Aunt Jenny, about whom I've written before on this blog, was my smart, sensible, stubborn, stately, great aunt, the sister of my paternal grandmother, Mama Grantham. Della Mae Grantham was about as small as Jenny Brown was tall, but they were matched in their feistiness. I don't recall the year that Aunt Jenny died, which makes me sad. I'm equally sad that I don't know where she is buried, and that I probably didn't go to her funeral all those years ago, and perhaps there isn't anyone alive who can tell me when she died or where she rests. Aunt Jenny, Mama Grantham, and Daddy are on my mind a lot these days. Mother, not so much, which doesn't mean that she is any less on my heart, but we had our time together. While I think of those who have passed on occasion, I don't usually dwell on them. These days, though, and since Christmas, just giving a thought to Daddy and his family brings tears. Perhaps it's my own mortality. I woke up in the middle of the night over the winter break with the clear message (literally, spoken out loud - startlingly loud - in the dark quiet of my bedroom, which awakened me with a jump and my heart pounding) that I am the age - 53 - that my father was when he got sick. (Cancer. 1981. Age 66. Seabee. Asbestos.) I'll never know for sure.
My inner voice is bugging me lately to take a leave from work and go visit the cemeteries where my family are buried. This leads to today, someone asked me the strange question, "Have you visited your father since he died?" to which I answered, "No," and realized that this fact surprised me. (This isn't true, though. I have visited him, but I haven't visited my mother's grave. They are buried side-by-side.) I've logged many a quiet hour in cemeteries where there are family or none - especially in the old parts where the grave stones have tilted and faded - walking and weaving through the headstones, making sure to not step on graves because my mother taught me that that's disrespectful - and wondering what stories the dead would tell. We all have a story to tell, you know, given the opportunity. Will you tell your story here in the comments? I hope you do.
But I digress. This post is about opting out of Daylight Savings Time. Each year, when it's time to spring forward, I remember Aunt Jenny. (Read about her here and help me keep her memory alive.) Can't we do this? Can't we just keep real time? I don't know one person who says "Yippee, let's lose an hour!" I live in the western edge of the Central Time Zone. We probably should be in the Mountain Time Zone. We are in the "almost land of the midnight sun" here. In the summer, it's still light at 9:30 pm. I want the morning sun streaming through my windows before I leave for work, and the chance to awaken naturally with the sun. I want to be free of the fatigue that often lingers after springing forward. Dr. Mercola reports that there are more heart attacks around daylight savings time. My friend and co-worker, Jesse, is making an anti-daylight savings bumper sticker. Let's tell our leaders what we want. Let's opt out, like Aunt Jenny.
My inner voice is bugging me lately to take a leave from work and go visit the cemeteries where my family are buried. This leads to today, someone asked me the strange question, "Have you visited your father since he died?" to which I answered, "No," and realized that this fact surprised me. (This isn't true, though. I have visited him, but I haven't visited my mother's grave. They are buried side-by-side.) I've logged many a quiet hour in cemeteries where there are family or none - especially in the old parts where the grave stones have tilted and faded - walking and weaving through the headstones, making sure to not step on graves because my mother taught me that that's disrespectful - and wondering what stories the dead would tell. We all have a story to tell, you know, given the opportunity. Will you tell your story here in the comments? I hope you do.
But I digress. This post is about opting out of Daylight Savings Time. Each year, when it's time to spring forward, I remember Aunt Jenny. (Read about her here and help me keep her memory alive.) Can't we do this? Can't we just keep real time? I don't know one person who says "Yippee, let's lose an hour!" I live in the western edge of the Central Time Zone. We probably should be in the Mountain Time Zone. We are in the "almost land of the midnight sun" here. In the summer, it's still light at 9:30 pm. I want the morning sun streaming through my windows before I leave for work, and the chance to awaken naturally with the sun. I want to be free of the fatigue that often lingers after springing forward. Dr. Mercola reports that there are more heart attacks around daylight savings time. My friend and co-worker, Jesse, is making an anti-daylight savings bumper sticker. Let's tell our leaders what we want. Let's opt out, like Aunt Jenny.
