Mr. Bifocal lay on the shelf. He felt so abandoned. His eyes filled with dry tears when he remembered how callously he had been discarded.
It had been such a bright sunny day when Mr. Solomon chose him. What pride he felt when Mr. Solomon lifted him up and set him on the bridge of his nose. And what a strong Roman nose it was! Mr. Solomon was a tall man and from that height, Mr. Bifocal could clearly see over the heads of the crowd.
How well he served Mr. Solomon! He was there day and night for him. Not a scratch did he have to distort Mr. Solomon’s vision. What satisfaction he felt every time he saw himself reflected in the mirror. And to be the instrument that gave Mr. Solomon sight was his greatest achievement.
But one day Mr. Solomon put him on the shelf, and never again did Mr. Bifocal sit on that noble Roman nose. Days, months, years passed. Mr. Bifocal lost all track of time. Dust gathered on his crystal lens. There was no meaning to his existence.
Then one day he felt himself being lifted from off the shelf by a pair of rough hands. They grabbed him and threw him into a dark box. He was tossed against other objects as the box was lifted and carried away. Whatever else was there with him was silent and oppressive.
Suddenly there was a great jarring and the box was thrown down. Then he could hear a ripping sound as hands tore at the wrapping. The cover was rudely pulled off and a blast of light filled the box. Mr. Bifocal squinted into the brightness, unable to see clearly through his dust-covered lens. The box was flipped over and all the contents were dumped onto a table. Hands began scattering the objects every which way and Mr. Bifocal was shoved roughly about. Then all was still.
Abruptly Mr. Bifocal felt himself being picked up by soft tender hands. He tried to see who was holding him but his lens were so dirty he could not. He felt a soft cloth being rubbed over him and miraculously he could see again! He looked up into the face of a smiling gray-haired old lady.
She lifted him up and sat him on the bridge of her nose. Her face swung him around in all directions, sideways and up and down, trying to test his correctness for her vision.
“I think these will do”, she said, sliding him up and down her nose for the best fit.
He sat on no regal Roman nose like Mr. Solomon’s. This nose was short and thin and he kept slipping down its bridge. The old woman’s fingers kept pushing him up as she gazed about the room.
Mr. Bifocal looked around him. Below on the table were dozens of eye glasses. So this is where they had flung him. A second-hand store! He, who had originated in an exclusive optical shop and had been the proud guardian of the wealthy Mr. Solomon’s eyes, had come to this! He had no tears to shed but his shame distorted his vision. Mr. Bifocal was humiliated by his surroundings
He was jarred out of his self-pity as the old woman walked over to the clerk behind the counter.
“How much do you want for these?” she asked.
“For those?” replied the clerk. “Two dollars. They’re not in very good condition.”
Mr. Bifocal was dumbfounded. Two dollars! What disgrace he suffered. He was a regal pair of glasses, custom made, with frames fit for a king! Couldn’t they understand his quality? Two dollars! He wept dry tears.
The old woman walked out of the store with Mr. Bifocal clinging to her nose in shame. He kept bouncing up and down, and wondering what caused this jarring he looked down and saw she was walking with a cane.
“Ah,” he cried to himself, “we are both old and worthless. My owner old and poor and I, without value, to sit on her ancient nose. So this is to be my end!” He was overwhelmed with self-pity.
They came to a poor section of town and the old woman stopped before a building of sagging timbers and pealing paint. She took out a key and opened an old warped door. Its hinges creaked as she pushed it open. A smell of mold and rotting wood overpowered Mr. Bifocal.
The old woman limped down a dimly lit hallway and reaching the third door, took another key and opened it. As she shoved it open, Mr. Bifocal gazed around him. Two windows faced the south letting in bright sunlight. The rays of the sun fell upon a circular fish bowl with two goldfish lazily swimming about in the clear water. There was an old sofa encased in a faded but clean chintz cover. An ancient armchair was placed next to it with a small wooden end table standing by its side. The wooden floor was bare except for a well-worn throw rug in front of the sofa. There was a simple ceiling light and a lamp on the end table. A bookcase hugged one wall overflowing with books and magazines. It was a room that was sparsely furnished but neat and clean.
