Ah-ha!

My brother, George. And see? That person behind him? That's me. Ol' Eagle Eyes.

Okay, I admit it, I’m not very good at it.

Finding things, I mean.

I can be looking right at them, too.

Case in point . . .

Just last week, when unpacking groceries, I had handed an apple to my Dad for him to put in his fridge.

Later:

Me: “Did you put my apple in the fridge?”

Dad: “I always do what I’m told.”

Me: “So that’s a ‘yes’?”

Dad: “Yes.”

Me: “Well, I can’t find it!”

Dad: “Why am I not surprised?”

Me, opening drawers and generally making searching noises: “Are you sure? It’s not here anywhere!”

Dad: “It’s right there, dear. I put it right where you would be sure to see it.”

Me, closing a drawer for the third time: “Well, I can’t.”

Dad, sighing as he puts down his newspaper and gets out of his chair: “I know I put it there.”

Me: “Well, I can’t see it!”

Dad, standing beside me at the fridge and pointing: “Ah-ha!”

And there it was. Right in front of me. Sitting in lonely glory on a container of sour cream like it was on display.

Literally front and center.

Sigh.

I don’t know why I can’t see things.

I’d like to say it’s genetic.

And it is.

Except that it only follows from me down to my kids.

For example, at a recent family get-together, my oldest son and father of four, had gone to the garage to get a can of soda from the case of soft drinks placed on the cool, cement floor to chill them.

Literally at the base of the garage stairs.

Literally.

One had to step over them to actually enter said garage.

Son, shouting: “Where did you say the pop was?”

Me: “At the bottom of the stairs!”

Son: “The garage stairs?”

Me: “Yes!”

Son: “Well, I’m standing right here and someone must have moved them because I can’t see them!”

Me: “I just put them there!”

Son: “They’re not here!”

Me, getting out of my chair and going to the garage door: “What are those?”

Son, spinning around and looking at the case of pop he just stepped over. “Oh.”

Me: “Ah-ha!”

See? Genetic.

And this brings up another point.

Did you notice the ‘ah-ha’?

Well that started several years ago when I was looking for something.

Because I was always looking for something.

Dad had cheerfully gotten out of his easy chair and joined the search.

Peering at the floor near his chair, he had uttered the fateful words, “Ah-ha!”

Me, hope flaring, as I spun around: “Did you find the (magazine/book/sandwich/necklace/shirt/boots/shoes/toy/blanket/sister/horse/cow/calf)?!”

Dad: “Nope. Not here, either.”

And thus began a distinctly unhelpful family tradition.

When something is found/not found, the finder/non-finder always utters the fateful words: “Ah-ha!”

I have to go now.

I can’t find my glasses.

“Ah-ha!”