I love nothing better than coloured glass bottles in windows:
The Collection of my Dreams!Not mine, but what I aspire to!
Anyway, the story of Sapphia-Sofala's bottles: When I was a child of about 8, I was visiting my mother's family in Australia, and one day my lovely cousins took me on a trek up the big hill to the burned-out ruin that once was my Great Great Grandmother's house. Sapphia-Sofala of Merton. What had once, a century earlier, been a rather grand house was now simply a set of large carved granite steps leading to nowhere, but standing atop them and looking out at the view? It was a mighty connection with the past and with who these ancestors were. How powerful they must have felt, standing there atop that hill and knowing they owned everything they could see. Then, after long minutes 'feeling their vibe', we dived into the burned-out remains to explore.
Cousin Russell, my age exactly but already in Mensa and with a twisty entrepreneurial brain, regularly came up here to treasure hunt because he had his own company that had business dealings with the global antique market, so he knew the place very well, and before he let us touch anything, he told us that, since his company owned the prospecting rights to this place, he owned any discoveries we made.
We said we were OK with that.
Filthy and pulling through chunks of burnt wood, getting right into it, I came across a stash of old medicine bottles, all blues and greens and purples, and they were the most beautiful things I'd ever seen, especially the ones that had been burned the most and so were all iridescent and looked like they'd been carved from opal. From the moment I held them up to the light, I was hooked. Naturally, Russell was instantly there to take them off me but I pleaded with him and eventually he let me keep my three favourites: ones with lovely shapes; a little green one that had gone opalescent; a larger purple one that had also gone opalescent; and a deep blue one with a marble in the centre and a really interesting-looking plug.
So that's how I got my life's special treasures: Sapphia-Sofala's bottles. Loved them for their connection with my past but more-so because they looked so incredible with the light shining through, so I took them every place I've ever lived, and always stuck them in a window to catch the light. Over the years, I added more interesting antique bottles but none meant as much to me as my originals.
But one day ...
We were then living in Townsville, in North Queensland, and were asleep when woken by a series of loud smashes. And then, right outside our guest bedroom window, was the sound of someone choking. Instantly the lights were on and Keith and I were both grabbing things to be used as weapons, racing for that spare bedroom ready for a fight.
No one was there but the window was open and all over the floor were the shards of my bottle collection. We could also hear choking-coughing running through the garden and then the sound of the gate.
Rang the police. Obviously, since the burglars hadn't actually got in, when they eventually came around, they weren't much interested. But I was devastated, mainly because ... well, of my entire collection of antique bottles, only Sapphia-Sofala's purple bottle remained intact.
The next day, checking out the scene of the crime, we found a half-drunk can of coke, and guessed our burglars had been a gang of kids, and that one of them, drinking the coke, had been startled by the smash and choked. Yayyy!
But here comes the co-incidence: about five months later, I was asked to be supervising scriptwriter for a police initiative to help street kids become useful citizens by teaching them film-making. Nice in theory, huh? They were the vilest bunch of teenage hooligans imaginable, but I was there to do a job and did it, attempting to gently prise a film-script out of them.
And the story I got?: there's this gang of street-kids, not unlike themselves, who decide to do a murder so break into a house with the plan to beat the occupants to death. They're all armed but when they prise open the window and start to get in there's this loud smash, followed by other loud smashes. One of the number ... "Remember how you were drinking that can of coke and you choked!" one of them said to the other ...
... at that point I stopped listening as a scriptwriter and started listening as an evidence-collector, but then they spun off into fantasy and started on about how they beat this "elderly couple" (gee, thanks guys!) to death, so I immediately drew the line. "We are NOT making some sick snuff movie!" I snapped at them. "Let's find another story."
We did eventually come up with a workable script but, needless to say, given the awfulness and stupidity of this bunch, I did most of it, and, after that, my part done, I left them to it. Never heard anything more about the short film so I guess they didn't get much farther with it. But, yeah, yeah, yeah, it was a nice idea in theory!
