New Spectacles
Warning – this remarkable blog has something different about
it: It may be the first document I have ever written for public examination
that has someone other than me as the star character. Read on to learn that the
new spectacles are not mine, but those of my roommate, Marjorie.
The beginning to this story actually dates back several
years when I first met Mr. Hochstetler, the mysterious man behind the full-face,
deep gray beard and black hat. Hochstetler, as his name suggests, is an Amish
man who sells Amish furniture to those of us who have a taste for such things.
And so it was that when we were furnishing our new retirement home, we ventured
several miles east to the Amish farming area where I discovered Mr. Hochstetler
and his cache of quality wood furniture (made mostly in Ohio at an Amish
settlement). Hochstetler was only too happy to show us his wares and we began a
lengthy relationship with him that settled around me giving him money whilst he
explained how his Amish furniture was not only attractive but also built to
last, unlike typical ‘English’ furniture. We were hooked despite the smell of
cow manure that emanated from his barn and settled into the open windows of our
car.
Fast forward about ten years from the period when we
collected rocking chairs, an oak bench, a jewelry box and several other Amish
pieces needed to keep Hochstetler in business and the Mrs. happy. At some point
in the new century whilst enjoying our new furnishings, I developed a creeping
awareness that something wasn’t just right with me. My local optometrist
finally defined the issue at one of my regular appointments. “Do you know that
your eyes are developing substantial cataracts? It is time to see a surgeon who
can rid you of such an insult and put you back to where you were as a younger
man.” Of course, our village of Roscommon had no such surgical expertise,
forcing me to other locales in search of a surgeon known to have a delicate
touch in dealing with eyes.
It was a critical issue for me. By this point, I had worn
eye glasses for fifty years and I was not about to let any Tom, Dick, or Harry,
pull a knife on me while I was still awake enough to defend my eyes despite
their faulty condition. My first stop was at the slightly larger town of
Grayling where a registered Ophthalmologist was known to practice. When I asked
my neighbors about him, I got the impression that this man was in such demand
that scoring an appointment to see him was considered the height of good
fortune. Surprisingly, when I spoke to his nurse about an appointment, she
seemed rather dismissive about the esteemed sawbones and his full schedule.
“Why don’t you just come to the office and I’ll talk to you and we’ll see if
you need his surgical expertise and we can look at his calendar.”
So I did. The nurse made a quick examination of my eyes and
then asked about floaters. I didn’t know what floaters were. She explained
about them and said that she and I, like many of the patients that she and the
doctor examined, shared this affliction. “I talked to the doctor and he said
don’t worry about them, they generally don’t cause any vision problems other
than being an annoyance.” She paused, then at looked at me with an intensity
that I hadn’t noticed before. “That’s because he doesn’t have them,” she said
with a hint of annoyance
It was a telling and pivotal comment for me, provoking a
continuation of my search for a surgeon who could correct my vision. The search
was fruitless as I went from Grayling to the next town of Kalkaska, thence,
three more villages to the west until I could travel no further. I had reached
the west coast of Michigan and site of Traverse City. Surprise! This town was
the home of not one, but two medical businesses that focused on Ophthalmology.
Each business had multiple physicians, nurses, and impressive buildings with
the name Ophthalmology featured in bold letters on the outside of their
buildings. I chose the most ostentatious building for my optical care.
Then I made a most unlikely finding. The physician who had
begun practicing at this business was a younger man with the unlikely name of
Dr. Hochstetler, M.D. His picture was prominently displayed in the entryway. He
had no beard, no black hat, nor anything else to suggest he was Amish. I made
an appointment to see him. In the space of the following several months, the
good doctor performed his magic on my eyes, removing the cataracts and
returning my vison to clarity WITHOUT SPECTACLES. That was a few years ago, and
I haven’t used spectacles since.
Now, fast forward to this past Monday. Although we are still
in winter, the few days prior were especially beautiful with the sun shining
much of each day. On Monday, the Mrs. and I took advantage of the warm sun to
sit on the deck to enjoy the sunlight. I didn’t notice that she had removed her
glasses as I sat down on the chair next to her. My sitting provoked a sudden crunch
and a slight pain in my nether end. I had broken her glasses that she had
placed on the chair. All was not lost, however; as luck would have it, she had
made an appointment a month earlier for an eye exam with Dr. Hochstetler’s
office for a likely selection of new spectacles. The appointment was for the
following day. We laughed about the timing of the event coming so close on the
heels of the fractured spectacles.
We left early the next morning for Hochstetler’s office,
intending to have a brief shopping stint followed by lunch and then the eye
exam. The drive time of four hours for the round trip would cover the period
when a heavy snow storm was forecast. This time the meteorologists were right
on target. By lunch time, the snow was so heavy that we could barely see across
the road. We went to the Hochstetler office anyway, given the broken spectacles
and long trip already invested in the visit. While Marjorie was being examined,
I waited. And waited. Finally, she called for my help in selecting new
spectacles. I walked into the room that had each wall covered with pegs on
which rested a frame that would be used for whichever new spectacle she
selected.
“How do you like this one? she asked. I moved forward for a
closer look. I didn’t notice the slight noise as my sleeve brushed one of the
new frames from its resting place on the wall. Nor did I hear it as it fell to
the floor. I only realized it had fallen when I returned to my chair and I
STEPPED ON THE NEW SPECTACLE FRAME. Curiously, this pair of spectacles had the
same damage as the pair that I had sat on the day previously.
I retreated to my chair in the waiting room, afraid to move.
Marjorie settled our account and I crept out of the office several dollars
lighter. While I steered our truck through the snow on the ride home the snowy
road somehow seemed an appropriate penalty for having broken two pairs of
glasses in two days. Only the coincidence of the Hochstetler name and our
continued support for both the Hochstetler furniture and the Hochstetler New
Spectacles made the incident noteworthy. And, by the way, I have decided that I
will be staying away from everyone’s spectacles, new or used.
