On Reading Signs

It's January in New Hampshire, and I've got daffodils beginning to spike in my gardens. Where there should be snow, there is grass, still a deep green in spots. Where there should be cold, there is an April warmth, with an occasional fly sailing past. Are these signs of something good, or something bad? Do they portend disaster, an omen of sorts, or are they marvels to cheer the frozen heart?

I have never been any good at reading signs. So I take a chance in suggesting that it is good news, so far, that we have not yet heard the fate of Ms. Jill Carroll, the kidnapped journalist held under the threat of execution in Iraq. I pray that her release is imminent.

As I watch the wild turkeys peck their way through my yard, I wonder if they are at all concerned about the Middle East. Do they talk among themselves about Iran's nuclear ambitions? Do they speak with the crows and blue jays flitting around beneath the feeders, all clucking and clicking about sanctions and resolutions and the apocalypse? Do they see the early daffodils and wonder what time it is? Or are they oblivious, commuting daily in the hustle and bustle of forest and fen, striving to get ahead, to earn their keep, scratching out a living in the temporarily thawing earth?

But this post is really about me. Today is not about politics or war or death. It's about my own sort of dyslexia. You see, I really have never been any good at reading signs. Once I stood in a convenience store that also had a pizza-by-the-slice business. On the pizza case, taped above the spinning pies, was a handwritten sign that said, "Buy one, get one." I spoke to the manager at the counter.

"You know, your sign seems a little mis-written. I should hope that if I buy one slice, I will get one." The man looked at me like I was some smart-talking bookworm he hated in grade school. "I think you mean to say that I will get a second slice for free," I offered with no hint of judgmentalism. He grunted and walked away. And then he shook his head.

I once commented to my wife while at a modest dining establishment that she should try the soup du jour, "Vegetarian Vegetable" that was posted on the bill of fare. I told her I was sure it was far better than the "Vegetarian Beef." The waitress, who heard my quip (I wanted her to), twisted her face in disbelief.

"Vegetarian Beef! Der! There is no such thing as Vegetarian Beef! My god!"

She need not have gotten so snippy. Would it have done any good to tell her I had no skill in reading signs? Would it have helped to tell her how I've stood in restaurant bathrooms waiting for the employees to wash my hands? I mean, I can't tell you how many times I've defied the little sign that says "Employees Must Wash Hands." Damn it, I mutter each time, do they think I can wait forever? Do you think if I told her my problem, she'd show the slightest sympathy? Or would I get a "My god!" as she turns heel for the kitchen?

Or would it do any good to admit that, during a particularly bad mood, I once stopped at one of those storage unit rental places and asked the proprietor how much it would cost for me to stay there for a few days?

"I am sorry," he said. "No one is allowed to stay in any of the units."

"But, but, but ..." I sputtered, perplexed. "Then why does the sign say, 'Hilltop Self Storage?'"

He didn't get it either.

I've never been any good at reading signs. My God, indeed.

Contratimes

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