Finding Time

quarterto8My wife insists it was raining on the day she was born. When I ask how she knows this, she just smiles.

So I put the question to her mother.

“How does she know it was raining on the day she was born?”

“Because it was May,” came the answer.

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” she said, “you are from the city.”

So I took the question to my father-in-law.

“We plant in May,” he told me, “on the farm everything revolves around that – including childbirth. It was raining that day, so…”

“Gosh, don’t you have to schedule such things?”

“They found time.”

Finding time.

The concept always amused me. I once thought that time was an immutable thing, a constant that could neither be lost nor found, until I got married and discovered a reservoir of time which was previously inaccessible to me.

First let me say, I hate being late.

If someone says that a party starts at 7:00 pm. I believe them and show up at seven. It often gets me into trouble because people resent being summoned out of the shower by the doorbell. I guess I never had the social grace to understand that 7:00 pm comes a half-hour later in everyone else’s world.

The first time we went to church after moving to Almost Iowa, I was anxious to arrive on time, worrying about what people might think if we had to sneak in late.

“Don’t fret” my wife told me, “Father drags out all seven verses of the first hymn.”

Sure enough, we arrived during the third verse, late but not later than most

But some deadlines are not known for Christian forgiveness, like those set by airlines.

Recently we booked a 8:22 am flight to Florida.

Airlines suggest passengers be at the airport an hour and a half before departure – and we live a 100 miles from the Twin Cities which is another hour and a half away.

At 6:00 am, my wife stepped into the shower.

By 6:30 am, she was still doing her hair.

At 7:00 am, two barn cats rushed into our garage as we opened the door, costing me 10 minutes and a pork chop to coax them out.

At 7:15 am, our gas gauge insisted that us to stop at the Quickie-Mart.

At 7:20 am, a big rig doing 54 mph on I-35 decided to pass another big rig going 53.99 mph.

At 7:30 am, I lost it.

“You always think you can find time,” I shrieked, “well, what are we going to do now?”

“Make time,” she said.

And she did.

It is too bad that Albert Einstein died in 1955 because he could have learned a thing or two from the love of my life. She not only shattered his General Theory of Relativity, but she blew away everything he struggled to understand about Quantum Mechanics as she pin-balled her way through rush-hour traffic.

We found a place to park, checked our bags and hopped through TSA with minutes to spare.

Just as we reached our gate, the airline agent announced that our seating section could board the plane and a long, long line of weary travelers slowly queued up to shuffle toward the gate.

“Hey,” I told her, “I’m going to slip over to Caribou for a cup of coffee.”

“Are you crazy?” she exclaimed, “you think we have that kind of time to waste?”