Warning Signs: Blowing My Heart

(Part Three:  The conclusion  of my recent trip to The Salado Glassworks Studio and Gallery.) 

Even though I sensed it was coming, and knew it would be painful, I still cried out in shock, disbelief, and more than a little pang of discomfort as my heart was squished. The end came  much too soon.  I wasn't ready.  I wanted more time--not much--just a little.  But then, is anyone ever ready for their heart to be flattened like a pancake?

Okay, it really wasn't heart-shaped yet; but, my Hottie, Michael and I spent quiet a bit of time heating, twirilling, and blowing as the gather was transformed into a hollow sphere that would soon become my glass heart.

(In case you've forgotten, or did  not read the first two posts in this series of three, I'm not being sexist--Hottie is the nickname of the Glassblowing Artists at Salado Glassworks.)

Once the sphere was roughly flattened, Michael began the process of refining. This of course required more trips to the glory hole followed by more shaping with the paddle. However, the constant twirlling motion became an intermittent side to side flipping motion. 

When the sides were deemed smooth enough, my Hottie heated it up once more, and creased the top to begin the process of shaping the cleft. I'm happy to report I did not hyperventilate during this delicate process.  Even when Michael warned me of the possibility that my fragile heart could easily burst if the cleft crease was too drastic.

Once the cleft was completed, without breaking, it was time to heat it up again.  But this time my Hottie used a blow torch when he cut my heart off the blowpipe with oversized nippers.

Then Michael used the blow torch to form and attach a glass curly-q to the top of my heart.  The curly-q acts as a hanger.

Once the blown heart  was totally finished heating, Michael placed in an  annealing oven for the long cooling process. The temp starts about 960°F, and over the next fourteen or so hours it gradually reduces to room temperature. This lengthy cooling allows for even cooling, which reduces breakage. After it's cool, the Hottie or other staff members grind the cut edge so it's safe and smooth, then polish the glass heart to a beautiful shine.  And voila', my heart was complete. Although it required many trips back and forth between the fire and the table, and it's taken me three posts to describe the process, it really only took us less than half an hour.

Blowing my heart was an interesting, educational, fun,  and potentially dangerous process.  My Hottie worked the counter Sunday after Church when I picked up my cooled heart, and he told me after my appointment one of the other Hotties sustained a burn and was unable to participate in the Date Night Event that night.

That burn could very easily have been mine since I have a tendency for disregarding warning signs--as I had in the Gallery.   But once I entered the Studio, I actually remembered and followed the safety rules and warning signs:  I wore close-toed shoes, no drapy-swingy clothing, sat in the viewing stand until my turn to stand on the "x", and most importantly, I followed the verbal instructions of my Hottie.   As a result I avoided injury while I safely blew my heart out.


As always, thanks for the read.  I hope you had fun and maybe even learned something. 

Warning Signs: Followed (The Hottie)

(Part Two of my recent trip to the Salado Glassworks Gallery and Studio)

It was a single girls dream: upon entering the Saldo Glassworks Gallery and Studio I was issued a straw segment and Hottie of my very own. 

Michael was my Hottie, and unlike the warning signs in the gallery that I chose to ignore, in the studio I followed every single warning and instruction my Hottie issued without hesitation.  (Don't get all bent out of shape--Hottie is what the glass blowing artists at Salado Glassworks call themselves.  They even have it written on the tip jar. And it was easy for this head-strong girl to follow his instructions because they ensured my safety.)

Micheal told me the furnace fire averages  2040°F.  He said some colors take slightly more heat, some slightly less.  He  stuck a hollow metal blow pipe into the furnace through the  glory hole  (get your mind out of the gutter--it's a real glass blowing term) and twirling the pipe, he took a gather of molten glass from the crucible, or holding area, inside the furnace.  The length of time and swiftness of the twirls determine the size of the gather caught on the blow pipe.

Once Michael had what he felt was an appropriate amount of molten glass on the far end of the blowpipe, he transported it to a steel table, and using that same twirling motion rolled the blow pipe and gather on the table until the gather took on the rough shape of a bulb.  In order to remain pliable the molten glass must remain above 1000°F; therefore, each time the gather started to cool, my Hottie returned it to the glory hole to heat up. During the process Michael made numerous trips to the glory hole.

After Michael achieved the desired rough bulb shape, he applied color to the bulb in layers.  The color, he told me,  can be applied in the form of rods, powders, or chips etc.   The colored chips were set out in bowls and resembled aquarium gravel. I chose  purple, gold, and white.  #GoCRU!

To apply the colors, Michael dipped the bulb into one color-filled bowl at a time. After each color dip, he returned the dipped bulb to the glory hole to melt and adhere the color to the originally clear gather.

When all three of my colors were adhered, Michael used wet paper towels in one hand, while continuing the almost never ending twirlling motion with the other, to refine the bulb shape of the  now color-layered bulb.

An interesting, and somewhat terrifying phenomenon  occurred each time Michael applied a color, reshaped the gather-bulb,  or returned it to the furnace:  the colors changed--and looked nothing like the colors I had chosen. More than once, if I had not seen him dipping into the colors I chose, I would have thought Michael was just another brainless pretty-boy making mistakes.  And I would have been wrong.

