| THE EPISTOLARIAN |

This fall in Charleston, I found myself seated for a tea tasting led by Lorna Reeves, the editor of Tea Time Magazine, and Darren Hartford, founder of Oliver Pluff & Co. I have been drinking tea daily for more than two decades and have read widely about its histories and varieties. Though my tea knowledge is well steeped, I learned a great deal.

Darren introduced us to Bohea, pronounced boo-hee, a smoky, woody Chinese black tea with a faintly leathery finish. It was among the first teas consumed by American colonists. Before Britain formalized its national ritual, the Dutch were already trading tea into the colonies. Bohea tastes unexpected, almost elemental. I have since taken to scenting my desk drawers with sachets of it, letting that trace of smoke and leaf settle among my paper and sealing waxes.

Darren grew up in Smithfield, Maine, and spent twenty eight years in the Air Force, traveling widely and absorbing the tea and coffee cultures of the places he was stationed. After retiring from the USAF, he founded Oliver Pluff to revive early American tea traditions with care and historical fidelity. The name carries geography within it. “Pluff” refers to the soft, muddy marshland soil found in tidal creeks and salt marshes along the Carolina coast. To me, it suggests something tidal and patient.

I no longer accept commissions, yet something about that afternoon remained with me. I was inspired by the world of tea we imbibed and the beautiful "Pluff" ship. I decided to make an "Oliver Pluff & Co" seal.

Ship seals date back at least two thousand years. Seventeenth century engravings often show vessels under full sail in calm weather or pressing forward through rough seas, emblems of safe return and steady command. By the nineteenth century, ship seals were usually inscribed “Such is life,” or in French, “Telle est la vie,” drawing a plain parallel between human fate and the sea. We move between calm and gale. We misjudge the weather. We endure.

Ships also invite a fun play on language. Within my own work, I am drawn to the suffix that turns a word into a vessel: stewardship, craftsmanship, friendship, authorship, kinship. Each suggests not ownership but carrying. A ship does not invent its cargo. It bears it across distance.

I loved the Oliver Pluff ship so much I asked Darren if he minded if we introduce the ship on it's own as part of the Hastings collection. He agreed. Thus the "Oliver Pluff Ship" was born as a collectors seal.

The vessel on the seal appears laden, perhaps with tea chests, perhaps with bolts of textile, perhaps with something less literal. These coastal merchant ships were not slaving vessels, a distinction that matters. They represent exchange without that particular horror, a commerce of leaves, linen and story.

To me, this ship feels as though it is returning safely to harbor after long and varied journeys. It carries something worth the passage. The seal leaves space for interpretation.

A ship asks what we are willing to carry across oceans of time, and what we hope will arrive intact. The drawer scented with Bohea, the marshland soil of Charleston, the faint smoky steam rising from a cup, all of it becomes cargo. The ship sets out. The ship comes home. The rest is ours to load.

Two Additional Beauties

In addition to the Ship, two other seals debuted: the Lighthouse and the Calla Lily. Both feel less like symbols and more like positions one chooses to inhabit.

The Lighthouse, to me, is not about rescuing anyone. It is about tending one’s own light. A lighthouse does not chase ships or plead with them to steer correctly. It remains in place and keeps the flame in order. That is its dignity. Pressed into wax, it becomes a vow of steadiness. I will stay rooted. I will keep the glass clean. What others do with the light is not mine to control.

The Calla Lily is something different, but equally architectural. It rises in one clean, deliberate line. Before it opens, it gathers itself. It protects its own throat. For centuries it has symbolized rebirth and resurrection, but what moves me most is that moment of containment before expansion. As a seal, it is a meditation on becoming, a disciplined ascent into light.

Together, they feel like companions to the Ship. Movement, steadiness, and rising. Three ways of traveling through a life.

Friendship, kinship, stewardship and all our lovely ships,

Kathryn