Originally published March 17, 2013
I nearly always know what time it is to within a couple of minutes. It's useful for amazing my lovely wife, Joyce, when we are on a car trip. She nearly always checks on her cell phone to see if I'm right, and I usually am.
Talk about a totally unmarketable skill in the 21st Century. The one nearly metaphysical talent I can claim can be replaced by a three dollar Seiko. I guess it could be worse; I could have a good sense of direction, and a kid's toy compass is even cheaper.
I was born in the wrong century. For many thousands of years of human history, people would have valued my skill.
"Hey Pharoah, me and the boys was thinking we ought to build one of them big fancy sundials like the Phoenicians have. We're tired of being late to the feasts and whatnot."
"Dog! Away with you! I already have hired this bald portly fellow in the glasses to tell time for me. I have given him many ingots and a palace to do this."
The Pharoah would gesture me forward, at which point I would say, "It's 7:14 Eastern, 6:14 Central." Everybody would fall to their knees in wonder. It'd be something.
Of course, we'd have to wait for Galileo or Thomas Edison or somebody to be born so we could get a chart that would convert American time to Egyptian time.
I would have been useful to Native American tribes that wanted to coordinate their attack on neighboring villages. I'd have to have a helper who knew smoke signals, although I have been working on that skill. (Joyce wonders why it takes me so long outside at the burn barrel on Sundays.)
Yep, just about any time up until 1950 or so, I probably could have written my own ticket. Of course, a lot of societies might have burned me at the stake because of my devil magic powers, and that wouldn't be good.
Spring sprang Friday. It got up to 80 degrees here in Falcon, and it got me to thinking about what a wicked sense of humor that stupid groundhog has.
Saturday would have marked the six more weeks of winter that would have ensued if the rodent had seen his shadow on Feb. 2. Since he didn't, we got our early spring - one day early.
I don't like that animal, but I admit it could be because I am jealous. If I could predict the end of winter instead of tell time without a watch, I might still be able to command large quantities of ingots and adoring crowds.
Technology hasn't replaced the groundhog, but his day is coming.
Ken York's past columns and other writings may be viewed on his blog at http://ken-york.blogspot.com/.
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