Anyway, I talked over my discovery with a policeman friend and he said there wasn't really anything they could do, so ...
... well, I went out and got myself a gorgeous pair of rottweillers.
So, today I only have one of Sapphia-Sofala's bottles. The others? I'm just grateful to them that they may, perhaps, have just saved our lives.
Cousin Russell, my age exactly but already in Mensa and with a twisty entrepreneurial brain, regularly came up here to treasure hunt because he had his own company that had business dealings with the global antique market, so he knew the place very well, and before he let us touch anything, he told us that, since his company owned the prospecting rights to this place, he owned any discoveries we made.
We said we were OK with that.
Filthy and pulling through chunks of burnt wood, getting right into it, I came across a stash of old medicine bottles, all blues and greens and purples, and they were the most beautiful things I'd ever seen, especially the ones that had been burned the most and so were all iridescent and looked like they'd been carved from opal. From the moment I held them up to the light, I was hooked. Naturally, Russell was instantly there to take them off me but I pleaded with him and eventually he let me keep my three favourites: ones with lovely shapes; a little green one that had gone opalescent; a larger purple one that had also gone opalescent; and a deep blue one with a marble in the centre and a really interesting-looking plug.
So that's how I got my life's special treasures: Sapphia-Sofala's bottles. Loved them for their connection with my past but more-so because they looked so incredible with the light shining through, so I took them every place I've ever lived, and always stuck them in a window to catch the light. Over the years, I added more interesting antique bottles but none meant as much to me as my originals.
But one day ...
We were then living in Townsville, in North Queensland, and were asleep when woken by a series of loud smashes. And then, right outside our guest bedroom window, was the sound of someone choking. Instantly the lights were on and Keith and I were both grabbing things to be used as weapons, racing for that spare bedroom ready for a fight.
No one was there but the window was open and all over the floor were the shards of my bottle collection. We could also hear choking-coughing running through the garden and then the sound of the gate.
Rang the police. Obviously, since the burglars hadn't actually got in, when they eventually came around, they weren't much interested. But I was devastated, mainly because ... well, of my entire collection of antique bottles, only Sapphia-Sofala's purple bottle remained intact.
The next day, checking out the scene of the crime, we found a half-drunk can of coke, and guessed our burglars had been a gang of kids, and that one of them, drinking the coke, had been startled by the smash and choked. Yayyy!
But here comes the co-incidence: about five months later, I was asked to be supervising scriptwriter for a police initiative to help street kids become useful citizens by teaching them film-making. Nice in theory, huh? They were the vilest bunch of teenage hooligans imaginable, but I was there to do a job and did it, attempting to gently prise a film-script out of them.
And the story I got?: there's this gang of street-kids, not unlike themselves, who decide to do a murder so break into a house with the plan to beat the occupants to death. They're all armed but when they prise open the window and start to get in there's this loud smash, followed by other loud smashes. One of the number ... "Remember how you were drinking that can of coke and you choked!" one of them said to the other ...
... at that point I stopped listening as a scriptwriter and started listening as an evidence-collector, but then they spun off into fantasy and started on about how they beat this "elderly couple" (gee, thanks guys!) to death, so I immediately drew the line. "We are NOT making some sick snuff movie!" I snapped at them. "Let's find another story."
We did eventually come up with a workable script but, needless to say, given the awfulness and stupidity of this bunch, I did most of it, and, after that, my part done, I left them to it. Never heard anything more about the short film so I guess they didn't get much farther with it. But, yeah, yeah, yeah, it was a nice idea in theory!
Anyway, I talked over my discovery with a policeman friend and he said there wasn't really anything they could do, so ...
... well, I went out and got myself a gorgeous pair of rottweillers.
So, today I only have one of Sapphia-Sofala's bottles. The others? I'm just grateful to them that they may, perhaps, have just saved our lives.
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