selection weighing no more than a few pounds, well over a ton of glass had been strewn from one end of the storeroom to the other.
It had been Flossie’s job to put the pieces back, but rather than return them to any old trunk, she’d decided to sort them by color. All the greens in one trunk, the reds in another, and blues in yet another. No wonder Mr. Tiffany had lit up when he’d describedthe characteristics of his opalescent glass to her. Never had she seen anything like it in her entire life.
Touching it, holding it up to the light, seeing how different textures created different results enthralled her, and slowed down her work considerably. When Mrs. Driscoll had come to find out what was taking her so long, she’d given Flossie a bit of a scolding.
“For heaven’s sake, look at all this glass. What on earth have you been doing?”
“Sorting it by color,” she’d answered. “It might take a bit of time up front, but I think it will save time in the end.”
“Nonsense. No one could ever sort Tiffany glass. It’s too variegated. How would you ever be able to decide? No, no. Just get it up off the floor and tables and into the trunks, then come along. There’s much to be done.”
With a great deal of disappointment, she’d done as she was told. It was hard to pout, though, when she’d been able to work with such a plethora of colors and designs.
The streetcar conductor gave a savage ring of the bell and tore around a corner, throwing Flossie into the men crammed up next to her in the overcrowded quarters. She hung on to a leather strap above her head. No one offered her a seat, no one offered her any space.
It was the same for all women on streetcars this time of day, whether they were students or working girls. This was the time reserved for men who rushed home to their wives who served up meals, fetched slippers, and birthed children. At least the glass strikers hadn’t been outside of Tiffany’s at the conclusion of the day, so she and the others had gone unmolested to the streetcar stop.
Still, the men on the five o’clock cars didn’t like them being there, and even though she knew better, it felt as if they’d all had some secret meeting and agreed to teach women students andlaborers a lesson: if you want to enter into a man’s world, then don’t expect to be treated differently.
But the women were treated differently. They were touched inappropriately under the guise of being helped on and off the car. They were groped by “bustle pinchers” taking advantage of crowded conditions, and they had things whispered to them the men would never dare to utter under normal circumstances.
She tightened her hold on the creaking strap. No matter how stiff she made herself, she couldn’t keep the men from brushing against her in an intimate fashion. All pretended it wasn’t happening, but all were very aware it was.
In an effort to distract herself, she tried to imagine what it would be like if she were to be the one selecting glass instead of restocking it. She’d realized at once it was the most critical step of the entire window-making process.
She definitely would have chosen a different piece for the Virgin Mary’s hair. The flow, density, and texture of the piece Nan had chosen was lovely—all of Mr. Tiffany’s glass was lovely—but Flossie had run across some others that were even better. She’d considered showing them to Nan, then recalled Nan had seen them and set them aside, which was why Flossie was having to restock them in the first place.
“West Fifty-Seventh!” the driver shouted, pulling the horses to a stop.
Excusing herself, Flossie pressed her way to the front and had almost made it to the door when her coat caught on something and her backside received a strong pinch. Squealing, she whirled around, grasping her coat and swatting the area behind her.
She made eye contact with each of the men in her vicinity and they with her. She let her irritation and disgust
It had been Flossie’s job to put the pieces back, but rather than return them to any old trunk, she’d decided to sort them by color. All the greens in one trunk, the reds in another, and blues in yet another. No wonder Mr. Tiffany had lit up when he’d describedthe characteristics of his opalescent glass to her. Never had she seen anything like it in her entire life.
Touching it, holding it up to the light, seeing how different textures created different results enthralled her, and slowed down her work considerably. When Mrs. Driscoll had come to find out what was taking her so long, she’d given Flossie a bit of a scolding.
“For heaven’s sake, look at all this glass. What on earth have you been doing?”
“Sorting it by color,” she’d answered. “It might take a bit of time up front, but I think it will save time in the end.”
“Nonsense. No one could ever sort Tiffany glass. It’s too variegated. How would you ever be able to decide? No, no. Just get it up off the floor and tables and into the trunks, then come along. There’s much to be done.”
With a great deal of disappointment, she’d done as she was told. It was hard to pout, though, when she’d been able to work with such a plethora of colors and designs.
The streetcar conductor gave a savage ring of the bell and tore around a corner, throwing Flossie into the men crammed up next to her in the overcrowded quarters. She hung on to a leather strap above her head. No one offered her a seat, no one offered her any space.
It was the same for all women on streetcars this time of day, whether they were students or working girls. This was the time reserved for men who rushed home to their wives who served up meals, fetched slippers, and birthed children. At least the glass strikers hadn’t been outside of Tiffany’s at the conclusion of the day, so she and the others had gone unmolested to the streetcar stop.
Still, the men on the five o’clock cars didn’t like them being there, and even though she knew better, it felt as if they’d all had some secret meeting and agreed to teach women students andlaborers a lesson: if you want to enter into a man’s world, then don’t expect to be treated differently.
But the women were treated differently. They were touched inappropriately under the guise of being helped on and off the car. They were groped by “bustle pinchers” taking advantage of crowded conditions, and they had things whispered to them the men would never dare to utter under normal circumstances.
She tightened her hold on the creaking strap. No matter how stiff she made herself, she couldn’t keep the men from brushing against her in an intimate fashion. All pretended it wasn’t happening, but all were very aware it was.
In an effort to distract herself, she tried to imagine what it would be like if she were to be the one selecting glass instead of restocking it. She’d realized at once it was the most critical step of the entire window-making process.
She definitely would have chosen a different piece for the Virgin Mary’s hair. The flow, density, and texture of the piece Nan had chosen was lovely—all of Mr. Tiffany’s glass was lovely—but Flossie had run across some others that were even better. She’d considered showing them to Nan, then recalled Nan had seen them and set them aside, which was why Flossie was having to restock them in the first place.
“West Fifty-Seventh!” the driver shouted, pulling the horses to a stop.
Excusing herself, Flossie pressed her way to the front and had almost made it to the door when her coat caught on something and her backside received a strong pinch. Squealing, she whirled around, grasping her coat and swatting the area behind her.
She made eye contact with each of the men in her vicinity and they with her. She let her irritation and disgust
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