A Time Piece

On a median dividing a portion of the cul-de-sac where my parents live stands an astrolabe between two immature cherry trees. Merely a lawn ornament, now weathered so a bluish patina covers its copper skeleton, it is a spherical version of the sort credited to Al-Narizi around 1100 years ago, although the first astrolabes were being used in Greece perhaps as early as 150 BCE or even earlier.

The compelling design idea for astrolabes was to calculate the location and movement of the sun and stars as an aid to navigation or answering astronomical questions—about time, for instance.

This particular instrument remains unmoved, an ever fixed mark of some spot in the sky as I walk by with my dog several times during the course of the day. Sometimes I think to take a closer look, but my dog is enthused by our goings and returnings, and so instead I watch for bluebirds or cardinals or whatever might be in flight. Mallards once, but I’ll save that encounter for another time.

These days, in my retirement, I am allowed a more casual relationship with time. I am aware of but rarely demanded by, and so it is no bother that my clock in the truck still shows the world to be in Daylight Saving Time. The hour fallen back for now is easily calculated.

My bedroom clock is even worse, ahead by two hours. The software is designed to reset automatically as we push forward or tumble back in time, but the extra second added to the UTC back in June caused my little machine a sort of programming burp that set itself forward 3 hours. How? I don’t know. But I know enough to figure that when it says “6”, it’s not get-out-of-bed time.

The extra second was to account for the earth’s rotation slowing. What, you didn’t feel that?

Yes, two clocks in the house are ticking along accurately—one given to me by my school district when I retired—I like to think they were being ironic—and the oven clock, which doesn’t really tick tick. Of course, phone and laptop are set correctly, too.

Once upon a time, as part my standard repertoire of jokes, I observed that I didn’t wear a watch since they sounded bells where I worked. Besides, students were—and still are no doubt—as time-centric a set of individuals as you may ever see. Nothing like the final few minutes of the period when book bags and bangs must be properly attended. Better even, the speed of writing when they realize that an in-class essay may intrude on hall time between classes. Pens nearly snap from the extra pressure. “Write, Forrest, Write!”

Currently, my most important timepieces are the neighbors’ trees. Two doors down, several shortleaf pines set the marker in the morning for ten minutes or so of shade on my patio. If I drop pasta into boiling water then and brown some meat, throw in diced onions, and add some marinara—lunch time will be in the sunlight at my little outdoor cafe as the sun clears the pines.

By the time I finish lunch and sit for a bit, the sun will duck behind my next-door neighbor’s pines, and in I go. Of course, I am on the winter schedule, and so for now it’s around 11:30 for eating outside if the temperature is a sunny 50 degrees at least.

Or 12:30 or 1:30—depending on which of my timepieces are at hand. I could make some joke about no time like the present, but that moment, alas, is long gone.