by Sarah Atwell
I often ask myself why I have two dogs with very short legs when I live in a second-story apartment reached by a set of rickety exterior steps. I never planned to get a dog at all, yet somehow I ended up with two. But I have never regretted it for a minute: They’re good company, well behaved when I let them come with me to the studio, and I have to admit I spend far more time talking to them than a supposedly rational person should. But then, I considered myself an artist, and we artists are allowed a few eccentricities. Fred answered me far more often than Gloria did, but Gloria was much wiser.
“Hi, sweeties!” I said as I came in—and stopped so that they could wind themselves around my ankles enthusiastically. I opened a can of food and split it between two bowls, since they refused to share. Once they had licked the bowls clean, I began the laborious process of hauling them down the stairs so we could take a walk, and then back up the stairs. Then and only then would they allow me to think about feeding myself. Not that there was much effort involved in that: I popped a frozen dinner into the microwave, opened a sports drink (more hydration, and to replace whatever electrolytes I lost to sweat), and toasted my newly achieved expertise in frit work. Fred and Gloria were properly complimentary.
The next morning, Nessa was already behind the register when I came down—the second time, after walking the dogs.
“Hi, Ness. Tell me, what’s the story on that girl last night?” I probably should have said “woman.” I would have put her age at midthirties, but there was something unfinished and tentative about Allison that made her seem younger than she was.
Nessa looked up from counting the bills in the register. “She didn’t bother you, did she? She came in just after you went to the studio, and I noticed she was peeking at you through the big window there, so I told her she could go in and watch from a little closer. I didn’t think you’d mind. She didn’t look like she could hurt a fly.”
“Not a problem, and you know I don’t mind an audience. Heck, when I get into the piece, I wouldn’t know if there was a football team in the room, just as long as they didn’t get in my way. She stuck around until I finished, and I told her she ought to take a class. Do you know her?”
Nessa shook her gray head. “No, I can’t say that I’ve seen her before—and I would remember, wouldn’t I, with that hair? Pretty little thing, but scared of her own shadow.”
Nessa had the greatest personal radar of anyone I had ever known, and what she didn’t know, she could find out through her network of Tucson friends. “I got the same impression. I hope she comes back—she looked like she was really fascinated.”
Nessa skewered me with a judgmental look. “Em, what’re you thinking?”
She knew me all too well. “Just that she looked like she could use a friend—and she really did seem interested in the glass.”
Nessa sighed. “I’m sure I can’t stop you, but I’ve seen you collect too many strays. If you aren’t careful, she’ll be following you around like a puppy.”
An apt analogy, considering that I had adopted both Fred and Gloria from the pound. I was a sucker for a beseeching glance. “Don’t worry, Ness. I’ve got enough to handle between the shop, classes, and trying to get any glass made.”
Nessa nodded to herself as she closed the cash register, but she didn’t look convinced. “What’s on your calendar?”
We went about the business of the day, and I gave no further thought to Allison McBride.
Chapter 2
punty: (formerly called pontil): a metal rod or tube used to gather glass and transfer one piece of hot glass to another (Edward T. Schmid, Beginning Glassblowing)
I had recently started offering a beginner’s class in the studio on Wednesday nights. For several years I had concentrated on working with a small number of advanced students, one-on-one, but classes could bring a lot more people into the gallery, not to mention more income. And I found I enjoyed sharing my hard-won skills, even if the classes ate into the time I spent doing my own glasswork. I taught some advanced classes now, but the newbies required special handling so they didn’t harm themselves but still went away with a feeling of accomplishment. It was quite a balancing act, but I seemed to be pulling it off. Enrollments had risen steadily, and it looked like I was going to have to start offering more than one first-timer’s class. Tonight’s class was filled to the max: I had four benches, each with two eager people standing behind it. I know that some glass places handle bigger groups, but if I was going to teach this solo, I wanted to be sure that I could keep an eye on everyone, and eight enthusiastic novices flinging molten glass around was all that I thought I could deal with.
