Some of the largest projects (done by the blacksmiths) are on the floor at the back.

At the back of the hall, shelves rise to the ceiling, laden with hundreds of colorful glass vases and ornaments. Around me are the end results-long tables covered with blue cloth displaying pottery, ceramics, jewelry, sculpture, metalwork, and of course, my glass torchwork. For me, the art show is the best part, and every one of the student artists at The Crucible has been working like crazy to get enough pieces for the exhibition. It’s a massive, three-day fund-raiser fair with food-spicy and cooked over an open flame, of course-face painting, flame throwing, fire juggling, fire archery, and pretty much all the firemen in three counties standing around looking worried. I want something with a streak of metal in it this time.Īll of us have been awaiting this last weekend in May and hoping for good weather for the thousands of people expected to attend the Phoenix Festival. I set the mandrel and the bead into the annealing kiln to slow bake and choose another rod of color. I make another disk, a half inch away, and then, turning the mandrel all the time, keep laying disks of glass until the heat slumps them together to make a hollow bead. In no time at all, I’m putting down a small bead of molten glass, turning my mandrel until I’ve made a disk. Muttering under my breath, I gently untangle the glasses and put them on, then start heating the glass. As I reach up to tug down my pink-tinted sunglasses, they catch on my hair, and the pins Grandmama put in the French roll she thought would look so elegant poke into my scalp. My hands hover over the glass color choices, and I select a clear, bright blue. The glass always sticks better if the mandrel is warm.

Checking to make sure my glasses are still on my head, I grab my box of matches and light my torch.Īn older couple approaches my booth but instead of speaking I pick up the thin metal mandrel and turn it in the flames to warm it. I sit down, my foot automatically moving to tap the switch for the small fan under the table. At the edge of the table there’s a small glass kiln, a miniature propane blowtorch, a handful of tweezers, metal rods, a graphite block, and a couple of terra-cotta flowerpots filled with sand and rods of glass in all shades. There’s a table set up at the back of my booth, covered with a square of galvanized metal and lit with a desk lamp. Rather than stand here, watching the watchers, I’m going to do some torchwork. The surge of chattering, pointing, gawking people pours into the massive auditorium, and I feel a shiver crawl up my arms.

The Phoenix Fire Festival at The Crucible, last May

Happy Families by Tanita S. Davis