From the American Scene: A Citizen of Syracuse
Along with other depressing phenomena of middle age I have developed what is known as “trombone eyesight,” an affliction that necessitates sliding a letter out to arm’s length before being able to read it. Movie marquees are duck soup at five hundred feet, but anything within elbow length is pea soup.
And so it is with the persons and places of my young years. Of my contemporaries today, I can only say that there are some who are out of focus, and others whom I can’t see at all. But let me look back to Syracuse, New York, in 1906, when I was ten years old, and all becomes clarity itself. Events and situations which then seemed obscure and hard to understand now fall easily into a pattern, as in a winning game of solitaire. Friends and neighbors take “size places” like grade school children on a marching line, and leading them all, the biggest of the lot, is my Grandfather Lowe.
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