Swanson Glassworks

September 16, 2015.Reading time 6 minutes.

Swanson Glassworks had been a fixture in Portsong for nearly sixty years. Situated on a small knoll on the western side of town, it was the single largest employer in the county. The company produced tableware and stemware, rising to the height of its popularity with a single product at the turn of the century. In 1902, the company began producing a uniquely long glass with a peculiar stem a full inch longer than the typical flute on the market. A shipment was made to a certain hotel in New York City, and the glasses were used before the angry restaurant manager could return them. To the surprise of many, the awkward glasses became all the rage. Orders flooded the little Georgia company, fueling its growth and expansion.

Truth be told, the innovation that brought the defective glasses onto many tables in the country was actually an accident. Many would dispute this secret as legend, but it was actual fact. In the waning days of 1901, the plant closed to retool before resuming operation after the holiday season. One of the maintenance workers at the factory disassembled the machine responsible for stemware production so that it could be moved. Not a soul could remember how to reassemble it at its new location. It took the entire staff to bring it to working order just before all of the employees returned in January.

A problem became evident in the product when the first glasses came off the line and would not fit in the crates prepared for them. They were too long. The quality supervisor summoned management to examine the glasses. A heated debate ensued, but they finally decided to repackage them in larger crates and ship the glasses to New York so that their order wouldn’t be late. After the run was completed, they worked feverishly to fix the machine. Night and day they tried everything they knew to no avail. Every glass that came out of it was an inch too long.

The machine ran for weeks producing the awkward glasses until someone finally had the idea to contact the former employee who had designed and built the machine. After much searching, they found him living with his daughter in Savannah, and he gladly took a ride back to Portsong to relive his golden days of working in the factory. His manner was slow and lethargic until he felt the factory floor under his feet. The familiar smells, sounds and sights seemed to take thirty years off of his back. A glimmer reappeared in the old man’s eye as he approached his machine with pride and gently touched every component in his tour around it. The company’s management stood over him, wishing the old man would move more quickly to diagnose the problem, but he wouldn’t be rushed. The machine that he had created had outworked him. It awakened an old feeling of pride in him. He beamed until interrupted by the men surrounding him.

“Well, what’s wrong with it?” one impatient executive asked.

Now hard of hearing, the old man needed the question repeated. A junior manager gave him the question twice, each time raising his voice.

“What’s wrong with it, you ask? Why, not the slightest thing is wrong with it,” replied the ancient once he understood what had been asked. “Lift this side up, will you? Right here at the corner.”

The stronger maintenance workers pushed through the managers and complied with his request. Once it was aloft, the old man reached in his pocket, took out a matchbook and slowly bent down to place it on the ground underneath the leg of the machine.

“Now, set it down boys,” he said. Once they had done so, he clapped his hands together. “It’ll run just fine now. That side always sagged a little lower than the others. Will somebody take me back to Savannah now? Virginia’s cooking pot roast for tonight and I don’t want to be late for it.”

The company’s carriage promptly returned him to his home and Swanson Glassworks began to manufacture fluted stemware to their proper specification for a brief period of time. That is until the day the hotels and restaurants all over the country began sending orders for the long glasses. As soon as they realized the awkward mistake was such a hit, the men lifted the machine once more and kicked the matchbook out of its place so the new orders could be filled. It was only replaced when the novelty of the item died, as all fads do. Then things went back to normal at the factory, and Swanson did a robust business year after year.

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Excerpt from Virgil Creech Sings for his Supper, part 2 of The Portsong Series:

The King and his Walls

June 3, 2015.Reading time 7 minutes.

There once lived a king of a small but beautiful castle. He had everything a king could want – a beautiful queen, lovely princesses, bountiful land, friends and plentiful resources. He was also quite proud of his walls. He had built them sufficiently high and strong so they could withstand attack but not so foreboding that they repelled callers of good repute.

Near his castle were other industrious kings, all working toward the common good of the people and the land. These small kingdoms lived in relative peace save the occasional border dispute – always quickly solved with diplomacy and understanding. To the north lay a massive kingdom that ruled the entire known world. It was long-rumored that this land was perfect and its people well-loved. Inside that castle was a good and great king who treated the lesser kings with abundant mercy. Although this king had the power to easily crush any rival beneath his feet, he preferred to rule with honor, civility, and justice. The smaller kings attempted to emulate this king in every facet. Always generous in his teaching, the good king sent letters and even a royal emissary to instruct in his ways. And the people were better for it.

One day our king noticed an unfamiliar soldier staring up at his walls. He called, but the dark soldier ran and hid in the surrounding forest. With little cause for alarm, the king went about his duties until he saw the strange soldier again – this time very close to the wall, inspecting it for weakness. The king yelled down once more and once more, the soldier fled.

Days went by and the king fell back into his work. One night however, a harbinger came and told him his walls were under attack. With no time to spare, the king ran to the wall and looked down to see an army of dark soldiers preparing for war below.

“Wake the troops, send for our allies,” he called. “We will defend our walls!”

Messages sent to his fellow kings far and wide were answered immediately. From the moment of the siege, allies rallied to the cause. Some were intimate friends, some merely acquaintances, and many were men our king had never met. Of course, the great king to the north sent every resource requested. Even in this dark time, because of the support, our king felt a warmth of love he had never experienced. He marshalled his troops, beat back at the enemy, and for a time seemed to be repelling the attack.

But the darkest days of the war came. Rocks and stones tumbled from the wall, each one hurting our king in ways he didn’t expect. Though his friends never wavered, he knew more was required.

A messenger was dispatched to the great king of the north requesting men and weapons. To our king’s dismay, the messenger returned with a large supply of riches – gold, diamonds, and rubies. Knowing these were of no use to him in his current dilemma, the king once again sent his messenger. This time, he made certain the message was clear – men and weapons of war were required.

To this request, the great king sent eloquent letters of love and encouragement.

Frustrated, angry, and confused, our king once more wrote a desperate message in his own hand begging the great king for what he needed.

The messenger returned empty-handed.

“He gave you nothing?” the king shouted above the sound of his castle’s demise.

“When he read your letter,” replied the weary messenger. “The great king only wept and said, ‘tell your king that I am with him’.”

This saddened our king, for he knew all was lost. The barbarians were quickly upon the defenders. In a final push, the wall came down. The loss was great. Although the defenseless kingdom was now theirs for the taking, the invaders seemed content to leave the king exposed and melted back into the forest.

But what of our king?

Our king stood atop his ruble looking out over tumbled walls, carnage, smoking debris, and immeasurable loss – broken. All that he had presumed to own was no longer his. The safety of his walls proved to be an illusion. Never before had our confident king found himself at a loss for direction. But now he fell into utter confusion.

Should he rebuild these walls or find a different way to protect his kingdom? Although he had built, he did not know how to rebuild and from where he stood, there seemed a vast difference between the two. How would he build the walls high enough to protect… to stop the pain… to quench his aching heart? And what of the great loss?

How would he ever reconcile the seeming indifference of the great king?

* * * * *

One by one, old friend and new marched past our lonely king and offered condolences and aid for which he was grateful.

Yet when they were gone, he stood alone among the ruins.

And for the first time in his life, he had no idea how to lead.