Does Anybody Know What Time It Is?
When the husband and I moved to North Florida to raise greyhounds, I quit a time clock-punching job that involved precision timing in the exposures of various materials to light. I had gotten so that I could count down a thirty second, or a two minute, exposure accurately, without the darkroom timer. The hour and the minute and the second hands ruled my life.
I soon learned that, around greyhounds, wearing a good wristwatch was a bad idea. It got caught on collars, doused with water, caked with dirt, scratched by puppy claws. The life of dogs -- secret or not -- was ruled, anyway, by the sun, not by the clock. My attempts to keep farm life running "on time" met with resistance, derision, and some painful lessons. Slowly, I learned to worry less about what time it was than about the rhythm and flow of the days.
I also got pretty good at telling time by the passage of it. No longer in thrall to exact minutes, I could (still can) check the angle of the sun, recall the last time I glanced at a clock, and opine "It's about three-thirty". I'm usually no more than five minutes off.
And I still don't wear a wristwatch.
That, however, is going to have to change, at least for some events.
During the Southeastern Theater Conference at the Atlanta Hilton in early March, my frequent greeting to both friends and total strangers was "Hi! Do you know the time?". The hotel offered one public clock, in an obscure corner of the lobby. There were no windows in the meeting rooms. I had appointments scheduled that required my being on time.
So, I've inventoried my timepieces. The winner is an "Omega Automatic Seamaster" that belonged to my husband's father. It has a large, round face with clearly marked hours, a sweep second hand, and a self-winding mechanism: no batteries, no spring. The flex metal band is damaged, though, and too large for my wrist. I'll find a ribbon to make a band from, and the next time I'm entombed in a man-made environment, I'll know what time it is.
I soon learned that, around greyhounds, wearing a good wristwatch was a bad idea. It got caught on collars, doused with water, caked with dirt, scratched by puppy claws. The life of dogs -- secret or not -- was ruled, anyway, by the sun, not by the clock. My attempts to keep farm life running "on time" met with resistance, derision, and some painful lessons. Slowly, I learned to worry less about what time it was than about the rhythm and flow of the days.
I also got pretty good at telling time by the passage of it. No longer in thrall to exact minutes, I could (still can) check the angle of the sun, recall the last time I glanced at a clock, and opine "It's about three-thirty". I'm usually no more than five minutes off.
And I still don't wear a wristwatch.
That, however, is going to have to change, at least for some events.
During the Southeastern Theater Conference at the Atlanta Hilton in early March, my frequent greeting to both friends and total strangers was "Hi! Do you know the time?". The hotel offered one public clock, in an obscure corner of the lobby. There were no windows in the meeting rooms. I had appointments scheduled that required my being on time.
So, I've inventoried my timepieces. The winner is an "Omega Automatic Seamaster" that belonged to my husband's father. It has a large, round face with clearly marked hours, a sweep second hand, and a self-winding mechanism: no batteries, no spring. The flex metal band is damaged, though, and too large for my wrist. I'll find a ribbon to make a band from, and the next time I'm entombed in a man-made environment, I'll know what time it is.