A Molten Orb at the End

The power costs in Ireland in the 1970s must have been quite something.  A glass blower, of means, I suppose, packed up his things and fled Ireland’s power costs for life in Vermont.  He brought an old mill and set up a water- powered factory there on the river in Quechee.  I don’t know how cheap things were in the 70’s in Vermont.  And surely it takes some capital to set up turbines in a roaring little river and wire them up to generators.  It all doesn’t matter though as he’s built a grand business that’s stood ever since that’s Ireland’s loss and central Vermont’s gain.

Not one but three people who knew we were coming up her insisted that we visit the Simon Pearce glass works.  It was a sunny blue sky with four inches of fresh powder but I was out voted and had no electoral college to fall back on.  OK then.  The restaurant is supposed to be lovely, overlooking the river.  Let’s go have lunch in Quechee.  My web search lead me to an app that prompted me to book a table on line.  But then it told me my request was denied.  I rang the number and got a message.  But at the end of it they confirmed that they didn’t take lunch reservations. 

We rolled up, across the covered bridge into what mercifully proved to be an enormous parking lot.  Everything was bright and clear inside as we gazed upon the various things for sale.  I walked around a bit, considering what to get for my mother’s birthday, which was fast approaching.  Bewildered by it all, I trotted down the stairs to where the live glass blowing action was underway.  My older one had already found  spot to view the operation.  A young man was confidently twirling a rod with a molten orb at the end.  One marvelled quietly, at just how hot that liquid glass must have been.  And then, just as nonchalantly he blew into one end and forced the glass blob into a remarkable cylinder. 

We’d spend more time here later but I was hungry and went to see about a table.  A few minutes later we were seated by a window, overlooking the frozen river, which loosened up just in time to crash down over the stones and beneath the bridge.  It was really very lovely.  Across the water was what must have been a church that was now refurbished into some kind of dwelling.  And as happens in America, when I’m newly back I can hear much more of every conversation than I care to.  A man with a family is ecstatic about the food.  “How did you make this soup?” he wonders aloud as the waitress arrives.  Off to the left an Australian gentleman is waiting for friends with his kids beside him.  He wants more simple glasses that his kids won’t throw and smash.  His twang is jarring and I’m wondering more than I should about why he’s here and why even a simple Australian accent sounds so out of place in this setting.  My sesame chicken sounded much better than it tastes.  My oesophagus can’t handle the crispy coating. 

“What part of Ireland was Simon Pearce from?”  I ask the young lady who helps me to ring up a smart looking glass pitcher and stirrer I’ve procured for me mum.  I had a notion I’d be writing about the place and am conditioned now to ask for detail.  “I should know.  I will find out for you in just a second.”  She puts my gift in a box, ties a bow and asks if I’d like a card.  “Sure.”  I pay.  She’s forgotten about my geography question, but I reckon it isn’t worth it.  Perhaps I can find out more about the man on-line.  (He learned his trade in Kilkenny but it appears he was born in London.)