Helping a Child to See

A vivid and early memory I have of my dad is of him offering help to a little girl at a school picnic.

She must have been a 1st grader, or maybe even younger. Perhaps a sister of one of my grammar school classmates.

She had curly blond hair just touching her shoulders, wore a flowery blue summer dress just past her knees, and was sitting on a folding chair next to my dad. My family stuck together at these things. So, me, my mom, my two sisters, and my dad were all seated around a large circular table. And then there was this girl.

My dad got along with everybody. Literally everybody. I don't recall a single instance of my Dad having any sort of friction with the people he interacted with, whether they were friends or strangers. He was Paul Newman handsome and had the relaxed confidence of a former Navy flying ace with an exactly right amount of modesty. Not gregarious. But instead exuded some sort of invisible and mysterious attraction. People were drawn to him. He was a really nice man. 

So, here he is carrying on a conversation with a five year old.  She wore glasses thicker than I'd ever seen before. Later, I'd spot exaggerated versions of them as a comedic archetype in movies. You've seen them, too. Hers weren't round, but they were absolutely filthy. Yet, it was hard to notice it. Like eggshell white on black, until you put bright white next to it. Most wouldn't notice without the contrast. 

My Dad reached over and gently removed them from her face. At this point she was practically blind. But she just sat there patiently while my Dad presumably turned into a blurry and swirling mix of color and light.  Their conversation continued unabated.

He pulled a white handkerchief from his coat pocket. He always had one, it seemed. This is one of those small things that contributed to his ineffable attraction. Small on its own, but layered up into his one-of-a-kind character. He was an unassuming gentleman. 

He wiped her glasses clean, and I watched as his hands moved hypnotically while a layer of grime came off the lenses. I hadn't noticed it at all, but suddenly the difference was stark. This poor girl's glasses were absolutely filthy. It must have been months since they were cleaned. Now they sparkled in the sunlight and reflected bright twin discs onto the tablecloth underneath.

With the skill of an optometrist who had repeated the movement hundreds of times (my Dad sold life insurance), he placed them softly back onto her face.

The memory fades from there with a big smile appearing on her face as she happily looked around at the vividness of her newfound world.  As her head stopped swiveling, she briefly seemed to look deep into my Dad's, her head cocked to one side as if he might be an angel from heaven. Then she hopped off the chair and ran around to find out what else she might now see.

The memory surfaces regularly for me, as it has this morning. I take it as a reminder to be observant for opportunities to help or contribute that might not be obvious or apparent, especially to others. It makes me look forward to the day.