Glass Lady #6

I feel as though I’m in orientation for a new job. I’m perched precariously on the tip of the proverbial iceberg, a massive formation of crystal clear glass, be-ribboned with pinks, greens, yellows, reds, ambers, blues and the elusive hues of amethyst and wisteria.

I’m trying to help as many as I can, fitting in readings after hours. I hear my name called out nightly and I wake with hands in prayer position. Jane finally called and I did my first phone reading, spontaneously. We formed an instant connection, as my mind’s eye beheld the Glasbake set of Lipton square mugs. Your cousin died in a freak accident. No one could have predicted it, no one could have prevented it. Such the peace-loving soul, he was burning his draft card in protest when his sleeve caught fire. Engulfed in seconds, no one was prepared for such an event. His had been the coral red mug of the set and it has been in your possession since he passed. He says 'Let it go. Your nightmares will stop if you let it go. Let it go.' He continues to work for peace from the other side, but the intense grief you still feel for him is holding him back. You’ve practically made a shrine of that soup mug. He says 'It’s not necessary. Let it go.' Jane confirmed the events and promised to bury the mug in a simple ceremony.

It used to be all or nothing for me, but that’s changed. I’m not giving up the bookstore; I’m simply finding ways to integrate glassware here and there. A Federal Diana candy dish by the register. A growing collection of Hocking Miss America pieces for the window display featuring the works of glass-torian authors Gene Florence, Hazel Marie Weatherman and Sandra McPhee Stout. And I splurged on the complete Jeannette Cherry Blossom tea set for the Children’s Book Nook, in delicate transparent pink.

I looked around today and noticed that my home has not been immune to my sudden passion. A Silver City Flanders vase sits atop the piano among framed family photos, clear apothecary jar shows off cotton whispers in the powder room. Not for long did my little mystery creamer stand alone on the kitchen shelf. Four other designs followed in short order: Indiana Oleander, McKee dubbed Balloon and Stitch, Fostoria American and the obligatory, ubiquitous Anchor Hocking EAPC. None have a matching sugar bowl, but I care not. I’ve developed an aversion to stout sugar bowls, standing with arms akimbo, refusing to get up off the table, relying on spoon or tongs to disperse their seductive sweetness.

Never again will I neglect God’s beautiful crystal kingdom when seeking answers. I’ve been trying to identify my much-loved creamer for a month now, but to no avail. So this afternoon, I intentionally employed the recent birthday gifts I received. Clasping the chain of the moldavite pendant 'round my neck, gently holding the celestite crystal, I combined use of book and internet once again. Within minutes the captioned photo appeared – a Hazel Atlas Beehive creamer! It has become my totem, my adopted logo. With handle outstretched in a friendly manner, it is a perfect symbol of the widow’s mite. My creamer has little to give, but is willing to give all.

Met Millie again to go through the boxes of glassware stored in her attic. Undaunted, I estimate we’re at about the halfway point. Hauling down one box at a time, she yells "Block Optic!" each and every time we identify a pattern. That ‘chore’ gets easier everyday as I visit and learn so much from the sites of SPGlass, Replacements Ltd, SuzieMax, and FirstClassGlass, among others.

Millie is still trying to pay me back for that tea cup I bought for Laura. I’m still trying to pay her back for opening up a whole new 'old' world.

Day One - Better get my ears back

Left for Chicago two nights ago and was running late. Ended up making up for time with the ease of traffic, and a little too much lead in the feet. When I got to the gig, two of the night managers of the joint were waiting for me in the back...told me to set up the equipment as fast as possible, that the band scheduled for 10pm never showed. What the hell? How does that happen?

Anyway, one of the managers Tim, was drunk off his ass. Supposedly had gotten called into work to help straighten out the mess, had already begun his nightly boozing. He was of no use. The other bro, Patrick, was kind enough but still wouldn't assist me with the amps. My van was full, needed unloading immediately. I hadn't even eaten yet. I needed the band with me. I called the lead singer, Chris, and told em what was going on. Said they were on their way as soon as possible. I guess Tina and Roger were fighting, as so naturally...revealed in the name of their band ... "Pushing Roger"

I told em to buck up and get their asses to the club. They wouldn't have time to eat, or shit before they went on.

I'm now writing. Can't even hear the pencil on the paper my ears are so shot. I left my MacRiven earplugs at home...and the fluff I used in replace, I think caused more damage. It's as if the whole piece flung the vibrations of sound right into the core of my eardrums. I can't hear for shit. No point in falling asleep to music tonight.

