My youngest is in Mountain Daylight Time, but he is also in eighteen year-old internal clock warp zone. His day gets going about the time I crash. After two days of frustrating phone tag, he finally reached me at 11:22 p.m. last night as I was drifting off to sleep. We are negotiating a pact whereby I don't call him before 10 a.m. his time, and he doesn't call me after 10 p.m. my time.*
My oldest lives in Indiana, a weirdly time-challenged state. Hoosiers start to back out of their garages in one time zone, and by the time they reach the street they have to reset their Timex watches. I was delighted that he called to tell me about attending the exciting UT-OSU game in Columbus, Ohio at 7:22 Sunday morning, but I needed two more mugs of coffee before I could comprehend his report.
Did you ever see Robert Goulet in that 1966 black and white t.v. broadcast of "Brigadoon"? My middle son is studying and exploring Europe this year. He passes in and out of the fog and the idyllic villages of an over-the-top Broadway musical. He's swirling around the globe while I try to get a fix on the time. Swirling and mirrors are my weakest spatial link. That is why I flunked Curling Iron 101, and remedial Home Perming.
Is this a flashback to Sixties backyard games, like "What Time Is It, Mr. Fox?" Maybe it's just an incentive program for communication by email?
*
Now it is night.
Night is not a time for play.
It is time for sleep.
The dogs go to sleep.
They will sleep all night.
Now it is day.
The sun is up.
Now is the time for all dogs to get up.
"Get up!"
It is day.
Time to get going.
Go, dogs. Go!
P. D. Eastman sets my clock!
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