I stood in the center of the work space, the benches in front of me, the furnaces glowing behind me. “Welcome to Beginning Glassblowing at Shards. I’m Emmeline Dowell—call me Em—and this is my studio. You all came in through the shop—feel free to buy anything you like.”
A laugh rippled through the group. “Do we get a discount?” somebody piped up.
“Nope. I need every penny.”
I smiled to soften the comment before going on. “The class is three hours long, and at the end of the evening you will have completed a paperweight. But before we start, there are some safety issues you need to know about.” Several groans. “I know you want to get your hands on the fun stuff, but I don’t want anyone getting hurt, so there are some basic precautions. Listen up. The glass you will be working with will be hot—really hot. You do not want to be hit by hot glass, and you don’t want to hit anyone else either. So always be aware of where everyone else is. Don’t crowd or push—you’ll all get your chance to use the equipment. And some of the tools will get hot too. You can’t tell just by looking at them, so assume everything is hot. Okay?”
I waited to make sure that everyone was paying attention, making eye contact with each person. It was the usual mixed bag—some young ones, probably from the university; a few women my own age or older; one man who looked to be past retirement age.
“First, there are safety goggles on the bench in front of you. Wear them at all times. No exceptions.” Everyone picked up the plastic glasses and turned them over in their hands. “I know—they’re ugly and clunky. But they’re essential, and it’s not negotiable.
“Next, you should be wearing long-sleeved cotton shirts. If you’re not sure what your shirt is made of, take it off—I’ve got a bunch of loaners hanging over there.” I pointed to a row of hooks on the wall, where various Oxford shirts of uncertain age hung limply. “You do not want your shirt to melt into your skin, believe me, and cotton won’t. No shorts. No open shoes or sandals. I don’t want you dropping hot glass on your feet, or tripping into a piece of equipment.”
I made a quick survey of the group; luckily it looked like everyone had gotten the message.
“There’s a water bottle for each of you on your bench. You might have noticed that it gets hot in here.” More laughter. “That’s because there are two furnaces over against the wall, and they’re running at over two thousand degrees Fahrenheit. And there are three glory holes”—I pointed them out—“where you’re going to be shaping your glass. They’re a little cooler than the furnaces, but not much. So you’re going to get hot and stay hot. Keep drinking. If you start feeling woozy, step back, sit down, and drink some more. Got it?” Nods all around.
“Any of you with long hair, tie it back. I’ve got hair thingies if you need them. Girls and boys.” Most of the boys sported a short crop, so it was moot for them.
“Next—and I don’t say this to scare you—it’s possible that you’re going to get burned. It happens. When you use the blowpipe—I’ll explain that in a minute—don’t put your hand too near the end with the glass, because the pipe is metal, and it gets hot too. And don’t ever grab your glass piece barehanded. Glass stays hot a long, long time. If you have any doubt about an item, assume it’s hot, please. I’ve got a good safety record here, and I want to keep it that way.”
I surveyed them all once again.
“Finally—and I can’t stress this enough—focus. Pay attention. No horsing around. I want every one of you to enjoy this, and no one has the right to disrupt the class. If you do, you’re out of here—and I don’t give refunds. Everybody got that?”
Heads bobbed in unison. Then I looked past the benches and saw that Allison had crept in and was standing at the rear, pressed against the wall. I was torn—I knew she hadn’t signed up for the class, but I didn’t have the heart to shoo her away. “Okay, everybody check your shirts, tie back your hair, and make sure your safety glasses fit. In a minute I’ll explain the equipment to you and show you the basics.”
I walked over to where Allison was standing near the door. “Hi! I’m glad you came back. But tonight’s class is full.”
Allison looked at her feet. “I know. I didn’t expect . . . But I wanted to talk to you. See, I don’t really have the money to take a class, and I wondered if there was some way maybe to pay in installments or something?” She looked up then, her eyes pleading.
