Glass Beach

Glass Beach

Come—walk with me this strand of glass

    Through mists of time

            To other days

Whose memories, in this mingled mass

Of splendid hues 

With bright arrays, 

Are scattered here.

Come—follow me the world around,

To places far

And near. Anon,

The touch, the smell, the taste, the sound

And sight of all

That is bygone 

Will gather here.

These motley particles enshroud

 The sheltered cove 

With stories. Each

Though now obscured by veil of cloud,

Will be revealed

On pebbled beach

In lustrous sphere.

 <•>

Your feet slide and crunch as we walk. Reach down. Scoop up a handful of pastel pebbles. Roll them with your thumb. Feel them slipping damply against each other, clacking softly. Drying in the salty breeze.

Those are pieces of history in your palm. Shards of glass rounded and muted by the passage of time. Frosty whites, sugared-chestnut browns, misty greens. Here and there a tiny bead of cloudy cobalt or amethyst, the barest fleck of ruby, a slender ellipse of midnight-sky obsidian.

Examine them, color by color, and let them tell their stories.

 <•>

Obsidian

A suitable branch. A carefully crafted spear head. A length of rawhide thong. Bitaa carried these off to his peaceful place, where he could fashion them into a spear.

The boy’s small, coppery hands wrapped the leather strip tightly, as he had been taught—crisscrossing round and round the base of the sharp obsidian piece. Tongue clamped between his teeth, he bent in concentration as he bound the thong to the wood he had made smooth. Oh, the yowsha he would catch… the slippery, silvery salmon!

He knew a stream nearby, teeming with egg-laden fish struggling to reach their spawning site. His spear would help him get a meal for his family. His father would be proud; his mother grateful.

Directing the spear with a confident thrust into the milling throng of yowsha, Bitaa was startled by a sudden “Whuff!” from his namesake—a small brown bear who appeared just upstream. The boy yanked back, too quickly, and lost the fish. There was a moil of reddened water, and a pointless tool.

The strapping he had thought sufficient had come loose, and the fine, purplish-black obsidian was lost in the water.

 <•>

Cobalt 

Vilho’s weeping bride kneels on the floor, wiping up a smear of something red.

“Mussu, sweetie, what’s the matter? Are you all right?”

Ulla presses the back of her hand against her nose, sniffles, then points silently to the nearby dustpan. Within it are fragments of blue glass.

“Oh, mussu...” Vilho lifts her up from the floor and wipes her face with the corner of her apron. Holds her in a tight embrace.

“What happened?” His warm breath stirs the wisps of straw colored hair at her temple.

“Ohhhh…” she wails, unable to articulate. And so he holds her while she sobs, mourning the loss of more than the blue vase.

Tenderly, the young husband picks a needle-sharp sliver of glass from his Ulla’s bare foot. A shard of blue, tinged with red. 

The vase must be discarded. Ulla will heal, and together they will grow into their new lives in this new country—half a world away from Finland. 

<•>

Ruby

“Son, we need to talk.”

“Talk?”

“ About the car.”

“Car…?”

“Oh, I have an echo. Yes, car. Sitting in the garage. With a half-empty tank.”

“Oh…well, I—”

“Nineteen cents a gallon, son. Use your math skills.”

“I was going to—” 

“And a missing taillight.”

“I…uh…”

“What happened? No, let me guess. You took Doris for a spin while I was gone. Didn’t think I’d notice. Where’d you go? The overlook?”

“Uh…How’d you know?”

“Ha! I was young once, son. What happened? Sideswiped a tree, eh?…Taillight’s shattered, pieces gone over the cliff into the water…You’re looking at me like I’m psychic. A little more respect for your old man now? Eh?”

“Dad, I—I’m sorry. I’ll pay for the gasoline and replace the taillight.”

