by M. Reed

Created on: September 10, 2008   Last Updated: September 11, 2008

I'm a stubborn man; the end of my nose is usually as far as I go when it comes to foresight. Thus, shifts in perspective (moments of clarity, I call them) are rare for me. So it was some years back (almost a quarter century, I'd say) that I had my most recent. But it was a beauty, as far as moments of clarity go, a true epiphany. It happened the day I decided to tour a stately mansion, a landmark designated as such and restored by those who do such things. I don't recall many details because, while still on that grand old porch, face to face with its majestic doorway, I spotted, just to the right, the thing, the seed whose blossom would forever taint my conception of progress: a simple braided cord.

It was a hearty cord, black with a beautiful, carved wooden bead at its tip. It protruded from a delicate frame just like those surrounding electrical plugs or switches, an ornate frame invitingly decorated with brightly painted, delicate baroque swirls. The cord clearly begged to be pulled. So I did.

What followed was the clearest, most purposeful peal to which a bell could aspire, an echoing ring so pervasive that no hearing person within sixty yards could be left unaware of my presence at that door. Staring dumbly, I tenderly fingered the bead. Like all great inventions, it was simple, requiring neither battery, nor hydro, nor solar, nor nuclear, nor petrochemical power. It just worked. I was instantly, absolutely convinced that no greater gadget could be devised for its purpose: that of the perfect doorbell. And all I'd done to ring it, was pull that stupid cord.

I was stunned at the implications. Any hope of exploring the mansion itself was gone. All I could do was wonder why it had taken so long for me to find this perfect thing. After all, I was in my mid-twenties by then, and in all my years of trick or treating, candy selling, signature gathering and just plain visiting, how many porches had I mounted only to find anything but the perfect doorbell? I'd found more complicated, yet inferior bells, bells which only sometimes worked, bells which never worked, bells with broken wires, or buttons, or bells just simply gone. Why? Why aren't all doorbells so perfect? It's not as if there's a shortage of cords, or beads, or even bells.

Because of...progress? Like a bevy of starving bats, out the window rushed all my convictions about that word. Who was I to assume, for instance, that perfection had not been achieved long ago in the design of most practical things?

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