This is a full-throated tribute to eyeglasses. My first pair, when I was a freshman in high school, did wonders for my jump shot. Now, just a few years on, I offer a big shout out to Benjamin Franklin, the visionary whose keen insight led to the invention of—among other things—bifocal spectacles.
The familiar story is that Ol’ Ben, as he aged and experienced deteriorating eyesight, found he couldn’t focus on objects right in front of his face without constantly having to alternate spectacles—one pair for distance, the other for reading. Same thing happened to me just recently, after undergoing cataract surgery in each eye.
The surgeries were a rollicking success. Colors are dramatically more vibrant, the surrounding world somehow more alive. No complaints here whatsoever. Except there was a period of several weeks after those procedures—until I could get a new bifocal prescription to offset the altered visual acuity brought on by the operations—that I was back in Franklin’s early days of the 1780s, able to see fairly well at a distance but in dire need of a reading lens.
More to the point, spoiled by years of having taken bifocals for granted, my frustration with a one-pair-on, one-pair off shuttle of glasses had me feeling foiled again and again. Franklin—this was a guy who created the lightning rod, the Franklin Stove, the odometer, the position of postmaster to develop efficient mail delivery routes in his city of Philadelphia, swim fins (swim fins!)—solved the issue with his “double spectacles” innovation: Cut in half the lenses from two different pairs of glasses, combine them in a single frame—top half to see far-away objects, bottom half for up-close viewing. Voila!
I have read that, around the turn of the 20th Century, the monocle—a single-lens eyeglass which required the wearer’s eyebrow and cheek muscles to hold it in place—had become not only a significant aid for reading but also, somehow, was widely considered a decorative fashion accessory. But the monocle soon got the side eye from enforcers of popular trends in personal adornment. Or maybe folks’ eyebrow and cheek muscles needed a rest.
So. Herein a new appreciation for Franklin—that grand American statesman, author—and for one of the electrifying discoveries attributed to him.
It should be noted that I never was put off by the long-ago youngsters’ schoolyard insult of “four eyes,” a form of bullying all glasses-wearers as “outsiders.” The sticks-and-stones-will-break-my-bones retort was pretty effective. And, hey: Clark Kent wore glasses. As a “disguise,” yes, and one intended to render him a bit of a meek nerd, but we all knew he was Superman. (There is a website for Banton Frameworks, a United Kingdom-based designer of eyeglass frames, that chronicles the various spectacle styles of all the actors who have played Clark Kent/Superman in the movies and on television. My frames are probably closest to what the actor George Reeves wore in the old 1950s Superman TV series. Maybe a bit out of vogue….)
Listen: Lots of famous people are distinguished by their choice of eyewear: John Lennon, Harry Potter, Elton John, Gandhi, Buddy Holly. Not quite as many women come to mind, which conjures the long-out-of-date line from Dorothy Parker’s 1926 poem “News Item:” “Men seldom make passes/At girls who wear glasses.” (The 1970s song “Bette Davis Eyes” is not about her glasses.)
Anyway. Happy to experience how various eyesight problems can be dealt with, and more than glad to acknowledge Ben Franklin’s contribution. A man who figuratively could read a room, see the forest and the trees.