The old woman walked to another room that was her bedroom. A single bed and nightstand with a lamp were the only occupants of this small area. She opened the closet door revealing a narrow space that held her worn clothing. She withdrew a flannel robe and tossed it over her shoulders.
From there she retraced her steps through the small living room and went into a kitchen. This held an ancient combination of sink and stove with a refrigerator under the stove. There were two overhead cabinets and a counter top along side the sink.. There was no table.
The old woman drew water from the faucet into a teakettle and put it on the burner. She removed a small chipped cup from the cabinet and took out a teabag from a drawer and placed it in the cup, adding a small amount of sugar.
Mr. Bifocal watched all this in wonderment. He had never witnessed this in Mr. Solomon’s great house. Mr. Solomon never went into the kitchen.
When the kettle began to whistle, the old woman turned off the fire and poured the boiling water into the cup. She stirred it briefly, lifted out the tea bag and placed it dripping onto a small saucer. With her cane in one hand and the teacup in the other, she went back into the living room and, putting her cup on the end table, sank slowly into the armchair. On the end table lay a book which she picked up, opened to a marker that jutted out from one of the pages, and began to read. Mr. Bifocal was her eyes as she read each line on the page.
At the end of the page, the old woman raised her head and removed Mr. Bifocal gently from her nose. She twisted him about in her old hands deformed by arthritis and looked him up and down.
Mr. Bifocal peered back at her in bewilderment, a little fearful of her thoughts, and wondered what she was going to do with him.
After several moments, she put him back on her nose and turned her eyes to a new page in the book.
“Ah, Mrs. McDougal,” she murmured contentedly to herself, “you’ve found a good friend here in these glasses. The Lord has blessed me and I can read again.”
Mr. Bifocal heard these words and suddenly their meaning sank in. He was her friend! Her guardian! Mr. Solomon had never said such a thing to him. He had never held him tenderly in his hands.
For the first time in his life, Mr. Bifocal felt truly needed. His surroundings were unimportant. Here in this shabby, humble home, he understood the meaning of love and compassion.
He felt himself encircling Mrs. McDougal’s nose, his frames hugging her face and ears with undreamed of tenderness.

Mr. White was a widower who lived across the street. His wife had died the previous year and he lived alone in the house. He was a wiry old fellow in his early 80s and even though his mind no longer functioned as clearly as it once had, his body was strong.
Mr. White had an aversion of fallen leaves. Years before, his wife had planted a small tree by the driveway and with the passing of time it grew to tremendous height. It was constantly shedding its leaves.
When Mrs. White was alive, she had a gardener care for the yard, but now that he was alone he lost interest, and the property was deteriorating. The only time he was seen by his neighbors was when he came out of the house to angrily rake the leaves that had dried from the hot sun and would crumble under the force of his rake.
One day, as I was on my way to the market, I saw him struggling to set a tall aluminum extension ladder up against the tree.
“Mr. White,” I yelled as I ran towards him, “What are you doing?”
He turned to me squinting through the thick lens of his glasses, sweat pouring down his aging face and body as he strained to keep the ladder erect.
“I’m gonna cut this tree down. Can’t stand these leaves all over the yard!”
“You’re not going to do it yourself are you?” I asked incredulously.
He leaned the ladder against the tree and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe the sweat from his face. It was a hot July day and the humidity made it more unbearable.
“Of course I am. I’ve gotta get this cleaned up by the time my wife’s nieces claim the property.”
In past conversations, Mr. White had revealed that upon his death the house was willed to his wife’s nieces. It was a subject constantly on his mind and he incessantly brought it up, that and the history of his family who had migrated from Poland. Unfortunately, his mind wandered and he kept repeating those stories over and over, much to the impatience of his listeners.
