Concept of time

Ever noticed how differently different people hold the concept of time? Elder daughter, who was “anal” before she was potty trained, is pretty much like I was at her age — knows the day and date exactly, studies the calendar like a map, cannot stand the sloppiness of “quarter of” or “half past,” and as a result is pretty self-sufficient around here in terms of knowing what has to be done when, how to deal with her schoolwork, and all that. Younger daughter, on the other hand, frequently can’t remember if it’s suppertime or lunch time, has to think to remember the day of the week, and is incapable of budgeting her time. Even if we carefully explain a schedule to her, with two or three items she must accomplish in that timeframe, she will have forgotten the second two items before she has even started on the first, and before long she’ll have daydreamed her way out of the first. It’s just the way she is. For her, it means every day is an adventure. For us, well, I guess it means that, too.

We had a fabulous Memorial Day weekend, despite the tyranny of the weathermen who threaten us repeatedly in an attempt to keep us in our place — in front of the tube, watching the weather. We went up to the Saratoga National Battlefield, where the tide of war turned for the Americans (and the British, too, come to that). We biked around part of it until it became too much for the youngest, riding a cobbled-together Frankenbike that just isn’t going to work the way I want it to. It was good she gave out, though, because a very narrow line of the weatherman’s threat zoomed right in on the battlefield, crackling lightning and rain, but we had already retired to the visitors center. The rest of the weekend was so all-American I could have fainted — we socialized, Hannah marched in the parade, we grilled hamburgers and had ice cream, and we had a pre-adolescent blowout on Monday that cancelled our plans to get the canoes out. Just perfect.

And in a case of either irony or karma — I’ve been riding to work a lot, and the bridge I cross was getting kinda nasty with glass on the sidewalk. I don’t know if people throw bottles out of cars, or if they’re breaking them on the bridge, or both (I think both), but it was getting to be a problem. Plus, there were some other issues. Well, let’s say I know a guy who knows a guy, e-mails were traded, and the bridge got scrubbed so clean you could eat off it. So on Monday I’m going across for a quick ride, and I pick up the last shard of glass left on the bridge — which completely slices open my tire and tube. I had patches and even a tube with me, so it didn’t cost me that much time, but the tire is a loss. So that’s what I get for asking to have the bridge cleaned.