1380 Spahn Avenue, York, PA

From an age beyond any reasonable recollection, my vision has been impaired.  I suffered no damage to my eyes.  My optic nerves, however, were too weak to carry a full image to my brain. Thought I could see as far as the eagle flies,  I would quickly lose sight of the bird as it blended with its backdrop. Even the most enormous objects faded into obscurity when distance came between us.

Quite understandably my greatest childhood delight was to spend hours at a time in the proximity of my mother’s rose garden.  I would gaze closely into the richly painted petals, inspecting in detail each intricate fold.  But every year as winter’s advancing chill overcame the balmy heat of summer, my pleasure drew to a close.

My birthday fell in the midst of this dreadful transition, where brilliance turns to brown. Every year I would celebrate the day when my lungs filled with that invigorating October air. At the same time, I mourned the fate of my mother’s rose bed decimated at the hand of the same autumn chill.

On my eighth birthday, my father and I took a two-mile hike to Eagle’s Roost. The climb snaked up a steep switchback rail. The path was strewn with rocks too small for secure footing, yet too large to casually overlook. I tripped and slipped repeatedly on stones disguised under fallen leaves.  Had the trail been blanketed with banana peels, I would have spent less time on my rear than I did that day. At times I wondered if we were on any trail at all, since I could see no dirt beneath my feet.  Still I pressed on, ridge after ridge, hope after hope.  I was exhausted, out of breath and ready to drop to the ground.

I felt that if we had climbed any higher, we would actually reach into the realm of angels.  Then I heard a voice.  It was not angelic, but it lifted my spirits all the same.

“That’s the last hill,” my father announced enthusiastically.  “The overlook is just on the other side of the summit.”

Triumphantly we crested the hill. After walking a few more yards around the bend I saw it, the object of our toilsome labor.  Before us lay an immense protrusion of rock jutting out from the mountainside into open space.  My steps were few as I cautiously ventured onto the ledge.  I really had no idea how far I stood above the valley floor.  In my perception,  cornfields were grassy lawns.  The colorful foliage atop the trees was a dazzling display of red, orange and yellow flowers.

“Dad,” I exclaimed, “I thought the flowers were dead by now.  What kind are these?”

“Actually , Son…” he paused. My father was a practical, rational man. He was about to explain to me the reality of what he saw.  But he must have caught a glimpse of the twinkle in my eye and sensed the excitement in my heart.

For a moment he set aside his factual understanding of the universe.

Instead, he thought with the mind of an eight-year old boy,  and he saw through the eyes of his visually impaired son.

“Well what are they, Dad?” I asked again with anticipation.

This time he answered without hesitation.

“What you see, Son, are the forest flowers of autumn.”