The best two moments of last week involved my retinas and organic red onions: adventures in town, both techy and earthy, that tore me from my thesis turmoil to Doctor Weissman’s eye clinic and Welcome Table Farm.
I was wary of small town eye doctors the moment the receptionist asked me who had referred me. What were they going to do? Enter her into a sweepstakes for fashion reading glasses? Start sending her ads for cataract treatment? “A friend,” I said.
“What’s her name?” asked the woman. You could tell from her voice she was smiling, and probably wearing adorable purple scrubs. I grimaced.
“I forgot. Something Sorenson.”: I meant Pat in the Olin Division Two office. Why did they need to know this?
You just can’t get away with not being nice in a town like Walla Walla. Unless you dare to flaunt a Sta bucks cup into Merchant’s, small town businesses will all but kiss your shoes. The eye doctor wanted Pat’s name so they could send her a thank-you card.
The pre-exam tests were better than any War Craft game. At the first machine, I sat in a chair with my chin propped as the woman warned me a “small puff of air” would come bursting at my eye. It popped at me like a paintball gun: BOOM: and I broke into giggles. Science has gotten awfully funny if my eyes can be tested with little blow guns. The second machine tested peripheral vision. I held a button attached to a cord reminiscent of those we used in sixth grade geography bees. Every time I saw the lines on the screen blur into zig zags, I was supposed to press my button. Bzz, top right corner, bzz on the left. I would worry that my eyes were ridden with blind spots when too many seconds passed without action. The best machine was a large plastic screen with a gaping mouth for my eye. This contraption took scans of the backs of my eyes, transforming them into images to rival coral reefs. I felt like a woman after an ultrasound: “Those are my eyes, my veins, my retinas!” The whole affair screamed for an art project; Dr. Weissman sent me home with color printouts.
Friday morning I was sent home not with printouts but dragon carrots, ground cherries and the smell of farm on my clothes. Emily and Andy, the founders of Welcome Table Farm, asked me for references, just like the eye doctor, the first time I volunteered. “You Kevin’s housemate?” This week we shucked onions and put them to sleep in burlap sacks for the winter. We knelt on the ground and kidnapped little brown ground cherries from their warm spots beneath growing vines. Searching tomato vines for “blushes of color” was game-like. “Ooh, blush of color. Grab it!”
I knew we must look like starry-eyed visitors to Emily, who handles carrots, onions and tomatoes all the time. “Oh, but some things always make me starry-eyed, too,” she replied when I asked.