Little Dove sat next to her grandmother, watching carefully as the old woman shaped wet clay with her hands. They were sitting in the shade outside their adobe home in the pueblo. It was a warm summer day in the year 1200.
"First, you must find the right clay," Grandmother said. "Not all clay is good for pottery. We walk to the riverbed where our ancestors found clay for hundreds of years." Little Dove remembered testing the clay by rolling it between her fingers.
"Now watch," Grandmother said. She rolled the clay into a long snake shape, then coiled it round and round to build up the sides of a pot. Her fingers moved with practiced skill, smoothing the coils together so no cracks showed.
"Can I try?" Little Dove asked eagerly. Grandmother handed her a piece of clay. Little Dove tried to make a coil, but it kept breaking apart. "Be patient," Grandmother said. "Add a little water. Not too much—just enough to make it smooth."
Little Dove tried again. This time, the clay stayed together. She made a small bowl, working slowly and carefully. "Good," Grandmother said. "Now we let it dry in the sun. Tomorrow, we will polish it with a smooth stone. Then we paint designs on it."
"What designs will we paint?" Little Dove asked. "We paint symbols that tell stories," Grandmother explained. "This line represents water. These triangles are mountains. This spiral is the sun's path across the sky."
After the clay dried, they would fire the pottery in a hot pit filled with burning wood and dried sheep dung. The fire would turn the clay hard and make the colors bright. Little Dove looked at her small bowl and imagined the stories she would one day paint.