Chad's Christmas Present

Yeah, I'm still not drawing all that well, but effort counts.

Very early in our relationship--one of those dates that "wasn't a date"--Chad and I found ourselves driving up Virginia Beach Boulevard near the Route 64 overpass. He didn't know where he was going, although he pretended to, being manly. At that point in my life, I had two small children, a part time job, an ancient slant 6 Dodge Dart and no money for the bridge-tunnel, so I didn't know the territory as well as I would in later years.

We spent at least an hour driving around Virginia Beach, trying to get onto Route 64. There were no GPSs at the time, and we didn't have a map. Random corner turning accomplished nothing. I was beginning to wonder if Chad were a reliable pilot. Chad hid his self-doubt with devil-may-care. We didn't know each other at all, having met a month or two before.

Finally, Chad spotted the 64 overpass as we drove up Virginia Beach Boulevard. It was right there, two blocks away.

"I bet I can get us on the highway in 5 minutes," he bragged, big and proud behind the wheel of his new Volkswagon Quantum.

"What do you bet?" I  asked, laughing.

"What do you want?" he replied.

I worked in a hospital at the time, and there was a gorgeous metal plant holder in the gift shop that I lusted after. Don't ask me why. It was pretty, I was poor, and I wanted it.

"The swanboat," I ventured.

So he bet me the swanboat that he could get us on the highway in 5 minutes. I didn't know that Chad doesn't gamble. If there's a chance he might lose, he doesn't play. He chortled quietly, convinced that the swanboat was his.

And guess what? Virginia Beach Boulevard has no entrance onto Route 64. None in either direction. Chad could see the road, but couldn't get on it--not within the time limits, at any rate. So I won the swanboat, and we still have it, sitting in our living room.

He might say he won a wife, and children, too.

Anyway, in my efforts to make Christmas presents for my beautiful ones, I drew a picture of the swanboat for Chad. It's grossly imperfect, with rose-shaped dents in the paper  caused by the production of a previous picture. First, I drew a thumbnail sketch, as taught by Anne Holland in her ESO drawing class. I even included a thumbnail in the thumbnail. I get a kick out of it, but Anne says not to do it in the future.

The purple glass is a splendid pre-WWI piece of beachglass from Cape Charles. On the back I taped a poem:

Our love is a swanboat,
risked, lost and won.
Entwined, a sturdy boat
transporting broken
burnished treasure.

Christmas Glass

Presents for people I love.

Chris will never see this story. Neither will Aunt Dee or Uncle Joe. So when they get their seaglass mobiles for Christmas, they will still be surprised.

I make many of the presents we give for Christmas. When we were young, Mom told us it was more important to give a piece of yourself than just an object, however expensive. Decades later, I'm still following her advice.

It helps to have a studio full of gorgeous, old seaglass and a stack of driftwood piled out back, in the alley. When you really need a present, you can grab beautiful bits and put them together quickly (oh, yeah....it also helps to have the tools).

Chris' mobile is the first I've made with beads. But it's the glass that is truly outstanding. The big cobalt oval has "Made in the USA" in worn, raised letters across its face. This glass was found on a barrier island off Accomack County, at the site of a 1940s shipwreck. The deep turquoise piece is an old electrical insulator, worn to perfection on the Cape Charles beach. Then there is the purple glass, which has manganese in it, and is thus datable to before World War One.

The beads are little carved bone death's heads. Chris wouldn't like that, but I mixed them--eyes up, eyes down--so they wouldn't be as recognizable. I didn't have any other beads that were suitable. I'm betting she doesn't look at them closely.

Aunt Dee collects turtles, so her mobile has a carved bone turtle. Uncle Joe is the impossible one to "shop" for. He's a very handy man, though, so I took an antique tool from our workshop and tied it into his mobile. I don't know what the tool is. It's wonderfully made, though. Finely honed steel.

I'm hoping that they hang the glass in a sunny spot all year long, and think about how I cared about them enough to make them something lovely. It's the least I could do for people I love.