“Well then, let me help you.” I grasped the other side of the ladder. With great exertion, we finally were able to secure the ladder between two thick limbs high up on the tree.
Mr. White grabbed hold of one side of the ladder, the other hand clutching a big hand saw, and slowly pulled himself up the rungs until he was at the very top.
“Oh, do be careful. I’m so afraid you’ll fall!” My voice trembled as I strained my head upward to watch him perched on the ladder. His small frame seemed to sway back and forth as he raised the saw.
“I’m all right. Don’t worry. You can go about your business. I’ll be able to get down.”
“I’ll leave only if you promise not to move the ladder yourself,” I insisted.
With an acknowledging wave of the saw, he edged the blade into the limb and began to saw back and forth, sawdust sifting down onto my head. I stepped back quickly and went to my car.
As I drove away, I shot an apprehensive glance back at the old man, my heart skipping a beat at the sight of that slight figure teetering so precariously on the ladder.
Every day thereafter Mr. White was out in his front yard sawing away, limb by limb, on the tree. He would carry the dismembered branches onto the other side of the driveway and stack them neatly into a pile. Day by day the tree grew shorter and the pile of sawed limbs higher.
The ladder remained in the same place where I had helped him position it; only Mr. Brown moved lower on the rungs as he continued his daily ritual of eliminating his enemy. The weather continued hot, but the old man never deterred from his crusade, even when his body seemed to shimmer with sweat from the hot sun.
At last, one month to the day, Mr. White conquered his bitter enemy, the tree. Its thick trunk, protruding about twelve inches above the ground, looked like a decapitated animal. The jagged wood, glistening with its newly exposed juices, resembled a fresh wound seeping blood. Mr. White stood back and surveyed his conquest.
The following week the city garbage truck came to pick up the huge pile of limbs and branches. Unfortunately, they left behind the dried leaves that had shriveled and fallen from the dead limbs. They lay scattered about in the yard in brown, crunchy piles.
Mr. White did not rake them up. He was found, by a friend, in his house depleted and exhausted, his body shrunken from the lack of fluids. He had not taken enough nourishment and water to supplement the liquids that his body had shed during his exhaustive work. He was in a confused state and could only babble about the tree.
An ambulance arrived and he was carried out on a stretcher into the vehicle. As he was being borne across the driveway, his eyes turned hauntingly toward the littered yard. He tried to raise himself with his elbow.
“The leaves!” he moaned. “I’ve got to rake those leaves up. I can’t go away and leave that mess.”
But he didn’t have the strength to hold himself up and fell back exhausted onto the stretcher. It was then his eyes glimpsed once more the protruding trunk of the felled tree.
“You see, George,” he gasped to his friend, “I finished the job.”
Mr. White never returned home. He died a week later from dehydration.
Within a month, his wife’s nieces arrived at the house.
“This is very nice”, one of them was overheard to say, “but I do wish there were some shade trees in the front.”

The Importance of Ten Fingers

Left Hand Thumb awoke from its prone position and peered up at Left Hand First Finger. Its first reaction was one of inferiority. First Finger towered above it, making Thumb feel small and insignificant. Then it began to ponder upon its advantages over the other fingers. Without it, First and Second Fingers were incapacitated. They could do nothing without Thumb’s assistance. They could grasp nothing by themselves. Thumb, upon sensing its importance, began to take on a very pompous air.
First Finger happened to glance down. It saw the pretentious smirking of Thumb and was irritated by its demeanor.
“What are you, Small Thumb, being so pompous about?”, it asked.
“You may think you are high and mighty,” Thumb arrogantly replied, “but without me you are nothing!”
“Nothing, you say!” shouted First Finger in anger. “Look at your position! You can never be equal to me. You will always have to look up to me since I have the privilege of superior height. Therefore, you are beneath me!”
Left Hand Thumb fumed. Oh, the arrogance of First Finger!