I considered. I knew my classes weren’t cheap, although they were no higher than any of my competitors’. But I could tell that this must be important to Allison, since she had summoned up the courage to come and ask. I made a quick decision. “Look, why don’t you hang around and watch this class, see how you like it. Then after, maybe we could go somewhere and talk about options. How’s that?”
She nodded, with a tiny smile. “I’d like that.”
“Okay, pull up a stool and make yourself comfortable— just keep out of the way. I’ve got to get back to the group. But don’t go away, okay?”
She nodded again. I made my way back to the front of the class and resumed. “All right. What are these weird and wonderful things you’re looking at? This is a midsize studio, about ten thousand square feet. The furnaces over by the wall there are where I melt the glass. Then those smaller things are glory holes—no sniggering, please.” I directed this comment to a young male, who looked like he was there mainly to keep his shapely girlfriend company. “The glory hole is what you use to keep your piece at the right working temperature. You can see that you can adjust the size of the opening, so you don’t lose any more heat than you have to. We’re going to start with small pieces, so we can keep the opening pretty small.”
I swivelled. “That boxy thing over there is the annealer. When you make a piece, you don’t get to take it home right away, because it’s still very hot. If it cools too fast, it will crack. So it goes into the annealer and cools overnight. You can come by tomorrow to pick up your pieces. Okay so far? Please, ask questions if you have any—I know this is a lot of stuff to take in all at once.”
Nobody said a word. “Great. Then let’s move on to the tools. Bet you can guess which is the blowpipe—it’s the pipe you blow into. And before you ask, no, you don’t need lungs of steel to blow a glass object. If it’s hard to blow, your glass isn’t hot enough. And don’t worry about inhaling—the air in the pipe cools before it gets near your mouth.”
I spent the next ten minutes explaining all the exotic and arcane tools and materials—the marvers, the frit, the pastorale, the punty—most of which this group wouldn’t get to use tonight, but they were fun to talk about. Then I showed them how their benches worked.
“You sit on the bench, here, and you rest your pipe on the side, here.”
“What if I’m left-handed?” someone asked.
“These are right-handed benches, and almost all glassblowers work right-handed. Just do the best you can. You’ve got shaping tools in the buckets there beside you. Yes, they’re wood, but the water keeps them from burning when they hit the hot glass. Keep dipping them in the water while you work. Those are diamond shears, there— you use those for trimming glass.”
“Wow!” the teenage girl said. “You can cut glass, like, with scissors?”
I nodded. “When it’s hot, you can. All right, you’ll be working in pairs, so you can trade off. Watch what your partner does, and if it works, do the same thing. If it doesn’t work, change it. I’ve been doing this for a while, so I can handle it by myself most of the time, but there are still times when I need a second pair of hands, like for bigger pieces.” Then I gave them a demonstration of how to collect the first gather—a load of glowing glass—on their pipe, letting them get the feel of the liquid glass. We were off.
As usual, the time went quickly. Luckily there were no problems, and everyone managed to produce something that resembled a paperweight. They all looked quite proud, which made me feel good. We transferred the paperweights to the annealer. When the students turned to me expectantly, I said, “You done good, all of you. Now that you’ve gotten a taste of glassblowing, I hope you’ll come back for more classes. We’ve barely scratched the surface here tonight, and there are lots of other techniques for you to explore—just look around the gallery and you’ll get the idea. And if you think of any other questions, I’m always here. Good night, now.”
The class members filed out of the studio, chattering like sparrows, which I took as a sign that they had enjoyed the class. I’d bet that one or two of them would be back for more. And the rest would have a paperweight to remind them of me. Not a bad night’s work.
Only then did I remember Allison. She had lurked in the shadows for the entire class, but now she came forward. “That was wonderful! It’s so interesting, and you made it look easy, although it probably isn’t.”
I started to clean up, turning off the glory holes and collecting the tools. “Yes and no. As you saw, you can make something simple on your first try. On the other hand, I’ve been doing this for years—and I know people who have been at it for decades—and there’s always something new to learn. But it’s not about strength, it’s more about skill. You have to be careful, and pay attention. Even a big piece, like a large bowl, doesn’t weigh more than a couple of pounds—although swinging that around at the end of the blowpipe can be tricky. You interested?”