Dear Diary February 28, 2009 #6, #7

Dear Diary,
10:00 AM So, I've started meditating. Phil's influence. It seems as if from time to time, as I'm sitting, I slip into a space where I'm not aware of anything in particular, but aware of everything in general. Its delicious. It wasn't so at first, I was only aware of my body and its discomfort. But how did it get so ossified? Did my rigid mind make my body hard? Or was it my stiff body that produced an inflexible mind? Yoga, too has helped me expand and open.
I'm not powering my way through life anymore. I'm starting to get what I want, revelations come with a gentle asking. I'm more interested in what's going on.

"If the doors of perception were cleansed, we would see everything as it is, infinite." -William Blake

6:00 PM As a Quantum Physicist, I've been preoccupied with studying the material world outside myself. Since my infancy, this has been my tendency. Strangely, though, and just recently, I feel this Rishi side of myself insisting on having more of a voice, wanting to explore the landscape inside myself and with fervent fascination. I'm having(participating in?) intuitive insights, experiencing interconnectedness, unity, creation, destruction, manifestation, on the inner. All things I have also observed, as a scientist, on the outer. I cannot ever underestimate the value of those rare and special friends in my life.

Glass Lady Entry #5

Itchy!

February 25, 2009 Dear Diary #5

Lunched with Phil again today. He laughed when I told him about me manifesting a freakishly long eyelash. It inspired him to tell me about an experiment in manifestation he did with blintzes, his favorite dessert. He told me there are certain ways we can get things into our lives that we desire. The first way is if we want something, we go out and get it. When he wanted blintzes, he went to the grocery store and bought some. The second way to bring something into our life, he explained, is to have someone go and get it for us. He would send his son to the store to buy him some blintzes. For the third way to bring blitzes into his life, he would close his eyes, focus on the blintzes, and then his wife, out of the blue, would offer to make them for him, or some other synchronicity like this would usually take place. The fourth way, and the way that he is fascinated with now is that he has the thought of a blintz, and it materializes instantaneously before him.* Is he kidding me or what? When I asked him how in the world he accomplished this, he said through meditation. He told me about his daily meditation practice where he plants the seeds of manifestation by participating with the infinite and having a sense of knowing, more specifically, a sense of knowing blintzes would show up in his life, and they always do. Is this black magic or something? Phil suggested I drop my obsession with the observer/observed question and focus on being a "participator" for insights of real value. Food for thought.

*inspired from a conversation between Wayne Dyer and Deepak Chopra

Glass Lady Entry #4

When I met Jane and Nancy last Friday they diagnosed me with ‘glass fever’. They noted the most obvious behavioral signs: ‘skipping’ work and early hour 'Treasure Troving'. They explained that advanced cases actually have physical symptoms as well, most notably all-over 'itchiness'. I’ve arranged for Oliver to be opening the store until further notice.

Saturday went to Good’N’Thrifty and did not buy a book. Me, the Book Lady, did not buy a book! Looked at glassware, held glassware, put glassware in my basket and put glassware back on the shelf - vases, stemware, tumblers, candlesticks, cake plates, candy dishes, pitchers, compotes, cruets and more. In the end, I chose a single glass bowl. Marked down by half to fifty cents, the cashier and I had a good laugh at such extravagance. Apparently of Windsor pattern, manufactured in the ‘70s by the Federal Glass Company of Columbus, Ohio. Or is it? Federal Glass was bought out by Lancaster Colony, the parent company of Indiana Glass, who put this pattern into production as Royal Brighton in the early '80s. So, Windsor/Royal Brighton simple bowl reveals potential complexities of establishing pattern, date and maker. Even companies with a recognizable trademark did not always use it. I washed and dried the bowl, then put it in my cupboard.

Yesterday, Good’N’Thrifty again. Again, bought just one piece of glass – a ‘Depression-ish’ clear creamer. Same cashier, greeted me as the Glass Lady. Ha! I love my little mystery creamer, of unknown date, make and pattern.

Poring over the volumes of Gene Florence at every opportunity, I seem to have a knack for absorbing the contents, much like the ability to bring a Magic Eye 3D optical illusion into focus.

