My brother greeted us at the door with an assignment: All visitors must make a glass bead.

My sister-in-law, Barbara, a stained glass artist, had just taken up bead making and was keen to share her new craft.

Barb sat me down in her basement workshop behind a propane torch, shooting a scary 8-inch flame. "Take this metal rod and twirl it in the fire until it glows." I twirled.

She handed me a cobalt-blue Italian glass rod. "With your other hand, spin the glass in the flame until the end forms a ball and is the consistency of honey. Tip it up a bit so the blob doesn't fall off." I spun with my left hand, twirled with my right. I kept a nervous eye on the blob.

"Now touch the glass to the metal rod and twirl it on, like cotton candy on a paper cone." To my utter astonishment I had made a small bead!

I got greedy, repeating the process to make a bigger bead. "Don't pull!" Barb warned. I couldn't help it. I pulled. My perfect little bead turned into a grotesque glob of molten goo.

For the next hour Barb showed us how to make beads. We speculated about how hard it must be to spin and twirl a couple dozen identical beads for a necklace. What steady hands that would take!

Over dinner, we talked about how alienated we had become from our possessions and the people who make them. How many thousands of glass beads had we seen in our lives without ever giving a thought to the skill it took to make one over a hissing flame?

During the rest of our week on the East Coast we were on the lookout for artisans at work, from the master stonemasons carving gargoyles at the National Cathedral in Washington to the 6-year-olds learning the special wrist flick that the bakers at Doughboys Pretzel Factory in Feasterville, Pa., use to twist pretzels into the traditional figure-eight shape.

I started thinking about our garage.

A couple of weeks ago I mucked out the garage. The full details are too embarrassing to share, but I will confess to unearthing an expensive backpacking tent that had been consumed by rodents; a gotta-have-it exercise machine still sealed in the box 10 Christmases later and six weed whackers.

It was the six weed whackers that sent me over the edge. We have too much stuff. And, with Christmas coming, we were getting ready to buy more stuff.

Last year, consumers spent an average of $636 over the Christmas holidays. This year, spending is estimated to rise by at least 5 percent; some estimates are as high as 25 percent.

Between 30 percent and 60 percent of that goes on credit cards. This year, Americans are expected to charge $1 billion during the holidays — those same families who owe an average of $7,500 in credit card debt already.

A recent article in the Business Section of the Express-News celebrated these facts: "Spending by consumers and businesses on Visa-branded payment cards during the second week of November rose 17.5 percent over last year."

There's another side of the story. Three out of four families say their holiday spending will cause stress.

This year, we're opting out. We'll start with this Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. Since 1993 it has been Buy Nothing Day, a holiday conceived by the Canadian group Adbusters to counter the rampant consumerism in our culture.

The idea is simple. On the biggest shopping day of the year, don't buy anything.

We can do that.

Then, we're going to follow the suggestions offered in the book "Unplug the Christmas Machine," by Jo Robinson. She advocates this pledge to make the holiday season more meaningful:

Remember those people who truly need my gifts.

Express my love in more direct ways than gifts.

Examine my holiday activities in the light of my deepest values.

Be a peacemaker within my circle of family and friends.

Rededicate myself to my spiritual growth.

We can do that, too. There's a choice: a flame, glass and one perfect bead or a garage stuffed with weed whackers. I choose the bead.

Susan Ives can be reached at suives@texas.net.