I picked up some shards of tile from my driveway today. It’s been awhile since I found any, but over the years I have gathered bits and pieces that have surfaced after heavy rains. I cannot help but imagine the history of these bits of tile. Last week I was in Ft. Bragg, California sifting through the detritus of around 75 years of garbage once dumped at the edge of the ocean and set on fire. Fires burned steadily for many years, melting sparkplugs, metal, glass, garbage all into one huge slag pile. The bottles partially melted, but some just broke into pieces. Dishes, bottles, glasses, broken china, broken ceramicware; it was burned or broken, left to the devices and ravages of the sea, and the passing of time itself. Eventually the town was forced to stop dumping their garbage and setting it on fire. Since then, the waste has been transformed into what is now known as Glass Beach. There are two schools of thought from locals; one group believes the bits of leftover garbage, now tumbled through the sands of time and the Pacific Ocean, are a part of the history of the town and should be preserved – except tourists are taking it away in droves. Local retired sea Captain Cass sees the beauty and owns the local sea glass museum. He told us that once upon a time, the glass on the beach was 7 feet thick. It is now a fair bit less than that, but each storm and high, pillaging tide tumbles the bits around and creates a new selection of beautiful, sparkling long-lost debris. If I had to guess, I would say that Captain Cass does not believe that it should be offensive for visitors to remove the glass – it was garbage after all, and the beach is a public place. I can see both the beauty and the addiction of beachcombing, but I can also see that eventually this vast treasure trove from the past will be depleted. Knowing this did not stop me from becoming a little obsessed with the search for beautiful sea treasures. Beachcombing has been a passion of mine for many years – before I ever heard of Glass Beach. I truly believe treasures from the sea belong to only the explorer and discoverer. Sea-glass hunting is a true, total addiction.
I think my passion stems, originally from my discovery of ceramic tile bits here in my own driveway. Many years ago, my father-in-law gathered treasures from houses that were torn down or were being remodeled. He congregated bricks from the streets of Plant City, when the streets were replaced, and those bricks still are in use in my back-yard fireplace. To him, the bits and pieces of broken tile, plywood, two-by-fours, piping – all of this was useful “stuff” and could be reworked into some new repurposed masterpiece. He had big dreams, my father-in-law. He’d sit in the house he and his father-in-law built from other houses that had been torn down uptown. He’d be at the table for hours; a single bulb burning in the overhead porcelain light fixture in the dark, wood-paneled kitchen. It was broiling hot in the summer – no air conditioning, and the open windows let little air circulate. In the winter, equally as cold as hot in the summer. He’d sit at the table his father-in-law built (which I still have) after work as a welder in the mines owned by Mobil, after work in his garden, and in between his bouts of Jim Beam and Mountain Dew, and he would silently sketch his large ideas along with drawings and actual measurements on coffee-stained napkins or used paper plates, old envelopes or paper bags; whatever was handy. Everything to him had use, and he could imagine just what the finished product would look like. I admired that in him; he had such huge dreams in his soul.
I don’t recall what his intended use was for the load of tile he brought home one day. It laid in the yard a long time, alongside stacks of metal and PVC pipe, alongside an entire history of broken-down stoves, and electronic washing machines – including old wringer washers set inside porcelain tubs. Tile, bricks, pipe, cinderblocks, aluminum siding, metal, plastic, wood – barns scattered all over this property. After we bought it the cleanup process began, but it never was quite a success until after his death; he knew what he had and never wanted to part with it. The to-go pile was re-pillaged and materials were removed to other, safer places tucked away in a different place. The ceramic tile – wheelbarrows full of it - became the foundation for the gravel in the driveway of the new house we eventually built. As time passes, the gravel sinks into the sandy soil, and some of the tile rises back up to the surface. Much of the tile, cinderblocks, bricks – that ended up in a sinkhole that fell years before the new house was built. Although there is a dip in that spot still, the landfill of collected detritus keeps the trees and ground around it safe. And the tile in the driveway still rises, now and then, to the surface. So; I do understand the preservation concerns of Ft. Bragg’s Glass Beach. I also understand I have my own little bit of history finding here. If that glass, tile, sparkplugs, porcelain, pottery – all those bits and baubles could talk? What a story they could tell.
A few years ago I wrote a blog post about the tile – it keeps surfacing, and it keeps triggering thoughts…it’s amazing, this circle of life.
“Pieces of a memory, March 3, 2015
I’ve always thought of finding those pieces of tile a bit like stumbling on the memories of my life with Steve. Little pieces of the past, in a way. Several years ago I wrote in my blog about that topic. My blog disappeared a few months ago – poof, gone into cyber space, but I had the foresight to save at least some of my entries. So this is a piece of my past writing; past moments, all because just now I found another piece of tile in my driveway…the tiles pop to the surface of the driveway like memories. I find myself collecting them and saving them in a glass bowl. This morning on my way to the road to retrieve the garbage can, I found two more. I brought them to the house, washed them off, and I will keep them like scraps of my life; scraps of the life I had here, ceramic scraps of the past that remind me of my life and my happiness; of who I was, and who I want to continue to be.”
I don’t recall what his intended use was for the load of tile he brought home one day. It laid in the yard a long time, alongside stacks of metal and PVC pipe, alongside an entire history of broken-down stoves, and electronic washing machines – including old wringer washers set inside porcelain tubs. Tile, bricks, pipe, cinderblocks, aluminum siding, metal, plastic, wood – barns scattered all over this property. After we bought it the cleanup process began, but it never was quite a success until after his death; he knew what he had and never wanted to part with it. The to-go pile was re-pillaged and materials were removed to other, safer places tucked away in a different place. The ceramic tile – wheelbarrows full of it - became the foundation for the gravel in the driveway of the new house we eventually built. As time passes, the gravel sinks into the sandy soil, and some of the tile rises back up to the surface. Much of the tile, cinderblocks, bricks – that ended up in a sinkhole that fell years before the new house was built. Although there is a dip in that spot still, the landfill of collected detritus keeps the trees and ground around it safe. And the tile in the driveway still rises, now and then, to the surface. So; I do understand the preservation concerns of Ft. Bragg’s Glass Beach. I also understand I have my own little bit of history finding here. If that glass, tile, sparkplugs, porcelain, pottery – all those bits and baubles could talk? What a story they could tell.
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