Winter sea glassing on Lake Erie

This is an essay I wrote a back in November. We’ve only been out once since then. Waiting for the ice and snow to reveal the jewels beneath.

By Christina Friedrichsen

The sky is a diluted grey.  On the horizon there are spindly trees reaching upwards, offering nothing but a place for tired birds to land. I roll down my window and the wind is cold and raw and it carries the heavy scent of burning brush. We are heading to the beach.

Who goes to the beach on a Sunday morning when it’s two degrees celcius and overcast? Who leaves the warm cocoon of home when the air bites mercilessly at fingertips and toes? Who bundles up their little ones, when they are content to snuggle pajama-clad in front of cartoons?

If you’ve ever seen a piece of wet sea glass on the beach when the sun hits it just right, you might understand why we are compelled to leave the comfort of our home, even on the not-so-nice days.

It all started with a single piece of emerald green found at a local beach. I was instantly dazzled: It looked like a gem.

I put the sea glass in my pocket and kept on walking. And pretty soon that piece of sea glass was a distant memory.

That is, until this summer when we took our two daughters on a picnic to that same beach and discovered sea glass in almost every colour of the rainbow. Soft blue. Citron. Jade. Lavender. In one hour our buckets were full. From that point on, there was no turning back.

Since then it’s been like a full blown Easter egg hunt every weekend. Even as the wind off Lake Erie gets cruel, and the water turns frigid we’re still playing “I spy” out there on that same beach.  I’m sure the nearby waterfront residents who have caught sight of the four of us (five if you include the border collie) in our thermal rubber boots and our winter woolies must shake their heads in bewilderment. Especially when Lake Erie looks like an album cover for Gordon Lightfoot’s marine anthem The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. But this is the highlight of our weekend. And I suspect it will be this way until the lake freezes over. (We’re hoping that won’t happen for awhile.)

Most people don’t understand. Most people are confused, the same way I am confused by people who collect shoes. Or purses. Or who watch Dancing with the Stars. What is so compelling about a few shards of broken glass?

But some get it. They understand that there is delight to be found out there on that beach – even if the wind is bitter and threatening. Even if there are more important things to do. Especially when there are more important things to do.

Because really, is there anything more important than getting our soft, nature-deprived suburban arces back into nature? To reconnect. To reunite. To replenish.

And it’s just so much fun. I’m positive that the thrill of the hunt is no different than that of a hunter, a fisherman, a storm chaser, an astronomer in search of a brand new star. That’s why my kids dig it so much.

Finding a perfectly frosted piece of sea glass in a rare shade – like red or turquoise is a soul-satisfying experience.

It’s a big time buzz to hold in your hands a piece of sea glass that you know is more than a century old. Where did it come from? Did someone so very long ago smash a bottle during a lover’s quarrel, or did it come from a shipwreck miles away? (There were hundreds of shipwrecks on Lake Erie.)

Which is why I have a sudden interest in bottles. In fact, just a few weeks ago I was at a flea market and I spent half an hour rooting through a cardboard box covered in cobwebs and what looked like mouse poop in search of a cobalt blue Milk of Magnesia bottle. I was in luck; not only did I find one, I also found an old Javex bottle. How exciting!

If that weren’t enough, I’ve suddenly been scouring the library for books on glass. You know you’re in deep when you forgo the latest hot novel for a book entitled Glass: A World History.

Next thing you know, I’ll be hanging out with 80-year old men at bottle shows, having serious discussions about antique mason jars and milk bottles. Yes, I can see it in my future. (I also see a kayak in my future, but we won’t get into that.)

Although the thrill of the hunt is what captivates me, there is something deeper going on: Something quiet, peaceful, meditative.

I’ve never been one to meditate. I’ve tried the breathing thing. I’ve tried the dim lights and the soft Zamfir-like-music-with-waves-in-the-background. It’s just not me.  But I can’t imagine anything more meditative than walking the beach in search of sea glass.

It’s like my mind has found its way off a 12-lane highway onto a quiet sandy, path.

A path with small footprints leading to the water’s edge.

And it is there that I have found joy.