Thumb shouted back, “I repeat, you are nothing without me! There’s nothing you can grasp without my help. If it weren’t for me, you would be worthless and of no use whatsoever!”
“How dare you speak to me in that manner!” screamed First Finger. “Your ugliness is indescribable. Why you…. ”
“Now who’s being pompous?” interrupted Left Hand Second Finger. “All of you are inferior to me. I am the tallest monument on this hand. I loom above you and over you. Neither of you can imitate my gestures of disrespect and defiance. I am the most articulate!”
“Oh, you think you alone are articulate?” retorted First Finger. “I also can gesticulate in disrespect!”
Thumb was listening attentively to this discourse and he remembered his articulations.
“Well,” he interrupted. “You two can only show disrespect, whereas I, alone, can gesture with pleasure or displeasure. Being so vulgar as you two are is true banality!”
First and Second Fingers glowered down at Thumb and were at a loss for words. Thumb had piqued and degraded them. Their silence was total.
Then a sweet lilting voice was heard. “All of you can speak only of superiority and inferiority, of respect and disrespect. Well, have you ever been aware of me?” This was the voice of demure Third Finger.
Both Fingers and Thumb turned to it with surprise. What was this finger of non-importance trying to say? Third Finger seemed to rise in height, a glow of happiness and pride exuding from it.
“Without me there would be no symbol of happiness. Don’t you see this ring encircling me? This is the band of a loving union. I am the most significant finger on this hand. Without me there could be no acknowledgment of marriage. Without me where would the gold and diamond industries be? Only I am garnished with their precious jewels and metals. The rest of you are poor relatives!”
Thumb, First and Second Fingers stared at Third Finger in stupefaction. They had been made to feel impotent. This useless Third Finger, that could do nothing, was using its incompetent adornments to belittle them.
A boisterous laugh rang out, disrupting their overwrought emotions. There, pointing skyward, was Little Finger in all its majestic petite-ness.
“I see all of you have your pious opinions of yourselves,” it mockingly said. “Well, let me tell you something. I alone give dignity to this hand. When the rest of you are grabbing and jabbing with knife and fork, like ravenous beasts, I am the only one with gentility. I am the one who shows good breeding by standing aloof during this gorging and keeping myself poised high with dignity. Have the rest of you ever been conscious of your bad manners?”
The three fingers and Thumb were dumfounded by the arrogance of Little Finger. This midget, this dwarfish protrusion from Hand was trying to proclaim its superiority over all of them.
Thumb reached around inside Palm, trying to push Little Finger back into its unobtrusive position. First and Second Fingers were incapable of touching it. Third Finger stretched as far as possible to give it a shove.
“Heh! What’s going on there?” yelled a powerful voice from the right.
All three fingers and Thumb halted in their attack on Little Finger. Spinning around to see who dared to interrupt them, they saw Right Hand, with all four fingers and thumb, making a fist at them in readiness to attack. They shamefacedly settled down with respect to the power and strength of Right Hand.
All four fingers and Thumb on Right Hand rose in haughty grandeur. “We don’t want to hear any more ridiculous rumblings from any of you! You know that in comparison to us your station is subservient. You whine with discontentment among yourselves when you should be working together as a unit. We’re the powerful and superior ones because we’re united!” They looked among themselves with saccharine satisfaction.
Left Hand Thumb and four fingers turned to each other in silent conference. Then in one sudden swift movement, Left Hand Thumb jerked upwards, pivoted itself on Nose and all four fingers stood erect and fluttered in the air!
It was the first time they had ever agreed on anything. They were united at last!

The Liberation of Ovum 13

“Don’t come near me!” shrieked Ovum 13 as the male sperm bore down upon her. The spermatozoon skidded to a stop with a look of complete astonishment.
“What do you think you’re doing?” it asked with indignation. “You can’t stop me in this competitive race!”
