See, you never know how clearly anyone else can see. Take me for example, walking in with glasses in hand - changing out sunglasses for non, all while juggling access card, lunch bag, and a half dozen doors - maybe you assume that, because of the glasses in my hand I can't see a thing, that I'm just as likely to walk through a wall as a door, or greet the refrigerator. But no, sorry,I see fine really. Have gone weeks without my glasses (when they've been mislaid, or broken - I once lost a pair of glasses in the pocket of my Boy Scout uniform for upwards of three months!) and only wear them because my driver's license says I need to, and because I've grown accustomed to the sharper vision they afford.
It's just cartoon conditioning makes you think that without my glasses I'd be a buffoon, tripping over furniture and feeling around like a blind man. No, it seems that people who need it that badly wear contacts, which ironically lends them a false sense of sightedness. One day they show up in glasses and everyone says, "whoa, I didn't know you needed glasses!" When really, they're worse off than most of us regular glasses wearers who could honestly take 'em or leave 'em most days. But we're the ones that get the reputation for being blind, sightless buffoons, crippled by prescription-strength hardware perched on our noses and ears.
Is there anyone who DOESN'T wear corrective lenses of some kind anymore? I don't know why I assume that anyone does or doesn't these days. I guess it's just not the sort of thing you really think about - how well anyone else can really see. When it comes down to it, we all just see what we see and we learn how to make it work for us. Maybe it's a little fuzzier than what other people are used to, but how are you even supposed to know that?
9/02/2015
2/03/2015
magpies
Dark shapes flitting past
my office windows catch
my eye, and I watch them
Floating noiselessly to
roof or grass,
sidewalks or skies.
I watch the magpies
and remember dark green
curtains, backed with
glowing white, over
mom's bedroom window
from which I watched
the white curve of driveway
teeming long black tail feathers
ticking up and down
like metronomes, when
I first learned the name
of magpies.
How mom hated them,
little black bodies
banded with white,
crowding on the concrete
and filling the morning
with their coarse cries.
I can almost hear them still,
stubborn, strident--an ugly
and unwelcome surprise,
from those birds that could
be lovely otherwise:
magpies.
my office windows catch
my eye, and I watch them
Floating noiselessly to
roof or grass,
sidewalks or skies.
I watch the magpies
and remember dark green
curtains, backed with
glowing white, over
mom's bedroom window
from which I watched
the white curve of driveway
teeming long black tail feathers
ticking up and down
like metronomes, when
I first learned the name
of magpies.
How mom hated them,
little black bodies
banded with white,
crowding on the concrete
and filling the morning
with their coarse cries.
I can almost hear them still,
stubborn, strident--an ugly
and unwelcome surprise,
from those birds that could
be lovely otherwise:
magpies.
1/15/2015
a morning at the mechanic's
Silver grey exhaust plumed from the empty Lexus idling in the driveway, blocking my exit. The morning was still young, only just 9:00. I was going to be late to work, but not as late as I had feared when I'd turned into the drive at Doug's Auto and seen the line of frosted windshields parked along his fence.
I had called him two days prior about bringing my Camry in for inspection, and he had made it sound like his schedule was wide open. Proud of myself for avoiding the end-of-the-month rush for a change, I hung up without even making a specific appointment. But pulling up to the building this morning, it looked as if Doug had underestimated his popularity.
When I walked into the small office that morning, Doug was sitting at his computer. He looked up with a weary expression on his face. It felt too early in the day for someone to look that way. It would have been more fitting on the face of a grocery store cashier looking down an ever-growing line of customers two minutes from store closing. Ten or so work orders were lined up on the desk, each weighed down by a car key, each one demanding precedence and at least an hour's work. If I were the mechanic I knew it would easily take me well over a week to get through the stack, even if I had the know-how to do the jobs.
I handed Doug my registration reminder card and car key, and then the phone rang. He answered it on the second ring and listened for a moment while I stood awkwardly, not sure if he needed anything else from me. "Well, if it's just the battery," he looked up almost as if to address me at the same time as the caller, "things are crazy around here, but if it's just the battery, we can get through that today." Two more people walked in before he even hung up the phone--a mother and her son--and stole the chairs lined up by the door. Luckily they left after filling out a work order and having a conversation about getting another key made, so I was able to sit down by the door and read instead of on the stools at the counter.
While I waited, I looked around the office at the posters and cabinets filled with model cars - mostly mustangs from what I could tell. I wondered how it made Doug feel to be working on people's Camrys and Dodges when he clearly had a passion for older, sportier models. No doubt it had been his passion for these old cars that had gotten him into this business, but had he counted on being slammed on a Thursday afternoon with inspecting someone's 99 Camry and replacing the battery on someone else's Chevy Malibu?
Doug was in and out several times while my car ran through its tests--no doubt one of his other mechanics was on the job. Two ladies came in, one saying in a low voice, "well it's not $600 worth of work." When they didn't see anyone in the shop but me, they decided to go out into the garage. "Can we do that?" I heard one ask as they closed the door behind them. Without even hearing the other answer, I knew she was the type who was used to doing whatever she wanted.
They came back in shortly after to settle their account with Doug. "$256" I didn't look up from my book, but when Doug said, "Wow, these are so fresh I can't even count them," I could tell she had paid with cash. The silence that followed clued me in that he was counting the bills. After a moment he said, "Let's try that again." More silence followed as he counted through the stack of bills a second time. "This is only $220," he said after a moment. The lady who had handed him the cash said, "Oh," and then looked into her purse again. The other woman, whose idea it had been to walk back into the garage, said, "She's trying to cheat you." She sounded like she had wanted it to be funny, but I wondered how much truth there was behind that statement. Would someone really try to pull that off?
A few minutes later, another customer came in who had called in advance and had requested a tune-up. He was a young guy, somewhere in his twenties, who seemed desperate to seem knowledgeable in this arena. He wanted it to be clear that he wasn't going to be bamboozled by some grease monkey working in the garage, "I also wanted to ask how much you were going to charge for this."
Doug seemed a bit exasperated, but responded with humor, "Oh, five-thousand?" From my vantage point, I couldn't see the younger guy's reaction, but after waiting for the joke to sink in for a moment Doug answered, "Well a tune-up usually runs about $150, and then another $35 for oil change,"
The customer then went back and forth with Doug about what work he actually needed done before Doug finally answered, "So sometimes a lot of people say tune-up when what they really want is just a service." I listened carefully and took mental notes on the differences so that I could use the terms properly if the need arose.
Even with the interruptions, Doug didn't keep me waiting long, running my card and handing me my paperwork while simultaneously explaining to the other customer still seated at the counter why synthetic oil would cost him so much more. "Wal-Mart will give it to you cheaper, but I've seen them make a lot of mistakes, too. But they can give it to you cheaper than I can even buy it wholesale."
The kid was trying to haggle and it seemed to me that Doug would have been just as happy if the kid had decided to go to Wal-Mart after all. He said a few encouraging words about my brakes as he handed me my receipt and then I was out the door, and if it hadn't been for that Lexus, I would have been out of his hair completely. There was no way around it, and I wondered if it belonged to that entitled kid trying to talk Doug down on synthetic oil. He seemed like the type whose mom and dad would have bought him a Lexus.
With no signs of the car moving, I opened the door to the shop again. The kid was sitting by the door now, and I asked him, "Are you the Lexus out here?" He looked up and shook his head. About then, Doug came in with a cell phone to his ear. He looked confused to see me again. I told him about the Lexus with no one in it and he walked out with me. After glancing at the car, Doug strode over to the nearest garage door and hollered, "HOWIE!" The strain in his voice as he shouted indicated that Doug's temper couldn't take much more this morning.
An older man in a coat and hat came out of the garage and said something about having brought some food in for the guys while Doug barked at him about a customer trying to get out. I felt bad about being the cause of it all, but Howie didn't seem too put out. As Howie backed the Lexus back down the driveway, I climbed into my car and waved to Doug.
He waved back, and I imagined he was hoping to not lose a customer over something so stupid as an old man who wanted to feel useful by bringing in breakfast. Maybe if I had been having a day more like Doug's it would have been a bigger deal to me, too. But it's when I'm in the worst moods that I forget that my own feelings can be an incredibly inaccurate tool for determining how someone else feels. To me, all that mattered was that my inspection was done, the sun was climbing, and the morning felt fresh and crisp as I drove away.
I had called him two days prior about bringing my Camry in for inspection, and he had made it sound like his schedule was wide open. Proud of myself for avoiding the end-of-the-month rush for a change, I hung up without even making a specific appointment. But pulling up to the building this morning, it looked as if Doug had underestimated his popularity.
When I walked into the small office that morning, Doug was sitting at his computer. He looked up with a weary expression on his face. It felt too early in the day for someone to look that way. It would have been more fitting on the face of a grocery store cashier looking down an ever-growing line of customers two minutes from store closing. Ten or so work orders were lined up on the desk, each weighed down by a car key, each one demanding precedence and at least an hour's work. If I were the mechanic I knew it would easily take me well over a week to get through the stack, even if I had the know-how to do the jobs.
I handed Doug my registration reminder card and car key, and then the phone rang. He answered it on the second ring and listened for a moment while I stood awkwardly, not sure if he needed anything else from me. "Well, if it's just the battery," he looked up almost as if to address me at the same time as the caller, "things are crazy around here, but if it's just the battery, we can get through that today." Two more people walked in before he even hung up the phone--a mother and her son--and stole the chairs lined up by the door. Luckily they left after filling out a work order and having a conversation about getting another key made, so I was able to sit down by the door and read instead of on the stools at the counter.
While I waited, I looked around the office at the posters and cabinets filled with model cars - mostly mustangs from what I could tell. I wondered how it made Doug feel to be working on people's Camrys and Dodges when he clearly had a passion for older, sportier models. No doubt it had been his passion for these old cars that had gotten him into this business, but had he counted on being slammed on a Thursday afternoon with inspecting someone's 99 Camry and replacing the battery on someone else's Chevy Malibu?
Doug was in and out several times while my car ran through its tests--no doubt one of his other mechanics was on the job. Two ladies came in, one saying in a low voice, "well it's not $600 worth of work." When they didn't see anyone in the shop but me, they decided to go out into the garage. "Can we do that?" I heard one ask as they closed the door behind them. Without even hearing the other answer, I knew she was the type who was used to doing whatever she wanted.
They came back in shortly after to settle their account with Doug. "$256" I didn't look up from my book, but when Doug said, "Wow, these are so fresh I can't even count them," I could tell she had paid with cash. The silence that followed clued me in that he was counting the bills. After a moment he said, "Let's try that again." More silence followed as he counted through the stack of bills a second time. "This is only $220," he said after a moment. The lady who had handed him the cash said, "Oh," and then looked into her purse again. The other woman, whose idea it had been to walk back into the garage, said, "She's trying to cheat you." She sounded like she had wanted it to be funny, but I wondered how much truth there was behind that statement. Would someone really try to pull that off?
A few minutes later, another customer came in who had called in advance and had requested a tune-up. He was a young guy, somewhere in his twenties, who seemed desperate to seem knowledgeable in this arena. He wanted it to be clear that he wasn't going to be bamboozled by some grease monkey working in the garage, "I also wanted to ask how much you were going to charge for this."
Doug seemed a bit exasperated, but responded with humor, "Oh, five-thousand?" From my vantage point, I couldn't see the younger guy's reaction, but after waiting for the joke to sink in for a moment Doug answered, "Well a tune-up usually runs about $150, and then another $35 for oil change,"
The customer then went back and forth with Doug about what work he actually needed done before Doug finally answered, "So sometimes a lot of people say tune-up when what they really want is just a service." I listened carefully and took mental notes on the differences so that I could use the terms properly if the need arose.
Even with the interruptions, Doug didn't keep me waiting long, running my card and handing me my paperwork while simultaneously explaining to the other customer still seated at the counter why synthetic oil would cost him so much more. "Wal-Mart will give it to you cheaper, but I've seen them make a lot of mistakes, too. But they can give it to you cheaper than I can even buy it wholesale."
The kid was trying to haggle and it seemed to me that Doug would have been just as happy if the kid had decided to go to Wal-Mart after all. He said a few encouraging words about my brakes as he handed me my receipt and then I was out the door, and if it hadn't been for that Lexus, I would have been out of his hair completely. There was no way around it, and I wondered if it belonged to that entitled kid trying to talk Doug down on synthetic oil. He seemed like the type whose mom and dad would have bought him a Lexus.
With no signs of the car moving, I opened the door to the shop again. The kid was sitting by the door now, and I asked him, "Are you the Lexus out here?" He looked up and shook his head. About then, Doug came in with a cell phone to his ear. He looked confused to see me again. I told him about the Lexus with no one in it and he walked out with me. After glancing at the car, Doug strode over to the nearest garage door and hollered, "HOWIE!" The strain in his voice as he shouted indicated that Doug's temper couldn't take much more this morning.
An older man in a coat and hat came out of the garage and said something about having brought some food in for the guys while Doug barked at him about a customer trying to get out. I felt bad about being the cause of it all, but Howie didn't seem too put out. As Howie backed the Lexus back down the driveway, I climbed into my car and waved to Doug.
He waved back, and I imagined he was hoping to not lose a customer over something so stupid as an old man who wanted to feel useful by bringing in breakfast. Maybe if I had been having a day more like Doug's it would have been a bigger deal to me, too. But it's when I'm in the worst moods that I forget that my own feelings can be an incredibly inaccurate tool for determining how someone else feels. To me, all that mattered was that my inspection was done, the sun was climbing, and the morning felt fresh and crisp as I drove away.
12/22/2014
Dear Timpanogos,
For millions of years you've loomed above us,
even when we were underwater. So little you've changed
and so gradually compared to our valley, which has
been tilled and planted, plotted, gridded, built up,
wired, lit, and filled with people, cars, and twinkling lights
until your white summit must become disoriented
and wonder which way is up. Five nights a week,
I emerge from one of those little boxes surrounded
by its sentinels of light, and I almost always glance
your way, however briefly. It's just a habit. But so many times,
after I've turned back to car or phone or feet, you
make me look again. Take tonight, for example.
This morning's snow never got a foothold on the streets;
it had melted from the grass by early afternoon,
but your slopes all the way down to your foothills
stayed white, contoured with black rocks, and uncannily
illuminated by a falling sun throwing its beams around heavy
cloud cover to light you up. Though I've seen you
white with snow a thousand times, tonight was just
a little bit different. A thousand times I've looked
at you white with winter, or green with summer life,
or aflame with red, yellow, and orange leaves as
autumn creeps down your slopes toward this valley.
I've seen you bright with the full sun burning your
western face, or once, palely glowing with faint
moonlight, barely delineated from the still dark pre-dawn
east. Beneath the rising sun and the rising moon
or pinked by the sunset--never do you look quite
the same as the time before. And that's just what I need
as I shuffle from office to car, or car to office:
I need you to make me look, and then look again.
even when we were underwater. So little you've changed
and so gradually compared to our valley, which has
been tilled and planted, plotted, gridded, built up,
wired, lit, and filled with people, cars, and twinkling lights
until your white summit must become disoriented
and wonder which way is up. Five nights a week,
I emerge from one of those little boxes surrounded
by its sentinels of light, and I almost always glance
your way, however briefly. It's just a habit. But so many times,
after I've turned back to car or phone or feet, you
make me look again. Take tonight, for example.
This morning's snow never got a foothold on the streets;
it had melted from the grass by early afternoon,
but your slopes all the way down to your foothills
stayed white, contoured with black rocks, and uncannily
illuminated by a falling sun throwing its beams around heavy
cloud cover to light you up. Though I've seen you
white with snow a thousand times, tonight was just
a little bit different. A thousand times I've looked
at you white with winter, or green with summer life,
or aflame with red, yellow, and orange leaves as
autumn creeps down your slopes toward this valley.
I've seen you bright with the full sun burning your
western face, or once, palely glowing with faint
moonlight, barely delineated from the still dark pre-dawn
east. Beneath the rising sun and the rising moon
or pinked by the sunset--never do you look quite
the same as the time before. And that's just what I need
as I shuffle from office to car, or car to office:
I need you to make me look, and then look again.
11/13/2014
relinquishing summer
I walked out the door with July in my heart
but the radio would only play November
perfect accompaniment to the low clouds
hanging gray and drifting into a haze
leaching the color from fields, trees, and hills.
There is a richness and a sweetness
in all this melancholy. Relinquishing
summer comes peacefully, readily,
as I ease into the mellow, chilling
tones of the fast-approaching winter.
but the radio would only play November
perfect accompaniment to the low clouds
hanging gray and drifting into a haze
leaching the color from fields, trees, and hills.
There is a richness and a sweetness
in all this melancholy. Relinquishing
summer comes peacefully, readily,
as I ease into the mellow, chilling
tones of the fast-approaching winter.
Beck, Golden Age
9/15/2014
Breakfast
Red-and-white checkered tablecloth level with my knees,
Granola in one hand and spoon in the other.
Still-rising, the sun's too low to warm the morning breeze
Making my seven-year-old shiver as he takes another
Mouthful of colorful fruit-flavored rings.
His hair, uncombed and lit to a glow, caught my eye,
Drew me from the kitchen table to this tiny one.
He watches the waving long-needled pines. So do I,
Sometimes turning to ask him another question
About what the coming school day brings.
Within an hour, the deck will be in shadow.
Though I'll be at work, he, at school, I know
This particular angle of sunlight, the morning's still,
Will linger, warming my heart despite the chill.
8/25/2014
Deja Vu
This one will come back to haunt you.
On an otherwise uneventful autumn evening
You stroll inattentively to where you parked.
A lanky teenager at your heels asks if he can
Drive. Unquestioningly, you give your assent,
Handing over the keys easily, while your mind
Goes on spinning over the same concerns--
Laundry, groceries, your parents' health, a bill,
an email, a recent conversation--suddenly,
The teenager is four again, a wild spark
You spend all your time taming. That grin,
Those fingers, the eyes equal parts innocence
and mischief. It catches you by surprise, and
You remember: you dreamed this. You knew
deep in the folds of your subconscious that this,
This transformation, was coming all along. Hurry,
Open the passenger side door! Climb in
And buckle up, so that this time
You don't get left behind.
On an otherwise uneventful autumn evening
You stroll inattentively to where you parked.
A lanky teenager at your heels asks if he can
Drive. Unquestioningly, you give your assent,
Handing over the keys easily, while your mind
Goes on spinning over the same concerns--
Laundry, groceries, your parents' health, a bill,
an email, a recent conversation--suddenly,
The teenager is four again, a wild spark
You spend all your time taming. That grin,
Those fingers, the eyes equal parts innocence
and mischief. It catches you by surprise, and
You remember: you dreamed this. You knew
deep in the folds of your subconscious that this,
This transformation, was coming all along. Hurry,
Open the passenger side door! Climb in
And buckle up, so that this time
You don't get left behind.
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