The old, metal chair felt rickety and reminded me of a beat-up high school desk. This was probably fine. The chair was inside the glass workshop at Blenko Glass in Milton.

Beyond the chair, I was surrounded by many unsafe things -- heavy equipment and an assortment of blazing furnaces, ovens and kilns.

On the floor, men quickly moved balls of molten glass. They carried them on hollow poles, walking with deliberate purpose.

The clock was ticking. That stuff was hot.

I didn’t want to think about what would happen if any of it got on my skin.

I’d been burned by melted cheese a couple of times. Nacho cheese wasn’t really that bad. It was already sort of liquid. But a good piece of melted cheddar or Swiss? That stuff would leave a mark.

I could only imagine what liquid glass would do.

On

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