I’m not a fan of glass.
When I think about glass I think about what a klutz I am and how hard it is to clean without a single smudge or smear left behind. Car windows, mirrors, those damned glass tables my mother gave me years ago.
Lovely, little, low side tables, one panel of glass atop, one below. Pain In The Glass pretty tables, they are. The only way a creature such as myself can get them really, truly dazzlingly clean is to take the 20 x 20 glass inserts out and carefully tote them to the sink and wash them ever so carefully with dish soap and carefully, using a towel to grasp the edges, lean them against a wall lined with towels until they dry, and then with gloved hands, carefully place them back in the frame. My nerves. Oh my nerves.
When we moved here, I said FUCK IT and began using them outside. A watering can, an old rag, and a bit of cleaner. Streaks? Who cares? Clean enough for outside. Fine enough to set down your glass.
I gave one to the boy one a few weeks ago. I hope he enjoys cleaning it. Family Tradition.