Yesterday, after reading my blog story “Tree Guy,” my sister implied—in a forthright manner—that I should look for Tree Guy’s other eye. She’s met him, and she likes him. She also lives in Tucson where she’d never have to brave subzero temperatures and dig in the snow for a cartoonish eye that a wayward squirrel kicked off a tree.
However, the cold snap broke yesterday afternoon, so I went outside. I figured it would be a lost cause, but I leaned over the deck railing. Tree Guy’s eye glared at me. It sat on a heap of snow as tall as the deck, so I leaned farther over the railing, trying to reach the eye. Then farther and farther. I was almost parallel to the earth, a teeter totter balanced on the railing. Then I realized I was attempting the same type of maneuver that caused my best friend to fall into a garbage can. A neighbor witnessed her graceful move and thought she was drunk. But she didn’t drink. She and I laughed a lot about that episode. I stood up, bent down, and reached through the spindles for the eye. I like to think my friend sent a message to me from Heaven in the form of a thought. That she saved me from tumbling over the railing and into the snowbank.
I rehung Tree Guy’s eye and noticed his nose was gone!
Why hadn’t I spotted his missing nose yesterday? Because Tree Guy’s bedroom eyes are more captivating than his Jimmy Durante schnoz. I’m sure the squirrels knocked the nose off too. I checked the top of the snow pile again but didn’t find it.
When my husband came home from work, I asked, “Last week did you say the tree’s nose was buried in the snow?” Turns out he’d said nose, not eye. When I walked outside yesterday, I only saw the eye was missing. I’d mixed up the details.
“Did you know one of the eyes had been knocked off?” No, he hadn’t. I didn’t tell him I’d mixed up the missing nose with the missing eye. I told him about finding the eye. I like to lead with my strengths, then stop talking.
I apologized to Tree Guy for neglecting to notice his missing nose. He told me not to worry. He still has his smile, and he appreciates having both eyes again.
He hopes to have his nose back in the spring. Maybe the world will smell better. Tree Guy knows how to play the long game.