Slippin’ time: #1

Two things on time and an apology to Steve Miller… but in two parts.

Part 1–DST

Here’s a teaser for ya:

…but they got it wrong. In 1976, the Steve Miller Band got it wrong. But that’s okay. It was 1976 after all. It is a great and iconic song, though—I’ll give them that.

And they did get one thing right, but that’s for next week.

Spoiler Alert: Existential and esoteric concepts dead ahead: two things on time. Thing One this week, Thing Two next. You will not be the same you after you have read this.

Thing One:

It’s autumn.

A season that is becoming more and more my favorite, especially now that I’ve given away the heavy load and title of principal—the autumn’s of my past were always full of all the things that went into the start of a new school year. Autumn invites melancholy—at least for me. And for me, that is a comfortable place of being. I kinda know it well. And I like it there.

Here.

Now.

With autumn, and with Dad, I’ve been thinking more about time lately. And its passing. And where we are, where time leads, where we’re going, what’s next, and why.

And realizing the futility of it all.

The concept of time is a human creation—no other species follows time or sets their comings and goings based on a clock or calendar. Nature counts no seconds or minutes or hours. And cares not for years. Only humans wear watches—and think they need to. (Okay, since watches are becoming museum artifacts, only humans check time on their smartphones).

Dad’s Autumn is a time outside of time.

For a farmer, time is ambiguous. A farmer never needs a clock or calendar to denote time on the farm. Any farmer worth their salt—another way of saying someone who is truly in tune and resonating with Nature and what the season seems to be calling forth—can still prep, and plant, and seed, and cultivate, and irrigate, and prep, and harvest, and reap, and rest, ALL without ever needing to look at a calendar (oops, sorry Gen Z’ers and Alpha’ers—without ever looking at your AppleWatches). Hops don’t give a “manure” (see what I did there?) that it’s the middle of March and it’s time to begin sprouting. They sprout in their own time!

This was the way of indigenous peoples and farmers for millennia. And still is, really. Take all watches, clocks, and calendars away from a farmer, from my Dad, and he’d still get an ample crop to Autumn for the harvest. We could debate forever if there is such a things as “enough time.” On a farm, there was ALWAYS something more that could be done that there just was not enough time to fit in. And so, that was okay. There was no choice in the matter no matter how you elected to spend “your time;” it was always okay even though we sometimes thought we needed more time to accomplish what needed to get done. Silly us. Because that was Nature’s way. And Nature always has her way.

Always.

And yet the hops sprouted, they grew, and we harvested them…every single year. And Dad did it all over again the next spring. Until the autumn of 1995 that is—in October of that year, after having lived and worked on a working farm every second of his life, from birth in 1938, to right after the very last hop cone he ever cultivated was safely at the brewery about to flavor someone’s pint of beer, Dad retired.

And a new kind of time began to form.

Here’s ironic synchronicity for you: Dad retired and sold his land when he was 57 years old. Young for a man, but that’s what farming did to you back then. I separated from service as a principal this current year—when I turned 57. That’s what principaling does to you now—that and an Elder Dad.

DST—not “Daylight Savings”

But growing up with Dad on the farm, with Dad as our boss, when we were of age to work productively, we did have expectations bounded by the clock. Expectations of when to get up to set irrigation—the earlier the better but NEVER after 6am; expectations of when to stop for lunch—‘cuz mom would have it ready and it might get cold and we had only a half hour (a HALF hour y’all!) ‘cuz the sun was now past straight up and was on its way to setting and there was still way too much to do, like more weeds to kill; and expectations on when we could end for the day—never before 5pm…ever. On Saturdays, we worked half-days. On Sundays we still got up early to set irrigation before Mass—and we typically attended Mass at Holy Rosary, with Monsignor McGrath, at 8am, IF we were efficient and ran into no issues while irrigating. Otherwise it would be the 9:30 Mass—with Trevor and me often serving as alter boys (even at Mass we had to work! Jesus!!! Ooops, sorry Jesus.).

Even if my Dad knew how important sleep was to adolescent teenage boys, he wouldn’t have cared. He’d have laughed and told us to go out and set the water on the 30 acres.

Growing up, we were clock watchers even given time’s ambiguity on the farm. But do you see the Eldering inherent in this? I don’t think I have to tell you, now, what this taught us boys, as we were growing up the sons of a farmer, about task commitment, job responsibility, work, and dedication to something other than self.

That was then…

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Now?

Dad is well into the autumn of his life. And we here exist in DST—Dad Standard Time. It’s a time of now. There is only this now, now. We don’t spring forward or fall back anymore. We have no need for watches—except when Jeopardy comes on or the Seahawks are playing. It is better when we have fewer expectations of things we need to do or when we need to do them. What there seems to be of time has slowed waaaay down. It’s a pace unusual and hard to acclimate to because it is so different from “normal” life time—even though DST, this time of now, in this Autumn, in Dad’s Autumn, is nothing if it is not normal. It is perfectly normal.

Because it is Dad’s now normal.

This is where I define futility. Because on DST, Dad Standard Time, if I “need” to do something on MST (“My Standard Time”), and that thing involves Dad (everything involves Dad now, in this now), then I suffer! And DAMN if this doesn’t still happen every. single. day. And why do I keep doing that???

Sticking to some concept of time outside of DST is futile.

Just trust me on this.

And yet, the days seem to fly by. How the heck does THAT happen???

When we do have to be somewhere on the rest of America’s standard time, there is arithmetic and algebra to do. When do we get Dad up; + how much time do we estimate for bathroom ablutions; X the number of times we have to go back because we still need “to go;” ^ and applying exponents and variables x’s and y’s for all the unknowables (aka: minutes to get to the car with the walker; + minutes to actually get into the car; + debating if we forgot anything; + getting out to go to the bathroom one more time; + insuring we had gas; + traffic; + I-90 construction; - (minus) every mile per hour exceeding the speed limit on the interstate because, well, Dad’s in the car; and on and on). All that equals DST, or my best guess as to when “we’ll get there.” It’s calculous math class all over again with Dad as the primary variable.

Try solving for THAT algebraic expression every passing moment. I’m grateful I aced college calculous.

Example of DST time—we started the walk at pregame before kickoff. We got back to the TV room 5 minutes into the third quarter. Okay, not totally true—but you get the idea.

Example of DST time—we started to sit when Wheel of Fortune was on; we finally sat during the final Jeopardy round. Okay, not totally true again—but you get the idea.

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When I separated from service from my last school district, and knew I was going to serve Dad in this capacity 24/7 for as long as it took, I thought I would have ALL THIS TIME to do so much ME stuff. Like read, and garden, and read, and swim, and read, and write. And read. And read.

Silly me. That was MST thinking.

I’ve completed only one book since Dad’s first day here 96 DST days ago.

Again, how the heck does THAT happen?

“Um, Kert? You’re on Dad Standard Time now. You might as well let go and just enjoy the ride.”

So I am.

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PART #1 ENDS NOW.

Thing Two next Friday in Part #2…the now, and how Steve Miller got something right.

Thanks for reading.

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Oh, just to whet your whistle for the upcoming existential take on time in next week’s post with a challenge if are so inclined: Can you spot what they got wrong AND right?

T plus 96 days…and counting. C o u n t i n g v e e e r r r y y y s s s l l l o o o o o w w w w w l l l y y y y y . You‘re on DST time now too.

Kert on DST time. Totally true..