I’ve got a bottle problem

By Nissa Rudh

How can a physical object be extremely valuable yet valueless at the same time? And what do we do when our belongings are caught in this juxtaposition? Morality and rationality are on the line as I explore my addiction to the old, the curious, and the potential in junk.

I collect antique glass bottles. Do I have a problem? Maybe. Allow me to explain…

Two years ago, we moved into a new apartment—the upper floor of a house in Coos Bay, Oregon. Behind my house is a tidal wetland. This wetland has a historically excavated channel, a semi-breached dike, and a restored pasture back to tidal marsh that was obviously a very bad place to keep a cow many years ago. It is beautiful and one of the main reasons why we haven’t moved or bought a house yet (that, and our extraordinary neighbors).

During some low tides in our backyard, the water level becomes extremely low, revealing mass amounts of rubble, mud, and debris that have been thrown or shoved into this poor water body off of Coos Bay for over 100 years. Someone told me the nickname for this wetland was “$#!+ slough” many years ago, so you can imagine the possibilities.

I initially went out in my off-brand muck boots and pink rubber gloves to find anything cool. Maybe that’s the problem: I am a gleaner. The first three sessions, I came back with dual five-gallon and buckets filled with glass. Then we got a kayak. Some of my findings have been recycled or thrown away, and other pieces have been cleaned meticulously and placed on my kitchen counter.

Yes, I have prospered mentally and physically from this endeavor. But what do I have for my efforts? Let me expound. I have Mason jars dating back to the turn of the century. I have milk bottles with “Coos Bay Dairy” embossed on them—a company that went out of business in the 1930s. I have medicine bottles, a personal favorite. I have Pepsi, Coke, Nehi, 7up, and more from a bygone time when the bottle weighed more than the beverage inside it. I have Depression-era glass, glowing green. I have cobalt blue bottles that sit in my window. Clearly, I could write a song about this.

I also have acquired a wealth of knowledge of the companies that produced these bottles and the glass manufacturing zeitgeists of the 1900s through the 1960s. Let me level with you. I definitely have over 100 of these “keepers” that I have pored over, cataloged, and even in some cases contacted my local history museum about. I have special tags for labeling them and I have purchased corks in a myriad of shapes and sizes in attempts to revive and reuse the more practical containers. Now let’s get into the less fun part.

I have been re-using many of these bottles with corks or with standard mason lids wherever I can (oh, and it is delightful to open the cupboard and get the pickling spices out of an art-deco mustard jar with a giant cork). However, there seems to be a finite limit to how many bottles can override other containers in my cupboards. And so, I am left with my shame. At least 50 of my “prides and joys” are sitting on my countertop. Sitting there. Looking at me. And there are more soaking in a bucket outside, waiting to be processed into my [dead end] system. More tucked away behind the actual canning jars. Have you ever seen old jelly jars? The kind that were sealed with wax, not a lid? Useless. Beautiful though.

And so I present you with a point, counterpoint analysis of my options.

Give them away. Point: Some people may find them endearing and maybe even useful. Counterpoint: Most people will not appreciate the “locally hand scrounged and cleaned” aspect of each one. I mean, come on! It takes me hours to process one “bucket batch” of a dozen or so bottles.

Sell them. Point: Money. Counterpoint: It costs an arm and a leg to have a spot in an antique mall. And then there’s the commission. You have to create your own shelving, display, etc. Also, see above with the lack of “locally scrounged” appreciation. Also, these things are NOT worth a lot of money. There are people who have saved them or salvaged them from actual stores and old houses that did not have to put in the time to scrub, soak, scrub them again, etc. My artifacts are sub-par. No label, no contents, elementally they are trash from the slough. And, if you try to sell them online, they cost an arm and a torso to ship. And finally: Hey folks, I have a day job and I ain’t got time for that.

So here I am, in love with my “treasures” that may be less than treasures. True, I may occasionally find a particularly interesting or valuable piece that could go for some money, but overall, my options are limited. So too, obviously, is the size of my apartment.

I think this is a topic that most scroungers/gleaners/combers can relate to. The beauty and allure for many of our finds is implicit in the place and experiences tied to the finding of them. Could I create a massive shelf to display every single medicine bottle from the slough? Should you do the same for your sand dollars? I don’t know! The art of decision making in our society of excess is complex and sometimes illogical. When do you say, “This is enough agates?” (Oh yeah, I didn’t even mention my problem with agates). More importantly, can our primitive brains even do that? Recently, my husband started planting succulents in some of the more cup-shaped slough finds. Another outlet! Unfortunately, this doesn’t clear them from our house, though it does move them from the kitchen counter to a windowsill.

I wish I could give you a takeaway or lessons learned from this introspection. I don’t have any great ones. Only that we choose every day what objects surround us, and sometimes the objects choose us resultant of our endeavors. Our tchotchkes, beach finds, baby doll collection, Magic cards, yarn stash, woodworking tools, book collection, etc. may have little influence on our mood or stress levels as we go about our day; or, they may be anxiety-inducing barriers that thwart sugar-cookie-rolling on the countertop.

Are they “good” or “bad” to keep around? If I hide them in a cardboard box, will that be worse? I don’t have the mental capacity to reevaluate my glass-bottle hoard every day or every time I look at it. Do I want them gone? I don’t know. I guess not. Do I want them mounted into a magnificent piece of art that hangs on my porch? YES! (Can somebody lend me a glass cutting saw, a blow torch, and artistic talent?) But my time and abilities are limited, and my squirrel mentality says, “Go find more!”

Shoot. My objects of shame are also objects of pride. Pride that I have a niche hobby and understanding of our community through a lens that many may have forgotten. What is that worth? What is a sand dollar worth? Something. And do I care if my relatives throw them all away or donate them when I die? I guess not. Maybe they will still be able to read this article.

This article appeared in Beachcombing Volume 40 January/February 2024.