“That’s just what I’m doing! You guys think you can merge with us girls without even a polite ‘How do you do’. Well, I think it’s about time we took a stand against this intrusion of our privacy!”
“Privacy!” it yelled back. “There’s no such thing as privacy in this system. We’re supposed to attack the first ovum we encounter. That’s the way it was, the way it is, and the way it always will be!”
Ovum 13 drew herself up into a hard little ball. “Then it’s about time things changed!” She took on a dark hue, the color of a thundercloud. “There’s been a lot of changes in the outside world and I’ve heard the rumors. For your information, there’s a movement out there for women’s liberation.”
During this discourse, numerous ova had gathered around 13 and were listening to her outburst. Other ova, which had been eavesdropping, were attacked by spermatozoa and disappeared.
Thirteen turned to the remaining ova. “Did you see our sisters there? They’re no longer with us. They’ve been devoured by those egotistical spermatozoa. Is that the way you want to live? Not to have one word about your choice?” She was yelling as loud as she could to be heard by as many ova as possible.
Ovum 13 had been thinking about this for a long time. She had seen the disappearance of many of her sisters while she remained intact. She had decided that the time was ripe to take a firm stand on this issue. Ova had rights too! Why should they be subjected to the masculine onslaught of the spermatozoa!
She peered around her, trying to gather as many of her sisters as she could to her cause. “Do any of you feel as I do? We’ve been taken advantage of for eons and it’s time we took a stand. Are there any of you willing to follow me? Any of you who believe as I do that it’s time for a change?” Suddenly, with a burst of fervor, hundreds of her sisters took on her hue and curled up into hard balls. “Yes, yes,” they exclaimed in unison. “We want to be liberated too! It’s time for a change!”
The echo was heard throughout the confines of the fallopian tube and other ova took up the chant. “Liberation! Liberation!” they demanded.
There was a sudden disruption in the movement of the ova. The spermatozoa, which had been darting about in search of uniting, suddenly became disoriented and began swimming around in circles. Some, in their confusion, were even attacking their brothers.
“Look at them,” Ovum 13 cried out. “They don’t care who they choose. They’re even attacking their own kind! Is that the sort of partner you want? One without the least discrimination? Well, I’ll tell you this, sisters, I want to merge with a spermatozoon that I find appealing to me. I don’t want to unite with just any Tom, Dick or Harry! Do you agree with me?”
“Yes, yes,” they yelled in unison, nodding to each other in agreement. “That’s what we want too.”
Then a strange thing happened within the ovulation process. The spermatozoa suddenly stopped in their search and were immobile. They no longer resembled little tadpoles, but looked like sheepish puppies with their tails between their legs. The ova took on the domineering role and in one grand straight line, advanced upon the spermatozoa. Their approach was slow. They were individually searching for the spermatozoon that appealed most to them.
Ovum 13 led the advance. Her form was soft and pliable. She was pulsating with life and eager for the perfect union. She twisted herself about, gazing at this one and that one, waiting for that unexplainable electrical shock that would signal the right mate for her.
And then she saw him! He was larger than the normal spermatozoon and his color was soft and translucent. He was watching her with the most sensuous look she had ever seen. With a slow gliding movement, she approached him. For a brief moment they faced each other, their forms undulating with desire. And then they merged!
In their process of uniting, the sperm-ovum began to quiver with its one body and, as if caught in a flowing, strong current, it swiftly took momentum and was sucked up into the womb.
The other ova, waiting breathlessly, watched it disappear and saw the entrance to the womb close behind it! Ovum 13 had won her battle. She was the chosen one to enter the life-forming sanctum. What was there left for them? They knew their supreme moment for creation was over. Liberation for them? For what reason? But then, what had they to lose? Uniting was better than isolation!
With a unisonous exhalation, they transformed their hard little bodies into iridescent, pulsating forms and, moving with deliberate provocation, advanced upon the vacillating spermatozoa.
The chaos that ensued changed forever the merging process!