A good lawn person is a gift from the gods

... even if he made little mistake.

Last week my partner had back surgery and spent several days in the hospital. What with taking care of the house and pets, teaching three college classes and going and forth to check on her, somehow I missed being here when the yard guy came to mow the lawn on Tuesday.

It was dark by the time I got home that day. On Wednesday, I thought the back yard looked different, but couldn't figure out what it was. I still didn't know on Thursday when Mr. Maya came to pick up his check.

But as I was strolling through the back yard Saturday morning to check on my garden, it hit me: the little patch of English-style garden filled with purple daisies and violets had been mowed to the ground! What three days before had been a wild and luscious garden spot a week away from bursting into bloom that would last until Labor Day was now denuded -- chopped down to the roots.

I sat down on these same roots and cried for 15 minutes. Then I came into the house and took a long bath. Next I had another cup of coffee, sat a while and then took a long walk through the neighborhood.

When I was sure I was calm and wouldn't rant or attack, I called Mr. Maya. His wife, who manages the home, the business phone and books -- and has her own cleaning service, answered. I told her my sad story, starting with wondering if he had called in some help because -- after three years of doing our yard -- he knew what to mow or not. "Let me check with him," she said.

Within minutes she called back. Yes, he had hired a new helper that day, but thought the guy had fully understood what to do or not to do. They would be happy to replace the flowers -- something I declined, seeing as these were flowers that had grown from shared clippings. He would certainly understand if we didn't want to use his service any more.

"I don't want to make a hasty decision," I told her. "Please let me call you on Monday." Over the rest of the weekend, I ranted about this to anyone who would listen, slept on it Saturday and Sunday nights and woke up Monday morning, my decision made.

If he was willing, I would love to have him continue to mow the lawn. He does a great job at a reasonable price. He and his wife are honorable people working hard to make a better life for their children, both of whom I've met and know to be fabulous kids. I'm not even going to ask him to mow my lawn for free the next time, as one friend suggested.

Why? Because if this is the worst thing to happen to me, I am truly blessed. Because the cuttings were all given to me by friends, and God gave me the dirt, sun and water to make the plants grow. I was given four full years to watch the garden develop and to enjoy to burst of color they brought to the yard. And because, as I walked through the now-denuded flower beds, I realized that I now have an opportunity to maybe try something different in this space.

So as I left my message on their answering machine, my only remaining question was this: would Mr Maya accept me back? 

The junk in my eyes

I went to the ophthalmologist yesterday because
A) it had been several years since my eyes had been checked
B) I'm of a "certain" age
C) I was afraid I was going blind
D) my current frames, which are scratched, make me look like an old lady
E) all of the above

If you hadn't guessed, the answer is E.

So ... The tech checks me and the doctor comes in and runs me through a bunch of tests. And he tells me that he can't make a set of glasses that will correct my vision better than the ones I already have.
Damn!
So ... The tech dilates my eyes so the doc can better assess the problem. I spend half an hour sitting butt up next to an extremely large, heavy smoker who's spending her dilation wait time whining to the other four dilation people complaining about needing another smoke. That smell never bothered me until I quit smoking several years ago; now it kills me.
Anyway, finally my pupils are the size of dinner plates and they go to round two.
The doc takes another look and announces that he knows what's bothering me. "You've got junk in your eyes." Of course, there's a fancier name for my condition -- buffalosis -- but the fact remains that it's junk in the eyes. My tear ducts are clogged, so they can't keep my eyes moist -- and clean. As a result, dirt and grime form a film that blurs everything to the point that what see is distorted and I can't see things clearly well at all.

He solved my problems simply:
First, he wrote a new glasses prescription to solve problem D (old lady glasses).
And he gave me eye drops and guidance on cleaning my tear ducts (diluted baby shampoo). And told me to come see him every year -- not every election cycle.
So ... For two days now I've been following his instructions. And guess what?
Praise be!
My sight has been restored!
So I'm wondering how many of my other problems in life have been caused by junk in my eyes? Has my perspective been so clouded by the immediate crap that I haven't been able to see the situation clearly?
Anyway, I've been thinking about how much of my life may have been through junky eyes, distorted by the crap that could have been washed away?