Now, it's funny; I have a clear vision again that a movement against all things Bush is going to be a great fight, even as month by month, my eyesight gets a little worse. I've always had excellent eyesight. It was one of my claims to fame: "Oh, Annie's got eyes like a hawk," everyone in my family used to say. As a child, I was sent for when anything was lost in the grass, or the rug, or the car. I arrived at the scene of the lost thing -- beaches, lawns, back seats -- was given a description of the lost object, and let loose, like a bloodhound. I almost always found everything, including lots of things I hadn't even been looking for -- money in the blackberry brambles, sea glass on mountain trails, jewelry at the beach.

As the years passed, I continued to think of myself as having eyes like a hawk, even as the printed word became smaller and blurrier. I could still often find things for people, and still read without glasses, if I squinted, and held the book at a distance. Then one night a few years ago, Sam watched me as I read in bed, and then asked, "Does it help to see when you go like this?" and then squinched his eyes shut like a mole in the sun.

So I started wearing glasses to read, and didn't worry, because my friends needed blended bifocals. (My friends are mostly older than I, although I am too polite to say this out loud.) But all of a sudden, I found that street signs started getting blurry too. I couldn't read them clearly until I was several feet away. I thought at first it might be a cerebral bleed. Then one day I couldn't read the news scrolling at the bottom of the TV screen, or the scores during baseball games.

This was right around the primary election last spring. I remember because I was in Berkeley with my friend Doug. I was driving him in the rain to the library where he votes. It was such a dark night that I could hardly drive. The streetlights seemed to have been dimmed. I said to Doug that this time the People's Republic of Berkeley had gone too far, implementing their righteous green policies, lowering the wattage of their streetlights. This was endangering the lives of citizens! Doug said, "What are you saying?" I asked, contemptuously, "What are you all burning for electricity now -- used oil from deep-fat fryers at McDonald's?" And Doug said, gently, "I think you need to see an eye doctor, honey." I laughed. Then I stopped at an intersection where there was no stop sign or light, so I could read the sign. As I was peering up at the streetlight, gripping the wheel like my mother used to, squinting up as if at a distant star, I nearly caused an accident.

The following week, I went to see an optometrist.

She was young and very businesslike. I started explaining to her how worried I was that everything seemed blurry rather suddenly, and that my father had died of a brain tumor when he was the age I am now, and that I had always had eyes like a hawk. When she finally got a word in, she was using the tone of voice that mental health professionals use.

"Miss Lamott," she said. "I need you to stop talking a moment. We're going to get to the bottom of this. Go ahead and look up at the chart."

I looked at the big, huge, clear, welcoming "E," and said, "'E'!" enthusiastically, to make her laugh. But she cleared her throat. She didn't think I was funny. She thought I was cuckoo.

"Can you read the first line?" she asked, and I could.

"Good," she said. "Now the second?"

I studied the next line. It was a bit blurry. I squinted and began to read.

"Miss Lamott, please stop squinting," she said.

"It helps me read, though."

"I understand that," she said.

So I tried to squint without it showing, and I read the lines and explained more about my excellent vision and how I could always find lost objects, and she kept saying, "Miss Lamott, please, please stop squinting."

"But my eyes are getting all dried out and itchy," I said.

There was a pained silence. "Miss Lamott," she said. "I didn't say not to blink. I said not to squint. Please."

So I was trying to read the rest of the second line, blinking madly, with a running commentary of how odd it was to have to concentrate so hard.

"Miss Lamott?" she said. "Please stop talking. Just read the third line."

I looked at the ant tracks at the bottom of the chart.

"Can you read that?" I asked.

Silence. "I can, actually. But I'm a little younger than you."

That was uncalled for. But in fact, I couldn't read the third line. So I lied. I said I could only read some of the third line.

She said, "Go ahead, then. Just do the best you can."

So I gave it a stab. "'Z,'" I said.

"Please stop squinting."

"The next one is either an 'I' or an 'L.' Then a -- well, I'm not sure on the third one. The fourth letter is an 'A,' I think. Or an 'H.' And the fifth one is -- can I squint a tiny bit? With one eye? An 'E'; no wait, 'B'; no wait, 'R.'"

"Miss Lamott?" she said gently. "The last line is actually all numbers."

Then she gave me a prescription for glasses, blended bifocals. Now I have two pairs of glasses, one with dark green frames, one with wire rims. Sam tells me I look more glamorous in the green ones, smarter in the wire rims. When I wear them, I can see everything clearly. What a concept! I love my optometrist now: I've gone in twice again -- now I want her to give me stronger glasses. She won't, yet, but says she will when I need them, and at least now she laughs at my jokes.

All my life, when people asked me to help them find lost stuff, I never gave up, because I used to be so anxious for approval. Most people got bored and stopped looking, but not me. And that's how you find things. You stay in the area where things got lost, you pay attention, and you don't give up.

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