I have been busy with the Dremel. I’ve drilled easily over 100 pieces now. What I have learned:

1. Patience is a good thing. Do not force the bit. Take it easy. I broke four bits before realizing this. It might take you a bit longer to drill a piece, but your bits will last longer and that will save you money.
2. Drilling is zen-like. Honestly, I enjoy drilling the glass. It takes my mind off of everything. I find it very calming.
3. Jewelry supplies ain’t cheap!
4. Searching for jewelry supplies is very time consuming! I scour Etsy, Ebay and Artbeads.com for jewelry supplies. Fun, but time consuming!
5. Photographing sea glass jewelry is very time consuming! But it’s a riot!

Here are a few of my latest pieces:

Lake Erie, Colchester, ON. Jan. 2010.

We headed to the beach on January 17. It was mild. Silent. And a flippen blast. My birthday is this Saturday. All I want is to walk the beach.

Always ready to go to the beach. Always.

I wrote this essay a few years ago after my parents sold their home.

Home

by Christina Friedrichsen

I walked into my old bedroom for the last time today. The broccoli green carpet was still as hideous as it had always been. Mysterious, subtle stains, that no amount of scrubbing could remove, still marked its soft surface as they had for years.

Built-in shelves that were once stacked with books, teddy bears, pictures of friends and family, were as barren as they were when we first moved in. Soon they would be filled with someone else’s things.

As a teenager, this bedroom was my world. We moved in when I was 12, and I still slept soundly within its walls well into my twenties.

Even though it had been four years since I had moved out, I felt like the bedroom was still mine, and would always be.

Within those pink walls, my adolescence was played out. The ups and downs of puberty. The belly laughs. The big, heavy tears of heartbreak. The whispers, kept from mom and dad. The music blaring distortedly after school from a $99 ghetto blaster.

My early twenties unfolded there too. The university years. Graduation. My first real job. But it wasn’t just my bedroom that held special meaning to me: every room in the house was a library of memories. And some of those memories were still being made.

My husband and I, who live only a half an hour away, visited my parents’ home often. It was the place where the family gathered during holidays and special occasions. The place for turkey dinners with all the fixings, and George Winston on a snowy night. Eggnog and rum cake, around a crackling fire. New Year’s Eve kazoos with my nieces and nephew.

But now there was a sold sign on the lawn.

My parents, tired of the responsibilities of home-ownership, felt it was time to downsize and move into an apartment. I supported their decision. Entirely.

“It will be a great change for both of you,” I said. “You’ll have a lot more freedom.”

And I meant it.

I was happy for them. They wouldn’t have to worry about fixing things anymore.  They wouldn’t have to cut the lawn, or find someone to shovel their driveway.

I was glad they could finally have the freedom, the finances, to travel and have fun times with each other. They worked hard to raise four kids, and deserved some time for themselves.

I eagerly helped my mother wrap dishes from her china cabinet into crumpled newspaper. I helped her get rid of furniture she no longer wanted. My husband and I transported boxes of their belongings to the new apartment. We drove home with things they no longer needed. A ladder, wheelbarrow, rakes, and shovels for the garden.

“We won’t need these anymore,” said my dad, bright-eyed with the energy of the move.

Every time we loaded up the car, I felt more and more detached. These weren’t my parents’ things. This wasn’t the family home they had just sold.

As the closing date grew near, I grew more and more anxious.

I even called my mom one day, complaining of shortness of breath.

“I’m feeling really anxious today,” I told her.

I didn’t tell her the reason for my anxiety. I didn’t tell her that I had been thinking about how strange it was going to be to drive past the old house, only to see an unfamiliar car in the driveway. Or how funny I was going to feel, knowing somebody else was eating in our dining room. Sleeping in my old bedroom.

After days of moping, I decided I needed closure, so I headed to the homestead for my final adieu.

As my mother was packing up the last of the boxes, I snuck off to my old bedroom to pay my final respects.

It was empty now. The closet was hollow, the shelves were bare. But the memories still flooded in.

I remembered Christmas lights. The way I’d string them around the mirror in December. I thought of how my friends and I would sit cross-legged on the bedroom floor, our faces glowing in the multi-coloured light, talking about cute boys and teachers we couldn’t stand.

