A story about Optimism
The Optometrist’s Secret
Cecil Theodore Winston was an optometrist - the finest optometrist in all of Berkleyshire Village.
Everyone who purchased a pair of Cecil’s Special Specs was guaranteed to feel happier, to be kinder and, of course, to see better.
He made friends of every customer - Tiffany Ellsberg, who was full of hope that her lost dog would be found; Thomasina Osprey, who was full of sorrow that all the trees in the town square had been cut down; and Kenneth Wilderhoof, who was full of optimism when it came to world peace.
The key to Cecil’s success was something known only by Cecil himself and his most trusted assistant, Henry Palmston. Customers continuously asked what it was about these glasses that performed such miracles, but every time, Cecil would direct his cottony grey eyes straight into theirs and tap the side of his hairy nose, once, then twice.
This secret, it happened, was hidden in plain sight - just out the back of his shop and home, past the workshop and out the door, grew a rose bush. It was nearing one hundred years of age, and was Cecil’s pride and joy. Rarely trimmed and always in bloom, it trailed up the stone wall to reach for Cecil’s first floor bedroom, as well as Mrs Bradley’s kitchen window over the back - which was a problem for the optometrist.
Mrs Bradley was a tough cookie who, much to Cecil’s dismay, had perfect eyesight and thus the most sour temperament he had ever come across. She was forever complaining about the rose bush and how it overshadowed her petunias, and he always replied amicably that she should trim what grew on her side, or else move her beloved petunias.
He couldn’t have done without that rose bush, not if they were the Queen’s petunias behind that fence, because his glasses would be ordinary otherwise. The roses were his secret and his triumph, keeping the townspeople peaceful and positive. Why? Because each day, he would go outside with a pair of scissors, and snip down a few of the best roses. The roundest, the reddest, the rosiest. He would take them inside, pluck off the petals, and crush them into fine mush with a fork. The mush would be layered within the glass when he prepared the lenses, but so thinly that the pink tinge was only just visible.
And there they were.
Rose-tinted glasses.
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