Glassblowing

Glassblowing - Ariel Li (Bob Lanier Middle School, Seventh Grade)

Dad owns a glassblowing shop. Neat shelves of vases and glasses and plates with

swirls of color entrapped inside the clear solid. Little glass birds and statues and plastic baggies

of glass dice. Handmade charms and keychains dangling from metal hooks.

Each day, since I was young, Mom would dress me in long-limbed clothes and deck me

out in pretty pink sunglasses. She’d zip up my black boots and tie my hair before going to the

back.

Out back, the sunlit fantasy of the dainty shop fell away into a whole new world.

Furnaces and kilns belched out glowing orange blobs. Tweezers and clamps tugged at the

molten glass and drew it out into thin strips. Patterns were pressed onto soon-to-be bowls and

vases.

And there was Dad. Breaking off punties, stretching out handles, blowing molten glass

into bulbous shapes, snipping rods and reheating glass figures. He moved silently, concentrated

in his own world, eyes fixated on the glass.

Smoothing it out, dipping it in water, rolling it across little glass pieces and flakes of gold

leaf, transferring it in and out of the kiln, he moved with an unbroken fluidity, encaptured in the

way it flowed and bended and twisted, poking it with sticks until it fell into the shape he wanted.

I used to pick up little glass shards, dip my fingers in powder, and twirl metal rods and

other pokey things, dreaming about the day I would be able to move and work like Father. The

day I would be able to take over shop.

“Hey baby,” My dad said, setting his new piece down and smiling at me. I smiled at him

but said nothing, waiting, waiting for him to remember. He looked down at me, amused, then

made a show of gasping dramatically and slapping his forehead.

“How could I forget? It’s your birthday tomorrow, baby!” He cried, sweeping me up in his

strong, strong arms. “I’ve got something just for you.” He put me down and walked over to a

small furnace, tucked near the back corner. Sticking out of it, was a long metal pipe, the glass at

the tip glowing like a ball of fire, a second sun.

He took it out and walked over to a mold, which had been lined with pieces of blue

patterned glass. He stuck the glass in and I watched, awestruck as the glass spread like a

balloon, swallowing the pattern.

Dad counted under his breath, then pulled the glass out of the mold and began rolling it

on the metal table to smooth it out. He turned around and I jumped back to avoid the molten

glass.

“Sorry,” he muttered softly, but he was already too into his craft to give it much thought.

He jabbed the stick into the furnace and pulled it out after a bit. He took out a tray of light blue

shards and rolled the glass blob in them, then on the table.

He took out a rubber tube and squeezed the end, pumping air into the glass orb. The

molten blob expanded. Then, he produced a smaller rod, carving grooves along the blob, then

took a pair of prongs and forced the molten metal downwards, making it expand outwards.

His eyes darted to his bench, and his hands seized a pair of large metal scissors. He cut

away at the top of the blob and the molten metal fell onto the table. By now I could guess what it

was. He took another mold and some thick rags to smooth out the inside of the bowl.

He put down the mold and supported the bowl with the rags. He placed the metal rod

down on his bench and reached for a torch, blasting the thing with flames, sparks dancing wildly.

I giggled and swatted at any stray sparks that got too close. He turned his head slightly and

gave me a half smile, then took a bat and sharply tapped the punti stick. The bowl broke off and

he set it down carefully.

I thought it was done. I rushed to hug daddy, but he held up his hand. He took another

piece of glass and heated it up. I watched, bright eyed, as Dad used tweezers and clamps to

fashion something. Slowly, carefully, two wings appeared, then a tail, then four limbs with five

perfect little glass claws.

He tugged and pulled, and a pair of horns appeared, then a snout, then a series of

spikes. He bit his lip and twisted the dragon some more, until it was sitting snugly on the rim of

the bowl.

I giggled in excitement, eyes big, as Dad put down the stick and pulled on some thick

gloves. He picked up the masterpiece carefully and settled it down into the annealing oven

along with three other pieces.

“When will it be done Daddy?” I say, swaying on my tiptoes, even though I already knew.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead.

“Tomorrow morning, we’ll get up real early, and get breakfast at Waffle House, then

come straight here to the shop, okay baby?” I hugged him and he picked me up, spinning me

through the air. When he put me down, Mom walked over and squeezed my shoulders, brushing

stray hairs off of my forehead.

“Tomorrow,” Dad promised me, “We’ll come and get your birthday piece.”

Tomorrow, as promised, Dad woke me up at 6:00 and got me dressed in my favorite

daisy yellow dress. Mom braided my brunette hair into a half up half down style, my favorite. I

giggled and tossed my hair, twirling my dress in front of the mirror.

Then we went to the nearest Waffle House. We got scrambled eggs and a plate of bacon

and sausage, with waffles and maple syrup and butter, along with a glass of orange juice. It was

so good, and I could have sworn that I had more food on my plate. I badgered my parents for

more and they relented, ordering me seconds.

Then, after I was bursting with delicious food, Dad got up into our black toyota and drove

me over to the shop. It looked extra pretty today, with the early morning sunlight filtering through

the glass objects, illuminating the place with a soft, rainbow glow.

Mom dressed me up in protective gear, and we went to the back. Dad told me to close

my eyes. I could hear shuffling and couldn’t resist peeking through my eyelids. Dad was opening

the annealing oven. I shut my eyes again as he turned back around.

“Open your eyes, baby.” My eyes flew open, and I let out a shriek of excitement. It was

beautiful, engraved with patterns, flecks of gold and swirls of blue swimming in the clear glass.

And the little dragon, with its tiny perfect claws and miniature wings. I snatched it away from

Daddy and peered at it obsessively.

I couldn’t see a single flaw, not in the design, not a crack or scrape or misshape. Even

Dad had to admit it was better than he had expected it to be.

“I’m going to name you Tommy.” I told the little dragon. Mom chuckled a bit.

“Hello Tommy.” My dad said, patting the little dragon with two fingers. “You are going to

love my daughter.” He began to walk out of the shop.

“Wait Daddy!” He turned around, eyebrows raised. I tilted my head, giving him a

quizzical look. “Don’t you have work?”

“Nope.” Dad came back and picked me up in his arms. “I’ll have all day with my baby

girl.”

So we went home, and I put the bowl on top of my bedside table, and we ate chocolate

cake and invited friends over and played pretend all afternoon. When Mom asked if I would like

to eat dinner with my bowl, I shook my head.

“Why ever not?” Mom asked, sounding puzzled.

“It’s too special for that!” I exclaimed, crossing my arms.

Mom shrugged and we ate dinner. Mom had made all my favorites.

“Why do you keep it there?” Mom asked, gesturing to the bowl on my table. I climbed

into bed, pulling the sheets over me.

“So that when I wake up, I can see it. So that I know that it’s still there.”

Mom blinked, then smiled softly. Her head turned to her own bed, across the hall. Her

eyes locked onto the photo on her own bedside table. The photo of a handsome man, with

brunette hair and sky blue eyes that matched mine and a genuine, wonderful smile that made

both her and I swell with joy.

“I know baby,” She said, planting a kiss on my forehead.

“I know.”