“They come clear across the country from Ohio, you know. The dealer may not have them in stock, so it could be a while. And I don’t know how much it’ll cost. Probably more than it should, so start saving your pennies.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Well. Hrmph! I’ve heard that’s the weak point of Willys-Knights. Taillights break easily. Not that it excuses your actions, son!”

“No, Dad. It doesn’t.”

“I don’t think I should need to tell you this—but I will. Never, ever do something like that again. Understand?”

“Yes, Dad. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“One more thing.”

“Yes, Dad?”

“I’m glad no one was hurt.”

<•>

Violet

It was for the best, Violet told herself. Mr. Murphy had lost his will to live, since his wife’s unexpected death. 

“It’s a kindness, really, is what it is,” she murmured as she uncapped the bottle. “No one will know to thank me, so I’ve just got to thank myself.”

Humming to herself, she tipped a generous amount of her special powder into the milk. Mr. Murphy always enjoyed a mug of cocoa at bedtime, to help him sleep. 

She opened the door of the wood stove and stirred the embers to a bright flame before dropping in the makeshift paper funnel. 

“And these,” she said, pulling off her white cotton gloves so that they were turned inside out. “Pity. They were my nicest pair. But I’ll sacrifice them for poor Mr. Murphy’s sake.”

It was odd, remarked Mr. Whipple to Mrs. Whipple, that Violet MacPherson had left town just when Mr. Murphy took a turn for the worse. And she’d forgotten to put the milk bottles out for him to collect.

<•>

Amber 

Pink bismuth. Paregoric. Fleet enema. Iodine. Syrup of ipecac. A big bottle of cod liver oil. 

Empty the medicine cabinet. Pack the old bottles into a box and mark it “Discard”. Cross that out and write “Save”. The bottles are old enough to be collector’s items. 

The cod liver oil one is especially interesting. It’s amber-colored, embossed all around with little scallopy scales. On one side is the likeness of a fish. There’s about an inch of oil remaining, surely rancid by now. 

The thought makes me gag. But then I remember Grandma’s story, and I laugh instead!

Her mother believed in cod liver oil. At any sign of illness, out came the bottle... Grandma was a feisty little girl, and she was determined to dispose of that nasty stuff. She sneaked the bottle out of the house and tossed it in the neighbor’s incinerator.

But, for as long as I could remember, this bottle has sat in the cabinet. She kept it because it belonged to her mother. So I keep it.

<•>

Clear, Brown, Green

Wednesday, April 18, 1906, 5:12 a.m.:

The Great San Francisco Earthquake.  

High-intensity shaking was felt up and down the coast of Northern California. One hundred seventy miles from the epicenter, the people of Fort Bragg were rattled by what was reported “one of the most terrible earthquakes that ever visited the Pacific Coast. The earth seemed to swell and heave like the bosom of the ocean and people were tossed about and thrown from their beds amidst the crashing of falling walls and collapsing buildings, making a din that caused nearly everyone to think the end of the world had come.”

Every brick building crumbled to the ground. Stores were in ruins, residences lost.

Mirroring San Francisco on a smaller scale, a fire broke out in the tiny coastal town. Caused by an oil lamp being overturned in the violent quake, it destroyed an entire block of buildings before it was quenched.

The town was reduced to heaps of smoldering rubble. Broken bricks, charred wood, shattered windows. Every size from chunks to slivers. Shards and fragments.

There was nothing to do but start over. So the piles and heaps and mounds were pushed over the cliff. Into the sea. 

For years, this place at the bottom of the cliff was known as “The Dumps”. The waves, tossing and tumbling, made discarded lumber into smooth driftwood. And pieces of glass into beautiful, frosted sea glass. 

<•>

It’s time to go. Open your hand and let the pieces fall—sliding from your grasp one by one. Listen as each drops to the ground; every one makes a different sound. Look at them; every one adding something of its own to the mosaic. 

<•>

In lustrous sphere these tales old

On pebbled beach

Have been revealed.

Far many more shall ne’er be told—

Their secrets kept

 Forever sealed

In lustrous sphere.