say,

"A long time ago, there was an enchanted princess with long flowing hair and eyes that sparkled."

Then his granddaughter would shape a long slender vase that sparkled in the sunlight. Her pots began to sell again, even more than those of her parents. The family lived on together in this way for many more years, not always in harmony, but certainly with more caring than before.