I remembered the scent of cologne on the sweaters of boyfriends. Love letters, hidden in drawers. Postcards from friends that moved away. The smell of linseed oil on my paintbrush. Textbooks, clothes, scattered recklessly on the floor during exams. Dad consoling me after break-ups. Mom calling me for dinner.

Tomorrow, someone else will be standing in this room, envisioning different colours on the walls. New curtains. New carpet. Perhaps a coat of paint on the built-in shelves.

But in my mind, my bedroom will always remain the same. The carpet will always be an ungodly shade of green. And the honey-brown shelves will remain cluttered with good books and photographs of smiling loved ones.

Strung around the mirror, there will be Christmas lights. And they will be colourful. Just like my memories.

I was idling at a traffic light and I watched a woman place a wreath at the side of the road. It put things into perspective for me.

Clarity

by c.f.

I watch as you crouch –

a wreath in your hand.

It is December.

With a frostbitten heart,

you tie it to a metal road sign,

that warns of a curve ahead.

The road

dark as the tip of a wet cigarette,

the sky two shades paler

spitting slush to cool the fire of not forgetting.

Not a second, not a minute, not a line on his face.

And the sight of you

through my wiper blades

shuts me up.

You are the clarity of a silver bell,

ringing one pure note

in the bang, clang, clatter and hiss of my Christmas mind.

You are the star above the forty strands of lights.

The electric spaghetti with no beginning, no end.

 You are my Christmas gift.

I miss my time at the beach. I wanted to go seaglassing today, but the girls wanted to stay home and play with Christmas toys. Of course.

It’s been a few weeks now. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. And the head a little crazy.

Photo: Christina Friedrichsen (Shot this with my new Tamron lens)

My jewelry supplies arrived yesterday from Artbeads.com and Etsy. I’m really happy with the quality. I used a sterling silver pinch bail and a sterling silver plated chain. This baby is a keeper! My six-year old found it this summer. I begged and pleaded for a trade, and she obliged. (She got a really old, really cooked brown) that I found. She wouldn’t dare let me sell this pendant – and I wouldn’t even think of it. I am officially hooked on making sea glass jewelry!

So I had half an hour today to fiddle around with the new 90mm Tamron lens. I was hoping for some sunshine to light up the glass, but the clouds wouldn’t leave.

Meantime on the jewelry front, I placed an order with RioGrande.com. But then I found out they wanted to charge me a whopping $22.90 shipping on a few pinch bails, some wire and some drill bits – and that was USPS slowest possible. Outrageous . If that isn’t gouging, I don’t know what is. I told them to go bag it and off to Artbeads.com I go, which only charges $1 shipping to Canada.

Also on the jewelry front, finally drilled some glass tonight. We made a mess on a few of them. I was over confident and picked some of my nicer pieces to drill. Drill and learn.

I’m pretty astounded at the amount of sickeningly beautiful Victorian sea glass pottery comes out of the U.K. Check out this current listing on eBay.

Drool. Look at those gorgeous colours and patterns!

Lake Erie cannot, will not, nada nada nada compete in the realm of ornate sea glass pottery. I’ve only found a small handful of dinnerware pieces. That said, it does kick up a few fine rustic shards of earthenware pottery. I quite like the simple, water-beaten shards that I have found. Very earthy. I think they will make some fine jewelry. Here are some photos I took today of some of my sea glass pottery.

So, there I was vaccuuming the house  today and daydreaming about the beach. Sure it’s November and the sky is battleship grey and the temperature makes my fingertips feel like icicles and the wind is raw and stinging. Sure, I have more sea glass than I know what to do with. Just get me to the damn beach.

I went yesterday with my mother and my four year old. My mom was getting over a cold and my little one’s hands were frozen, so we only stayed for half an hour. I felt like I was being pulled away from really great book – just at the part where it gets extra good. But sometimes selfish wants are trumped my more important things … like keeping the peace (not the piece…hahaha).

As the weather gets increasingly cold, I’m wondering if my kids will find our little outings miserable. If so, should I abandon the outings until spring, or do I help them overcome the cold and find joy in our winter adventures? I shall take the latter approach and see where it takes us. Really, it’s all about having fun. I want my kids to have pleasant memories of our trips to the beach. To me, that’s the most important thing of all.

Photo: Christina Friedrichsen (that’s the fam!)