Memory Glass

My mom and I try to take a trip together every so often. We’re only twenty years apart, so for most of my adult life, she’s felt more like an adventurous older sister than someone’s mom. While I was buried in textbooks and overnight shifts during med school and residency, she was in her 40s—newly an empty-nester, with the freedom and energy to chase big adventures.

She poured that energy into road biking. And not just weekend rides—serious, cross-country efforts. In her 40s and 50s, she biked across the U.S. twice: once north to south, and once west to east. She regularly set out on week-long cycling trips through remote parts of the country and beyond. While I was learning to keep people alive, she was out there climbing mountain passes and racking up hundreds of miles with a kind of cheerful grit that made her hard to keep up with. She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t announce her toughness—she just quietly does the thing that most people would never dream of.

One spring, we decided to go to Sonoma for a few days of biking and wine tasting. It was picture-perfect: rolling green hills, fog draped over the vineyards in the mornings, and wildflowers leaning into the wind. For our “crowning ride,” we picked the King Ridge Loop—a local legend of a route, about 50 miles long, with a famously grueling 6.5-mile climb averaging an 11% grade. At its worst, it hits 15%.

I swear, I nearly died. I had to push my bike up part of it—and that’s not a metaphor. I physically got off and walked. And worse: I ran out of water.

Normally, I pack well. I never run out of water on rides anymore. Fifty miles should’ve been fine—two bottles, no problem. But we were only halfway in when the last sip disappeared, and there wasn’t a gas station, café, or hose spigot in sight.

Somewhere near the top, when we were crawling along and squinting at anything that looked remotely promising, we spotted a tiny shop just off the road. It looked open. We had no idea what it was, but it had a door, shade, and possibly potable water. That was enough.

Inside, it was cool and quiet—and filled with delicate glassware, arranged carefully on white shelves. We approached the desk and asked, sheepishly, if we could fill our bottles and cool off for a minute. They kindly said yes. As we walked around, recovering and admiring the glass, we realized something: this wasn’t just an artisan shop. It was a memorial glass studio. The pieces weren’t just decorative—they contained cremated remains. People. Turned into sculpture. Paperweights. Vases.

It was beautiful. Awe-inspiring. And, okay, a little funny when you stumble in, drenched in sweat and road grit, looking for a drinking fountain.

Still, I left that shop with a new idea: I wanted to be made into a dish when I die. A small one, probably for M&Ms. Something cheerful. My mom was totally on board. I’ve always wanted to be cremated and kept close to home anyway—this just seemed like a gorgeous, practical solution. I later found a similar company online called Memory Glass (memoryglass.com), and it brought the whole moment rushing back.

That ride nearly broke me—but I’d do it again in a heartbeat. The scenery, the struggle, the shared delirium, and the glassware full of people’s loved ones—it was weird and perfect. Easily one of the most unforgettable trips I’ve ever taken with my mom.

Click here to visit Memory Glass