After 41 years of marriage, you’d think we’d be in total sync.
But our Northport studio proves we are still the ultimate Odd Couple.
He’s a Leo. I’m an Aquarius.
He throws. I hand-build.
His wheel spins in steady rhythm while I shape clay slowly, one pinch and coil at a time.
On one side of the studio sits Pete’s Pots. Jeff named the business as a tribute to his father — a quiet nod to the Peterson legacy. Watching him at the wheel is a lesson in momentum. His work is symmetrical, grounded, reliable — much like the discipline that built his insurance agency years ago. He’s been throwing for decades, and there’s a quiet authority in the way he works — steady hands, steady rhythm, no drama.
On the other side is Pinky Peninsula Handworks — my playing ground.
While Jeff works in rotation, I work in conversation. Pinch. Coil. Press. Pause. My pieces are sculptural, a little silly, story-driven. One-armed gnomes. Whimsical faces. Clay with personality.
Yesterday, though, the clay was not cooperating.
Or maybe I wasn’t.
I was forcing it. Pushing shape where it didn’t want to go. Every adjustment made it worse. The more I tried to control it, the more it collapsed into something awkward and wrong. I could feel the frustration rising — that deep emotional uneasiness that shows up when effort isn’t translating into outcome.
Jeff was quietly working at his station. He looked over gently and asked, “Are you okay?”
My first response was intense. Sharp.
He didn’t match it.
He just said, “Maybe step away. The studio is calming.”
Something about that landed.
I took a breath.
Instead of fighting the clay, I listened to it. Softened my grip. Let the form shift instead of demanding it behave.
And almost magically, what felt like a disaster began turning into something sweet. The awkward angles became expression. The collapse became character. What I thought was failure became… cute.
Clay has a way of exposing your mood.
You cannot force it into cooperation.
You have to work with it.
Forty-one years of marriage has taught us the same thing.
We don’t create the same way.
We don’t solve problems the same way.
But under the same roof — with shared patience — something beautiful emerges.
Whether it’s a mug from Pete’s Pots or a whimsical character from Pinky Peninsula, our studio is proof that opposites don’t cancel each other out.
They balance.
And sometimes, when nothing seems to be working, the answer isn’t more force.
It’s breath.
It’s grit.
It’s intention.
“Patience and perseverance have a magical effect before which difficulties disappear and obstacles vanish.”
— John Quincy Adams
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