For decades, I've been a leading advocate for daylight saving time, which begins today ("leading advocate" means I've written more than 10 columns in which I describe my love for DST).
I love sunlight into the evening. I love how DST makes it feel like summer is near. The dark mornings are worth it.
I love – or I loved – having a skill that seemed special.
Mrs. Brad is the handy person at our house. By that, I mean she does approximately 105% of all repairs. She's the person who speaks to anyone who does work at our house. The toolbox is hers and nearly every "handyman" duty I do (primarily demolition) is done under her supervision.
She's an engineer who is fascinated with how things work, who loves construction and who is always figuring how to make things better. I'm a writer who wishes things would never break and then figures it's easier to work around them than to fix them.
Anyway, in a nearly 40-year marriage that included raising two sons, she's done the handyman work except one duty that I generously include in that category: Changing the clocks when daylight saving time begins and ends.
In that, I'm the king!
On the second Sunday of March and the first Sunday of November (I have an unnecessary knowledge about the DST schedule), it's my job to change all the clocks: The clock on the stove. The clock on the microwave. The clock on the thermostat. The clocks hanging on the walls. The clocks in the cars.
After spending 363 days watching Mrs. Brad fix things (typical exchange for us: Mrs. Brad asks me to bring her an adjustable wrench. I bring her a tool and ask, "Is this a wrench?" She answers, "That's a screwdriver. Never mind, I'll get it."), the start and end of daylight saving time gives me a chance to shine.
On the day time changed through the 1980s, 1990s and 2000s, I would rub my hands together eagerly and bring an empty suitcase that I set down on a nearby counter (to look like a toolbox) while I did my work. "Let me see," I'd say, loud enough for my sons to hear me, "we've just got to move this clock forward an hour. Remember the old saying, "Lefty loosey, righty tighty, spring forward, fall back." Then I'd adjust the clock, announce it "fixed" and move on to the next clock. The clock on the wall in the living room. The alarm clock in our bedroom. On and on.
It was a tradition, but about 15 hours ago, it began to change. Smart technology allowed our principal timekeeping devices to update automatically. Suddenly, no one forgot that the time changed, because everything on which they kept time changed automatically. Worse yet, the number of clocks I needed to change plunged. And none of them are that important.
Our phones, watches and other key devices automatically update.
So today, I'll change some clocks. Our microwave and stove clocks are not smart, so I'll update them. The big clock on our living room wall needs my work.
Alas, the thrill of doing major changes is gone. The clocks I update are unimportant and my skill is no longer one that's really needed. Mrs. Brad generally changes the clock in her car now (I presume new cars update automatically. Our newest car – which still makes me feel like I'm driving the space shuttle – is 13 years old).
My main "handyman" skill (I realize most people wouldn't define this as a handyman skill. I don't care) is not needed.
Daylight saving time is still great. I still support it and I'll still get out a suitcase and pretend today.
The only remaining thrill is that we get daylight later in the day.
Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.
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