Whatever happened at 2 AM Sunday in terms of clock adjustments — daylight standard time or daylight savings time — fall forward, spring back, was moot around here. No power. No clocks. It smacks of government intervention and interference with the natural order of things.
To wit: I get up at o’dark-thirty in any event and will continue to get up at dark o’clock, my Protestant Work Ethic Guilt compelling me to pluck the terrier off of my face and shuffle barefoot down the quahog shell driveway to find the blue-bagged New York Times.
Who can sleep late? Why do my teenagers have the capacity to sleep non-stop, for days at a time, when I can barely get in an honest six hours. Who cares? Early is good.
The Canadian novelist Robertson Davies wrote:
“I don’t really care how time is reckoned so long as there is some agreement about it, but I object to being told that I am saving daylight when my reason tells me that I am doing nothing of the kind. I even object to the implication that I am wasting something valuable if I stay in bed after the sun has risen. As an admirer of moonlight I resent the bossy insistence of those who want to reduce my time for enjoying it. At the back of the Daylight Saving scheme I detect the bony, blue-fingered hand of Puritanism, eager to push people into bed earlier, and get them up earlier, to make them healthy, wealthy and wise in spite of themselves.” (The Diary of Samuel Marchbanks, 1947, XIX, Sunday.)”