Millie just called! How do I condense a two hour conversation into a couple of lines? Millie spent the long weekend in St. Charles catching up with Laura. All her life Laura held the belief that she was an only child. But after her Mom’s passing, she was informed that she did have an older sister who died in the flood of ’36 at age seven, before Laura was born. All Mr. and Mrs. Davis had left after the devastation was a silver locket and little Mildred’s tea cup. Laura never knew that the heart-shaped locket her Mom wore continually contained a picture of Mildred. After Mrs. Davis passed away, Laura got the photo-locket and Millie got the Cherry Blossom tea cup. It was no wonder that Millie had been the favorite of Mrs. Davis – she shared the same name as her daughter and she shared a resemblance as well. Told Millie I bought a matching cup that she could give to Laura.

After one week of glass immersion, my timeline now divided: BG/AG

Bike Courier - Entry 2

March 24, 2007

Ever since the human race abandoned the hunter-gatherer lifestyle and formed sustainable communities, every action the race takes is nothing more than an emphatic statement that we are not animals. We look to the Heavens for mercy, promising a slaughtered sheep in return. We dress extravagantly and live in preposterous shelters. Trails are paved to be comfortable underfoot. We scar and abuse the earth, turning her into our bitch rather than a mother of providence. The human race is arrogant.

This is a cynical perspective, I know, but spend any significant time in the city and one would be hard pressed to find evidence to the contrary. The Concrete Jungle is so called not because of its assiduity, but the heterogeneity therein.

A bicycle immured in traffic should look like a suckerfish picking clean a shark. Instead, it is a potent example of aposymbiosis where car and bicycle spar like ancient Roman gladiators. Here the aristocracy has released venomous steel behemoths in lieu of ferocious tigers or vengeful silverbacks.

Two days I saw society's Ceaser turn its thumb down at another cyclist. I was cruising a mostly empty street and he rode a quarter mile up the road. He was a commuter; perhaps heading back to the office after lunch or heading home after a short day. His helmet was strapped tightly to his head and his right pant leg was carefully rolled to barely avoid the reach of a chainring's teeth. I laughed inwardly at the site of his street stained backpack and penny-loafers clutched by toe clips. He pedaled, undaunted, in the middle of the road, faster than I could have predicted.

A flash of light caught my eye and I saw the glint of the freshly washed grill on an Escalade. It was blinding under sunlight. I watched that same grill slip between parked cars and into the street far too quickly. The cyclist I laughed at moments before, now a perfect contour of the SUV's front side. The Escalade's tires squealed and skidded to halt. The rider was hurled onto the asphalt and slid across the far lane; stopping abruptly at the curb, a disjointed pile of wheels, bike, legs and elbows.

The runt in the SUV gripped the steering wheel tightly, with two hands. I watched him look up and down the street anxiously, then take off like the scumbag that he is. I grit my teeth and jumped on the pedals. Today I played vigilante. He might run from the police, run from the law, but he couldn't run from justice. Surely he saw me, panting in his rear-view mirror. He turned left and right at random. He sped through lights burning yellow. I trailed and parried every maneuver he could play. Together we danced a deadly promenade. Block after block I stuck to his path, until the bastard found an on-ramp.

I locked my pedals, skidding to a stop. I dismounted, cursing and punching the demons that clouded my vision. I was the lion that lost its gazelle. In a triumph of foresight, I memorized his license plate and scribbled it in my manifest. I dialed 911 and reported the accident.

I should take comfort in the fact that the man will have a warrant out for his arrest, but I don't. Often these kinds of accidents go unpunished. They likely won't look for him. They don't care that a commuter is bleeding in a storm drain. He shouldn't have been there in the first place, right?

On Monday I will roll back into the city and nothing will be different. Life will be moving at the same breakneck pace it always does. People will continue to roam unawares and new tracks will be beaten down where old memories lay. The teeming, chaotic mass of humanity will ever consume itself.

Keep your eyes open, kid. It's a jungle out there.

Glass Lady Entry #3

Oliver was glad to get the extra hours. I’ve taken to calling him Mr. Reliable - I originally hired him to design the website and he’s worked at the store ever since.

