Eagle Eyes
by Katherine Mikkelson
If you’ve ever come away from a trip to a neighborhood park, nature preserve, national park, or even a Sunday drive, disappointed that you didn’t see any wildlife, take my husband next time, please. Tom, who possesses many fine qualities— smells good, is a technology whiz, and makes a mean omelet— has an uncanny knack for spotting insects, fish, fowl, reptiles, or mammals.
This has saved my life on several occasions, literally. Once, we were walking in Bandelier National Monument near Santa Fe. We were not in some rugged, remote part of the park where the sun bleaches cattle skulls into oblivion, but rather on a paved path that was part of the main loop trail that leads from the visitor’s center. There, perched on a 3-foot ledge that runs alongside the path, Tom spotted a rattlesnake, oh, about 10 feet before my children and I would have sashayed right past it.
Another time, BK (before kids), Tom and I were hiking down a ravine in a state park near Seattle. We came to a small river at the bottom and because it was spring, the water was high and rushing fast. Tom spotted two moose that appeared agitated, and thankfully, on the opposite bank from us. He then saw the bear that was provoking them. Needless to say, we vamoosed (sorry) quickly.
Less dramatic was the time on a raft trip, down the Snake River in Wyoming, when he spotted bald eagles and beavers. And just two summers ago, as my older son played baseball at Patriot Park near Hersey High School, Tom saw a fox run across the far outfield. The ump stopped the game so everyone could get a gander. From mangy coyotes in a meadow, deer at dusk along the side of a road, to the skunks and possum that traverse our yard, Tom is a veritable Marlin Perkins, minus the bad safari jacket.
Ironic, then, isn’t it, that Tom cannot see anything up close? I realize that many people experience hyperopia (or farsightedness as our optometrist friends call it) as they approach middle age, and that they sigh, curse the gods of aging and then resign themselves to reading glasses. But despite having purchased multiple packs of readers and placing them in conspicuous spots around the house, Tom refuses to actually carry them anywhere where he might need to actually see.
If we go to church, he will mouth the words to the hymns when he is unsure of the lyrics. When we go to a restaurant, he will ask me to read him the menu. When we get the bill, he will ask our son, “That’s a seven, right?” as he is computing the tip. Grocery shopping is a real challenge. He has come home with whole milk instead of skim, shampoo instead of conditioner, and white bread instead of wheat.
I think it would be really cool if, just once, my husband saved my life because he was wearing his readers. But no one ever narrowly missed grievous injury at the theater after reading in the playbill that the female lead’s first role was playing Rizzo in Grease. And death was never averted from reading the tiny type on a cell phone contract, although saving a few bucks is always a nice side benefit.
Maybe we will someday find ourselves in a MacGruber-type situation with a half of a minute left before the explosive device goes off. Tom will squint as he bends down to read the instructions, but then will frantically pat his pockets in search of his readers. He will whip them from his shirt pocket, place them on his face, and then quickly disable the blue wire, saving our hides. Or his frenzied pocket pat-down will yield nothing as he remembers that he left his readers on the kitchen counter.
Katherine Mikkelson is an attorney-turned-writer who lives in Arlington Heights. She blogs at http://StateEats.com, which highlights food from all 50 states.
Back to Katherine's Page
Can not be reproduced or used without written permission Copyright, 2014 All rights reserved
by Katherine Mikkelson
If you’ve ever come away from a trip to a neighborhood park, nature preserve, national park, or even a Sunday drive, disappointed that you didn’t see any wildlife, take my husband next time, please. Tom, who possesses many fine qualities— smells good, is a technology whiz, and makes a mean omelet— has an uncanny knack for spotting insects, fish, fowl, reptiles, or mammals.
This has saved my life on several occasions, literally. Once, we were walking in Bandelier National Monument near Santa Fe. We were not in some rugged, remote part of the park where the sun bleaches cattle skulls into oblivion, but rather on a paved path that was part of the main loop trail that leads from the visitor’s center. There, perched on a 3-foot ledge that runs alongside the path, Tom spotted a rattlesnake, oh, about 10 feet before my children and I would have sashayed right past it.
Another time, BK (before kids), Tom and I were hiking down a ravine in a state park near Seattle. We came to a small river at the bottom and because it was spring, the water was high and rushing fast. Tom spotted two moose that appeared agitated, and thankfully, on the opposite bank from us. He then saw the bear that was provoking them. Needless to say, we vamoosed (sorry) quickly.
Less dramatic was the time on a raft trip, down the Snake River in Wyoming, when he spotted bald eagles and beavers. And just two summers ago, as my older son played baseball at Patriot Park near Hersey High School, Tom saw a fox run across the far outfield. The ump stopped the game so everyone could get a gander. From mangy coyotes in a meadow, deer at dusk along the side of a road, to the skunks and possum that traverse our yard, Tom is a veritable Marlin Perkins, minus the bad safari jacket.
Ironic, then, isn’t it, that Tom cannot see anything up close? I realize that many people experience hyperopia (or farsightedness as our optometrist friends call it) as they approach middle age, and that they sigh, curse the gods of aging and then resign themselves to reading glasses. But despite having purchased multiple packs of readers and placing them in conspicuous spots around the house, Tom refuses to actually carry them anywhere where he might need to actually see.
If we go to church, he will mouth the words to the hymns when he is unsure of the lyrics. When we go to a restaurant, he will ask me to read him the menu. When we get the bill, he will ask our son, “That’s a seven, right?” as he is computing the tip. Grocery shopping is a real challenge. He has come home with whole milk instead of skim, shampoo instead of conditioner, and white bread instead of wheat.
I think it would be really cool if, just once, my husband saved my life because he was wearing his readers. But no one ever narrowly missed grievous injury at the theater after reading in the playbill that the female lead’s first role was playing Rizzo in Grease. And death was never averted from reading the tiny type on a cell phone contract, although saving a few bucks is always a nice side benefit.
Maybe we will someday find ourselves in a MacGruber-type situation with a half of a minute left before the explosive device goes off. Tom will squint as he bends down to read the instructions, but then will frantically pat his pockets in search of his readers. He will whip them from his shirt pocket, place them on his face, and then quickly disable the blue wire, saving our hides. Or his frenzied pocket pat-down will yield nothing as he remembers that he left his readers on the kitchen counter.
Katherine Mikkelson is an attorney-turned-writer who lives in Arlington Heights. She blogs at http://StateEats.com, which highlights food from all 50 states.
Back to Katherine's Page
Can not be reproduced or used without written permission Copyright, 2014 All rights reserved