After this initial shaping, Michael requested the staw segment I had been issued earlier. Each participant is issued their own straw segment which becomes their personal mouth peice. This ensures everyone keeps their own cooties. Michael attached my straw segment to the tube connected to the blow pipe and told me to blow a soft puff of air into my straw when instructed.  He then reheated my bulb  in the glory hole  and when he brouggt it out again, I blew a couple light puffs.

A few seconds after I puffed, a  bubble began to form inside the bulb. We then expanded the bubble--Michael shaping and twirlling, and me blowing a now steady and stronger stream of air. We repeated this process of reheat, twirl, and blow several times.

In fact the whole glass blowing process can be summed up with one word:  More. 

More heat. More twirling.  More color. More heat. More refining. More air. More twirling. More refining. More heat. More color. More refining.  More air. More heat. More...

Finally, a beautiful sphere was formed.  Michael heated it one more time.  By this time I was not a basket case when I saw the color change into red, then orange--or even a hideous shade of murk. 

Nearing the end of the process, my bulb finally took on a nice shape and color--still far removed from my CruColors, but at least it was no longer murky. Or hideous. Besides, as in life, during most creative processes you sometimes take what appears to be backward steps before achieving a goal.

However, I audibly gasped, dropped my straw segment, and figitted like a Nervous Nellie when my Hottie took a paddle to my beautiful newly formed sphere and flattened it.

(To be concluded in Part Three.)

 

Warning Signs: Ignored (part one)

Everything is good now, but this past weekend I chose to ignore several warning signs before I blew my heart out.  I ignored the signs because surely they were meant for someone else. They could not be meant for me. At least that's what I told myself.

They recomended I arrive 15 minutes before my routine appointment time. But I hate to wait, so I rarely arrive anywhere early.  My time is just as valuable as anyone else--even a doctor.  If I'm late, start the meeting without me, leave for our destination and I'll catch up later or I'll just miss it, or move on to the next appointment. I know the consequences I face if I'm late.

While I did not arrive 15 minutes before my appointment, I did arrive five minutes early.  For me, that's mega-early. It probably was a good thing I was MaryLouMegaEarly because it placed me in a good place when I faced the first warning sign.

I had been rushing around in the schizophrenic Texas weather that had decided to return to near-freazing temps just before I popped in for my appointment.  A furnace, an oven, several small burning fires, and even an outdoor patio heater  kept the various rooms toasty. The change in temerature didn't feel too extreme or dangerous. In fact, coming in from the freezing cold,  the toasty heat was quite welcome even though I love the cooler weather.  I also know cooler weather  can be dangerous. It is no coincidence that the majority of heart attacks occur during the winter months. Especially to normally inactive people who suddenly participate in physical activity.

I didn't even get checked in before I noticed the first warning sign.  It actually was almost tiny enough to overlook. But in my heart  I recognized it for what it was, and I knew I should not ignore it. I'm a Registered Nurse.  I know the importance of warning signs.

But did I heed  it?  Of course not.  After all, I rationalized, it's not my warning sign--it applies to someone else--not me!

But the warning signs became more prominent.  Finally, I was forced to acknowledge they actually were for me. I may have gasped or paled with the final warning sign.

Whatever I did,  I   drew attention to myself because the girl at the check-in counter suddenly expressed concern for how I felt and quickly ended her conversation with the couple ahead of me.  She checked me in, and settled me in the other room, and then she gave me verbal instructions much like the previous warning signs.

But by then it was too late for warning signs. 

I had already picked up several fragile and expensive pieces of artwork, and petted one of the gallery cats.

Yes, this past Saturday I went the The Salado Glassworks. 

I've blown ornaments before, but this time I blew a heart. And while the signs warned me "until you're ready to buy, please only look with your eyes," I "looked" with my hands.  How else am I going to see the price tags on the bottom of the pieces to know if I would make additional purchases? 

I also petted the gallery cat.
Without asking.

What can I say--I'm worse than a rebellious two-year old when it comes to touching things--warning signs or not.

(Part Two will outline the  process I participated in to blow a glass heart.)

How Late is Too Late?

My delima this morning:  how late is too late to walk into a Church service? 

Yep, I was later than usual.

Driving to church I contemplated going to breakfast and skipping first service.  But I really like getting out early, and I prefer the traditional service music over the praise songs of second service, so I stayed on my course.

I decided I'd drive to Church and see if I was too late.  

Arriving at the rear entrance, the only activity I saw was a lone car making a door-side drop.  The little devil on one shoulder said, "They are probably early for Sunday School." (We offer a shared  SS in between the two services--that way it doesn't feel like too different Churches meeting in the same building.)

The little angel on the other shoulder reminded me of the guy who walked in about 10 minutes before the invitation a couple of weeks ago." At the time my self-righteousness reared its ugly head and my first thought was, "I'm glad I'm never THAT late." I regreted the thought instantly. It was quite judgy. I didn't know if he was returning from the bathroom, or comming in after dealing with an emergency. And frankly,  it really didn't matter.  What mattered was he was there.

That's what decided it for me. 

When I arrived at the vestibule doors and  peeked into The sanctuary  the special music was about to start, so I etiquette  dictated I would wait until they were through. 

But they never started.  They were experiencing tech difficulties. So I slipped in during the wait. Which meant instead of waiting in the vestibule  and missing it, I got to hear it without a door between us muffling the sound. ☺

Even when I don't deserve His favor, I receive it. I wasn't too late after all.