Drove to Treasure Trove first thing, my first time there. Met two sisiters, Jane and Nancy, while waiting in the parking lot for the doors to open. Regulars, they took me straight to the second floor, offering me a whirlwind tour from top to bottom. It smelled like my favorite Cinnamon Splendor tea up there and I wondered aloud if any was brewing. Then Jane practically shrieked when she saw it – a primitive Pyrex glass measure mixing bowl. To me it looked pretty well battered -ha! But they held it up to the light of the floor-to-ceiling east window and deemed it worthy. When they handed the bowl to me, there was the warm cinnamon smell again, even more fragrant. At the same time, I also heard, actually heard the name Mary Bess. I tried to stifle my embarrassment, even while I could not stifle the words. “Do either of you two know a Mary Bess?” Yes, they said, she was their Mom! She had used that exact style of mixing bowl when teaching her groups of 4-H kids. She took pride in the fact that every one of the youngsters could make perfect cinnamon rolls before county fair time came around. She herself was a repeat State Fair Blue Ribbon winner in that category. I asked, "Isn’t the name usually Mary Beth?" They explained that their Mom’s youngest sister couldn’t pronounce Mary Beth, only Mary Bess and the name stuck. Jane looked at me skeptically, but Nancy wanted to know more. She tossed out a few key questions. Why do you smell cinnamon and we don’t? How did you know our Mom’s name? Could she possibly have a message for us? I told them that Mary Bess says “Keep the Faith!” Jane told me that was the exact phrase her Mom used at the end of their daily phone chats. She asked for my phone number. I gave the mixing bowl back to Nancy and gave Jane my card.

I was shaken to the core and had to get out of there. The proprietor called out, “Thanks for stopping in!” as I charged for the door. Startled, I looked up and saw the locked china hutch behind him. A matching blue tea cup! I bought it. In a friendly exchange, I was informed that some of the best books on Depression glass are written by Gene Florence.

Glass has never been my thing; its been books, books, books for me ever since my first-grade reading challenge. Except for the vintage beaded bags and bangles that I made room for in a corner of my shop, that is. Is my fascination with the tiny spheres a precursor to a more expansive, a more in-depth glass indoctrination? And what of these unusual experiences? The only psychic experience I’ve ever had before was the dream I had at the moment of the Columbia space shuttle disaster. I have only told a few close family members about what happened that morning.

Hope Millie calls.

Dear Diary February 22, 2009 #3 and #4

10:00 am: Wondering whether I should watch the Oscars tonight or not. The only movie I saw of the bunch was the Werner Herzog documentary on Antarctica. Saw him on YouTube eat a leather boot. Ha. Read a quote by Heisenberg, "What we observe is not nature itself, but nature exposed to our method of questioning." Thinking maybe even geometry faulty. Does it really find measurable forms in nature or does it make nature fit into its forms? And time just seeming more like a collective agreement by everyone in our society.
7:00 pm: Decided to watch the Oscars. But just to keep my math skills from getting rusty. Predicting the winners with algorithm analysis. Beginning to think that maybe poets are our best scientists?

Glass Lady Entry #2

It took me exactly three clicks to find out just what that darling tea cup is. Made of opaque blue glass, named delphite, it is part of a child’s 14-piece tea set made in the Cherry Blossom pattern by the Jeanette Glass Company. Cherry Blossom was one of two mold-etched patterns the company first came out with in 1930. Definitely a Depression glass item!

Why Millie does not go to the library and take the Intro to Internet class is beyond me. I’ve told her she doesn’t have to buy her own computer, she could use the computers at the library to her heart’s content. She’s so interested in a variety of subjects, and I always end up doing her research. I never mind doing it for her though, because she saved my life in a way, took me under her wing when we first moved here eight years ago. Talk about Southern hospitality! She invited the whole family over for dinner on the spot even though the 18-wheeled moving van blocked her driveway. We were initiated into the ways of Southern dining as night fell on the movers unloading the last of the boxes. She smiled and quickly looked the other way when I used the dainty serving spoon to spread the raspberry jam on the biscuits she baked for us. I didn’t know any better! Honestly! That was one of the longest, most tiring days of my life, but one of the happiest. I was Home.

Even though Millie is no-tech, or maybe because she is no-tech, could I wish for a better next-door neighbor? She is no-tech, but I’m low-tech myself. Sharon and Sandy keep mentioning their blog and how they want me to join. As if I could ever put a private thought out there on the World Wide Web for anyone and everyone to see! Sometimes it’s hard enough keeping up this diary, but I made a commitment to myself and I’m going to keep it.

I tried calling Millie to give her the update, but she didn't pick up. And of course she has no answering machine.

Tomorrow I’m going to stop by the Treasure Trove and take a little look around.