Tabatha Deans

Bringing Integrity to the Written Word

I would like to know who, exactly, had the authority to change time? Who decided it was okay to make a decision that effectively screws up the lives of everyone by fiddling with the clock? Two weeks ago I enjoyed the luxury of waking up to the soft glow of the sun rising, feeling refreshed and ready to start my day. Now I wake to a dark room, and although I’ve still slept for eight hours, my mind is telling me that it’s still time to be sleeping. I guess in today’s society we’re all about the clock, but that doesn’t do squat for my internal clock, which is screaming that it’s still dark outside. The result is that I wake up everyday angry. Angry that again our lives are being controlled by unseen forces that dictate what we do, and when we do it.
I’ve heard that the time change was initially created to benefit farmers, to give them time to take advantage of the daylight. I believe, however, that it was created to control the masses, keeping us in a sleepy fog. And, having spent several years working on a dairy farm, I think I can safely say that the farmers don’t give a hoot. We never woke up on the farm and looked at the clock and said “oh, well, it’s not time to get up yet.” I remember milking the cows even when it was dark outside in the morning, they don’t have the ability to tell time, and their udders did not stop producing milk just because the clock said it wasn’t time for milking. I also remember specifically raising before the sun in the summertime, to get some of the work done in the fields before it became too hot.
So I say “phooey!” to daylight savings time! And in protest, I’m going back to bed…

I set out with my partner in crime Mitch to master the public transit system here in the Mile High City. Armed with backpacks and rations for the day, we were headed downtown to check out potential neighborhoods to live in, and to orient myself to the bus and light rail system. Mona dropped us off at the nearest bus station, which is about a 20 minute walk from home in Parker. We waited anxiously for the next bus to come along, chatting about our plans for the day. After several minutes with no sign of a bus, we decided to check the schedule on the sign. I assumed the area had a good public transit system, but you know what they say happens when you assume…
Turns out the buses only run in the suburbs during peak transit hours, which we had missed by about one hour. Being the resourceful traveler that I am, I called RTD and asked if another bus would be coming along anytime soon. “No.” was the curt answer I got. “Are there any buses in Parker that run during the day?” I asked, hoping we could walk to another bus stop. Again the answer was a curt “No.” I was flabbergasted. Even in Salt Lake the buses ran every few hours, but here they only run during the morning commute time. That new piece of knowledge put a major cramp in my plan to look for apartments and jobs; I had assumed I could get nearly anywhere on a bus or a train. We called Mona for a ride to the nearest train station, which is about nine miles away; not an unreasonable ride on the bicycle. Oh well, at least I’m going to be really buff having to ride the bicycle that far to get anywhere.
The train ride into town was pleasant. The train seats were clean and the people were courteous. There are a lot of apartments located right on the light rail line, so I redirected my search for housing to places that were within walking distance of the light rail. We had lunch and caught a movie at the 16th Street Mall, which is overpriced but a great place for wandering and watching people. We stopped in the Tattered Cover Bookstore, where I hope to work part-time one day, and gathered a copy of all the free publications in town. As we were heading back to the light rail station, there was an old black man standing on the street corner with a bullhorn yelling “Shoooeeee Shiiinnne!” I remembered him from the last trip downtown when we had interacted briefly. I was standing on his corner waiting for the light to change, and he smiled big and spoke to me.
“How are you doing today?” he asked.
“Good, thanks.” I replied.
“You’re not from around here are you?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“You must be from Tennessee,” he replied, smiling and checking me out.
“No,” I said, wondering what in the world would make him think I was from Tennessee. “Utah actually.”
Without batting an eye he delivered one of the most memorable pickup lines I have ever heard.
“Oh, you must be from Tennessee. Because you’re the only Ten I See,”
I laughed out loud and he laughed along with me. Had he been 40 years younger and had teeth, I may have considered going out with him, but instead, I chuckled all the way to the train station.

March 16, 2011 - Posted by | Uncategorized

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