YUMA, Ariz. — My father’s sunglasses are the stuff of legend.
Like many of the Messenger men, he has bad eyesight. Dad has always worn Coke-bottle glasses with big horn-rims. His sunglasses of choice for most of my youth were clip-ons, the big ones that can flip up, which is cool if you’re a Major League outfielder but not so much if you’re the kind of guy who wears his clip-ons while sporting plaid Bermuda shorts, black socks, and white tennis shoes.
If I had to wager a guess, I’d say my dad has had 75 or so pairs of clip-ons in his life. That’s because he loses them or, occasionally, puts them in his back pocket and forgets they’re there and then sits on them.
“Where’s my sunglasses?” he’ll ask, before the kids and grandkids start scouring the house. Usually, they’ll turn up. Often, they’re in the car.
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That’s where I was recently, headed to the airport early in the morning. We were going to Arizona to see our latest grandbaby. I was on Interstate 270 before I realized I had forgotten my sunglasses. Unlike my father, or perhaps because of him, I have always worn prescription sunglasses. I never lose them, unless you count that time at the beach when a rogue wave plopped them right off my face and buried them in the ocean forever.
The problem with prescription sunglasses is that sometimes you forget you’re wearing them. I have been to a handful of evening Major League Baseball games where I got to the ballpark when the sun was still out, and by the third inning, everything got dark. Oh yeah, I’ll remember, I am wearing my sunglasses. Can’t see the game with them on; can’t see the game without them. If only I had chosen the clip-on route.
