There is a Hoot Owl Holler in North Carolina.  A Cornstalk Road in West Virginia and a Pigs Ear Road in Maryland.  Tennessee has a Stinking Creek. MEMORIES - My very first memories are of the house on Rock Hill Road, south of Biltmore, North Carolina, between highways 25 and 25A.  I can remember riding my tricycle ‘round and ‘round the house as it was only 4 rooms.  You came in the front door into the living room, could go slightly right into a panty area or maybe a very small bedroom.  From there, into the kitchen and turn right into Mom and Dad’s bedroom.   Then left back into the living room – ‘round and ‘round and ‘round I went.  Probably drove my Mom crazy. And of the pottery - lots of people.  During the war – WWII – 22 people worked in the shop.  Later, when sick and working by himself, Grandpa would say he got one days work done every 22 days. And pots - lots and lots of boards of pots.  Boards stacked high into the air back by the casting area; by the jigger machines and up by the potters wheels.  Boards of pots stacked by the big kiln, glazed and awaiting the time they would be set inside and burned.  Boards stacked all the way into the display area. Boards of pots being carried outside, to dry in the sun, until they covered the whole parking area in front of the shop.  And I remember the mad dash to bring them back in when a summer rainstorm rolled in, an almost every afternoon occurrence until they slowly stopped and the dry season set in. The whole area in front of the shop would be covered with board after board after board of newly made pots – the larger crocks, churns, pitchers, jugs and all types and sizes of the cooking ware.  These would have to be turned about every thirty minutes to keep them from warping or cracking while drying.  It seemed like some of the churns and crocks were as tall as I and, in fact, at my young age, they were. I can barely remember seeing the big kiln inside being fired with wood.  The kiln was built down in a round pit.  You could walk all the way around it and the wood was stacked on the upper level, about waist high, so that it was very easy to pick up and toss into one of the four fireboxes around the kiln.  Later, for only a short period of time, it was fired with coal.  I can remember the big iron rod that was used to break the cinders the coal produced apart so they could be more easily taken out of the fireboxes.   Then with fuel oil.  A huge tank – about ten feet high and four feet across - was in the far left corner of the front of the shop.  And a large blower that supplied air to the burners.  From the noise it made, a loud, continuous howl, there was certainly no question as to when the kiln was being burned. When a major natural gas transport pipeline was put in right down the side of the shop, Grandpa switched to gas, which was used until the last firing of the kiln. For a child growing up in the pottery, it was almost magical – all kinds of equipment to play on and around; clay piles to climb on; dozens of places to hide.  Even climbing up in the rafters and going the full distance of the shop, from one end to the other, one rafter to another.  I look back on it now in horror as to the incredible danger one was in around the shop – a large dry pan and other equipment and the shafts and belts needed to turn them; a 6 ft. long open pug mill; a large, open pit which held the casting slip used in making cooking ware items and the 8 foot high pumps that moved the slip from a large pit in the shop floor to a tank – raised off the floor up in the rafters so the pressure would feed the hoses used to fill the moulds with slip; open line shafts that ran all the equipment in the back of the shop and one very long one running up the side which powered two jigger machines, a potter’s wheels and the rollers used to put the ball jars on to grind glazing. I look in amazement that no one was seriously injured or killed.  But in reality, it was little different than most any farm or manufacturing plant of it’s time – little thought was given as to the danger a piece of equipment posed to those working with or around it.  Times have changed. BROWN’S POTTERY - from the inside