Making sense of time

So, here we are, this very morning starting a second week of living daily with another acronym, DST. I'm still upset from the recent change, else I'd be writing about my beautiful viburnum bush in full and fragrant bloom or the satisfactory progress of many hollyhock plants from last summer's split seeds.

Many people think that this finagling with clock time began in the World War II era. Wrong. It was used as far back as World War I in Europe and the United States gave it a fling in 1918, then declared it unlawful.

Living on a farm, as many family did, such time tinkering foolishness was laughable. How could you get a rooster to crow an hour earlier?

Everybody and all the farm animals were up and ready to go at 4 a.m. Moving that back to 3 a.m. would have seemed crazy, something Kaiser Bill had hexed upon us. Besides, that year the flu moved slowly through our family. All seven of us. We didn't care much whether it was daylight or dark. Just get the fever down and the coughing stopped.

DST was revived during WWII and most states observe the custom now. Having been synchronized to first daylight by the roosters' alarm, I feel, perhaps for a period of two weeks after the change, as if I'm living in an aberration of time from dawn to dusk. I'm not late to appointments but feel that when I start the day's ball rolling, it won't be long until my ball slides off into some alley for a period of correction.

I do go through some rituals to try to lessen the shock of the time change. About two days before the "leap forward" or "fall back" days I clean all my household clocks. I have a lot of them. One would think I am very concerned about time. Not so. I just love clocks. I think this stems from Grandpa's removal of the back of his big, silver Railroad Watch every once in a while to let me see all the little cog wheels turning, each dependent on another to keep going.

Then, too, we had two big, ornate and ticking clocks in the early home. One was on the fireplace mantel in the kitchen, the other was in the parlor.

That's what we called the living room then. The parlor was a place to entertain visitors and show off your pretty things.

The kitchen clock was a sturdy looking edifice with greenish-black columns on each side of the clock face which had Arabic numbers. It has a quick "tick-tock" and the sounds of the hours were clipped with no lingering musical resonance. It looked somewhat like a building save for the fact there was, on the flat top, an iron horse in a graceful galloping position. It was a no-nonsense, work-a-day clock that marked our hours and got wound every night.

The parlor clock was prettier. The clock face rose up on a pedestal, not unlike a birdhouse with all manner of curling leaves around it. Down at the base there was an oblong surface as if meant to be a little side porch. There was a metal rocking chair and in the chair sat someone who certainly looked like Abraham Lincoln.

The ticking was soft as a cat's purr and the hour sounds were like wind chimes.

My little clock cleaning basket contains a bottle of lemon oil, some brass cleaner, Windex, Pledge or Endust, Q-Tips, liquid wax, soft cloths. In due unhurried time all time pieces are sparkling clean. If they strike the hours they all do it at the same time.

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.