Odd O'blography

The Gift of Sight

I was in third grade when it was discovered that my problem with catching a ball was due to poor eyesight more than my natural clumsiness. That was the first time my desk happened to be at the back of the classroom. Mrs. Garbe asked me to read some vocabulary words that she'd written on the blackboard. I rose confidently, marched up to the front of the class, and read every one perfectly.

"Mr. Fisher, why did you leave your seat?" she asked, frowning.

"So I could see the words," I replied aloud. Duh, you can't read what you can't see!

The next week found me in the traveling optometrist's office. Dr. Brown made a regular circuit, visiting our small town one day a week. There wasn't enough business for him to be there full-time. It was another two weeks before I was fitted with some snazzy black nylon frames. Think Buddy Holly or the young Drew Carey and you'll have an idea of the style. My mother had emphasized that durability was more important than looks.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Fisher, these are unbreakable," Dr. Brown promised.

Hah!

I averaged two broken side pieces a year and once I even broke them perfectly in half across the bridge of my nose. A side piece could easily be broken by running full tilt into the back door of the school. We were racing out to recess, I was in the lead, and the custodian hadn't unlocked it that day. The more expensive break was due to a no-look pass while playing basketball. My friend, Jay, was going to nail me in the back of the head when I wasn't looking. But I turned just in time to catch it full-face instead. That one really hurt. I couldn't blame him too much, though. I'd angrily thrown a baseball bat the week before and knocked him cold for a minute (grade-school boys have difficulty showing affection). I got pretty good at tape-mending, because it could be a full week before Dr. Brown came back to town.

The ability to read from the back of the room certainly came in handy, but the real revelation was the great outdoors. I was fascinated by the distinct outlines of leaves and branches where I'd only seen a greenish blur. And the gray-blue smudge on the horizon turned out to be the majestic Mission Mountains. I remember walking around in awe for days, just looking at things I'd never seen clearly before.

I learned that my vision was 20-400. I think that means that I saw the mountains, 20 miles away, as though they were 400 miles distant (don't bother to correct me, I'm mostly joking). I was far from blind, though. I could focus on a book page if it was within six inches of my nose, and I could even see well enough to keep a car between the lines. I know, because I had to drive home from the river one day after diving in with my glasses on and coming up with my glasses off. It was a slow three miles and I braked often in fear that some random blob of color might be a dog or a cow.

I wore many different frames in the next five decades, used hard and soft contact lenses, and eventually had Lasik surgery. I learned to take my vision for granted. Now, I'm back to needing glasses again to read this screen. And, even with glasses, it isn't always clear. Give a grateful nod to the miracle of sight. Because you don't really know what you've got till it's gone.