New Spectacles

 

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.