“I’d love to try it, but like I said, there’s no clear way to pay.”
“Let me finish up here, and we can go around the corner and talk about it.” It took only a few minutes to put everything in order. At the door to the shop, I turned to make one last check: back door shut, annealer loaded and off, benches clear. Satisfied, I was about to turn off the lights when there was a pounding at the back door that led to the alley behind the building.
“Hang on a sec,” I told Allison, and went to open the door.
“Hey, lady, lookin’ good.” Tim, the trucker who delivered my supplies, greeted me with his usual good cheer. He was an independent, so he kept his own schedule, which suited me fine.
“Hey, Tim, I forgot you were coming tonight. I was teaching a class and lost track of time.”
“Not to worry—this is my last stop. You need some help?”
Tim’s question was a joke we shared. Since most of the raw materials I needed came in two-hundred-pound bags or three-hundred-pound barrels, it was just a bit beyond my capabilities to haul them around, much less unload them from the truck. “Ooh, pretty please?” I batted my nonexistent eyelashes at him, and he laughed.
“Hey, you move the trash bin?”
I shared an industrial-size trash container with some of my neighbors, and it lived in the alley behind the building—usually a couple of doors down. “No. Why?”
“It’s right up against the wall outside, and I gotta get the truck backed up there.”
Mystified, I followed him into the narrow alley. He was right: The Dumpster was pushed up against the back wall of my building—right under one of the windows. There were several windows along the lower story of the building, two overlooking the work area of the studio, the third opening onto the storeroom built into the back, all about six feet off the ground. And the ground floor windows had metal grates over them, a holdover from the building’s days as a factory.
“That’s weird. It wasn’t there the last time I looked, and I have no clue why anyone would have moved it. It alm
ost looks like somebody wanted to watch the class.” But that made no sense: There were windows on the street side for just that purpose. Nobody had to sneak around back. “I don’t suppose you saw anybody back here?” I asked Tim.
“Not right here, although there were a couple of guys hangin’ out at the end of the alley, smokin’. Didn’t look like druggies or nothin’.”
But at Tim’s words, I heard Allison inhale sharply. I turned to her. “What is it, Allison?”
She waved her hand at me. “Nothing. Never mind.”
I watched her for a moment more. She looked rattled, but she didn’t volunteer anything else. I turned back to Tim. “Well, no harm done. Let’s shove it back where it belongs and get that shipment inside.” Luckily the trash bin was on rollers, and Tim and I wrestled it back to its usual place, so Tim could move his truck.
It took us another twenty minutes to shift the supplies inside. Tim shuttled them to the lift on the back of the truck, then lowered them to the level of my dolly; I dragged them onto the dolly and wheeled them into the storeroom. Allison stood silently in a corner, her arms wrapped around herself, watching. I didn’t ask her to help—looking at her, I didn’t think she could handle twenty pounds of dead weight, much less two hundred.
When we were done, I went over the delivery list. “Tim, there’s one item missing.”
“Oh, yeah—they said it was back-ordered. I’ll bring it by later in the week.”
“So I guess I’ll be seeing you again, eh?”
“You got it, lady. You’re the high point of my route.”
I laughed. Tim was a flirt, but I knew he had a wife and a couple of kids tucked somewhere about three states over. “I bet you say that to all the girls. Take care, now.”
With a cheery wave he got back into his truck and maneuvered his way out of the alley. Alone in the alley again, I took a quick look around. I didn’t have a garage—the paint job on my old car, a middle-aged Honda, showed the toll of the blazing Arizona sun—but there was always space to park here, and I made sure that the lightbulbs in the spotlights were changed regularly. Tucson wasn’t a high-crime city, but as a woman living alone, and a shop-keeper, I would rather be safe than sorry. Luckily this neighborhood had no history of break-ins, attempted or successful. The police made sure of that, because they didn’t want to drive away the tourists with money to pump into the local economy.