The Country Mice

It didn’t take too long in front of the searing hot glass furnace (1000 degrees centigrade, lest we forget) for us to cry “Uncle!” Both our instructors, Andy and Terry, sagely advised that when our hands started to burn, we should turn them over and burn the other side.

I thought they were nuts.

By the week’s end, I discovered the strategy worked.

In the meantime, Lori, Jean and I opted for forearm protection suited to Northern Ontario.

All that time in the fire also causes the iron bars to overheat and some cooling is in order. Easier on the hands.

Here after a first gather, a “seed bubble” is blown into the base of the glob of glass. The glass must be fairly hot to blow that first bubble — one must work quickly — so the glass must remain viscous and flexible.

Here I jack the neck on my first little scotch glass drinkable vessel. The neck is thinned and drawn out and later will be snapped off while a smaller rod — the punty — temporarily attaches to the base to keep the glass from falling into the water below and crackling into a million tiny pieces.

Not that it happened to me (probably the only calamity I avoided) but Lori and another fellow lost a couple of pieces of glass with an ill-timed smack. Ahh, the pain.

“Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop into that there crystal glass.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby