Hard to See Clearly Sometimes
I've lost my glasses again. I lose my glasses all the time, or crush them in bed, or step on them when they fall on the floor. I have two pairs of regular glasses, not reading glasses but the kind I need to see to drive or watch TV. The first pair went missing two weeks ago -- they're still gone. The second pair, vanished on Friday, finally turned up on a shelf in the laundry room, which was a great relief. I didn't want to have to go to the vision people in Norwich to say "I've done it again. Both my glasses have disappeared (or are crushed or stepped on)." They are kind and don't say so, but I suspect they think there's something wrong with me, and there are days when I think so, too. On the subject of glasses, I have an issue. Sally Psychologist might say I don't want to see the world clearly.
Finding my regular glasses, though, hasn't helped reading. I was always near-sighted so didn't need the "regular" glasses to read. I could read easily without glasses. Then time marched on, and suddenly I realized I couldn't read comfortably anymore. So recently I put on reading glasses that I once only used when I wore contacts. And sure enough, my eyes have changed to the point where I need reading glasses without contacts. Okay. Whatever. Aging is funky. I'm just happy not to be blind.
Once I figured out the reading glasses thing, I picked up a book called New York by Edward Rutherfurd. It's the story of New York City specifically, and New York State generally. The book starts in 1664 in lower Manhattan and ends on September 11, 2001. It's the story of a family who started out as Dutchmen in New York City when the Algonquins still populated the area and ends when terrorists attacked the Trade Centers. The following excerpt about the Civil War touched me, fiction I assume but who knows what research the author came across. I was touched because it made me think of what's happening in our country today, the divisiveness that tore America apart in the late 1800s and the divisiveness that's tearing us apart now. This excerpt is told by one of the book's characters, Theodore, who was a photographer accompanying the Union troops in Virginia.
Theodore paused.
"Well, it was the night before an engagement. In Virginia. Our Union boys were in their trenches, and the Confederates in theirs, not more than a couple of stone's throw away. It was quite silent. The moonlight … was falling on the scene. There must've been all ages, I suppose, between those trenches. Men well into middle years. And plenty who were little more than boys. There were women in the camp, too, of course. Wives and others.
"I supposed they would soon fall asleep. But then, over in the Confederate trenches, some fellow started singing 'Dixie.' And soon they were all joining in, right along the line. So they sang 'Dixie' at us for a while, then stopped.
"Well, sure enough, our boys weren't going to let it go at that. So a group of 'em started up 'John Brown's Body.' And in no time the whole of our trenches were giving them that. Fine voices too, I may say.
"And when they'd done, there was another silence. Then over in the Confederate trench, we heard a single voice. A young fellow by the sound of it. And he started singing a psalm. The twenty-third psalm it was. I'll never forget that.
"As you know, in the South, with the shape-note singing, every congregation is well practiced in the singing of psalms. So again, all along the line, they joined in. Kind of soft. Sweet and low. And maybe it was the moonlight, but I have to say it was the most beautiful sound I ever heard.
"But I'd forgotten that many of our boys were accustomed to singing the psalms too. When you consider the profanities you hear spoken every day in camp, you might forget that; but it is so. And to my surprise, our boys began to sing with them. And in a short while, all along the lines, those two armies sang together, free for a moment of their circumstances, as if they were in a single congregation of brothers in the moonlight. And then they sang another psalm, and then the twenty-third again. And after that, there was silence, for the rest of the night.
"During which time, I took a photograph.
"The next morning there was a battle. And before noon, Mr. Slim, I regret to say, there was scarcely a man from either of those trenches left. They had killed each other. Dead, sir, almost every one."
And caught unawares, Theodore Keller suddenly stopped speaking, and was not able to continue for a minute or two.
Let us all remember, in this strange dark time in our history, that we are all brothers and sisters. With or without seeing as clearly as we should, with or without glasses, let us learn from history that fighting amongst ourselves only ends in heartbreak.
I've lost my glasses again. I lose my glasses all the time, or crush them in bed, or step on them when they fall on the floor. I have two pairs of regular glasses, not reading glasses but the kind I need to see to drive or watch TV. The first pair went missing two weeks ago -- they're still gone. The second pair, vanished on Friday, finally turned up on a shelf in the laundry room, which was a great relief. I didn't want to have to go to the vision people in Norwich to say "I've done it again. Both my glasses have disappeared (or are crushed or stepped on)." They are kind and don't say so, but I suspect they think there's something wrong with me, and there are days when I think so, too. On the subject of glasses, I have an issue. Sally Psychologist might say I don't want to see the world clearly.
Finding my regular glasses, though, hasn't helped reading. I was always near-sighted so didn't need the "regular" glasses to read. I could read easily without glasses. Then time marched on, and suddenly I realized I couldn't read comfortably anymore. So recently I put on reading glasses that I once only used when I wore contacts. And sure enough, my eyes have changed to the point where I need reading glasses without contacts. Okay. Whatever. Aging is funky. I'm just happy not to be blind.
Once I figured out the reading glasses thing, I picked up a book called New York by Edward Rutherfurd. It's the story of New York City specifically, and New York State generally. The book starts in 1664 in lower Manhattan and ends on September 11, 2001. It's the story of a family who started out as Dutchmen in New York City when the Algonquins still populated the area and ends when terrorists attacked the Trade Centers. The following excerpt about the Civil War touched me, fiction I assume but who knows what research the author came across. I was touched because it made me think of what's happening in our country today, the divisiveness that tore America apart in the late 1800s and the divisiveness that's tearing us apart now. This excerpt is told by one of the book's characters, Theodore, who was a photographer accompanying the Union troops in Virginia.
Theodore paused.
"Well, it was the night before an engagement. In Virginia. Our Union boys were in their trenches, and the Confederates in theirs, not more than a couple of stone's throw away. It was quite silent. The moonlight … was falling on the scene. There must've been all ages, I suppose, between those trenches. Men well into middle years. And plenty who were little more than boys. There were women in the camp, too, of course. Wives and others.
"I supposed they would soon fall asleep. But then, over in the Confederate trenches, some fellow started singing 'Dixie.' And soon they were all joining in, right along the line. So they sang 'Dixie' at us for a while, then stopped.
"Well, sure enough, our boys weren't going to let it go at that. So a group of 'em started up 'John Brown's Body.' And in no time the whole of our trenches were giving them that. Fine voices too, I may say.
"And when they'd done, there was another silence. Then over in the Confederate trench, we heard a single voice. A young fellow by the sound of it. And he started singing a psalm. The twenty-third psalm it was. I'll never forget that.
"As you know, in the South, with the shape-note singing, every congregation is well practiced in the singing of psalms. So again, all along the line, they joined in. Kind of soft. Sweet and low. And maybe it was the moonlight, but I have to say it was the most beautiful sound I ever heard.
"But I'd forgotten that many of our boys were accustomed to singing the psalms too. When you consider the profanities you hear spoken every day in camp, you might forget that; but it is so. And to my surprise, our boys began to sing with them. And in a short while, all along the lines, those two armies sang together, free for a moment of their circumstances, as if they were in a single congregation of brothers in the moonlight. And then they sang another psalm, and then the twenty-third again. And after that, there was silence, for the rest of the night.
"During which time, I took a photograph.
"The next morning there was a battle. And before noon, Mr. Slim, I regret to say, there was scarcely a man from either of those trenches left. They had killed each other. Dead, sir, almost every one."
And caught unawares, Theodore Keller suddenly stopped speaking, and was not able to continue for a minute or two.
Let us all remember, in this strange dark time in our history, that we are all brothers and sisters. With or without seeing as clearly as we should, with or without glasses, let us learn from history that fighting amongst ourselves only ends in heartbreak.
