Daylight Savings Time

Hear the story read by the author

In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. One Sunday morning the Pastor of the church, Henry O’Donnell, was shaken awake by his daughter, Katie. “Dad, wake up!” Katie said. “It’s after eight.”

Henry blinked at his alarm clock, trying to get the digital numbers to focus. It said 7:03. “It’s seven,” he mumbled. “I have half an hour until my alarm goes off.”

“Did you forget Daylight Savings Time?” Katie asked.

Henry has not, in fact, forgotten Daylight Savings Time. The night before he’d changed every clock in the house save the one on his night stand which he figured he would reset just before he went to bed. But he’d stayed up late watching a movie and when he finally stumbled bleary-eyed up to his bedroom, he had forgotten that final, all-important clock. His wife Jennifer was on a business trip so she hadn’t been there to remind him, either. The shot of adrenalin as Henry realized all this brought him fully awake.

The first service of the morning started at 9:00. Henry knew from experience that the latest he dare leave his house was 8:30 a.m. That gave him twenty-seven minutes. Actually twenty-six. He’d used up one precious minute making those calculations.

Henry pulled on a clean white shirt and slacks. Having less than half an hour to get ready meant he had to set priorities. For Henry, breakfast was a priority. He could skip his shower, forget about the paper, but he was not a man who allowed himself to miss meals.

Henry elected for the quickest breakfast he knew how to make: toaster waffles. He wolfed down four with a glass of orange juice and cup of coffee.

Katie looked up over the comics section of the paper as Henry shoved the last enormous forkful of waffle in his mouth. “You’ve got syrup on your shirt,” she informed him.

Henry dashed upstairs to change his shirt.

The time was 8:22. Henry continued his mental prioritizing. Forget brushing his teeth – he had mints in his glove compartment. But he had to shave. He might get away with one day’s growth, but he’d last applied his razor to his dark beard on Thursday, the day his wife had left for her business trip. He could imagine the disapproving looks he’d receive from certain ladies of the church if he showed up sporting a three-day stubble.

In his haste, he dripped a dollop of shaving gel on the fresh shirt. Using language that would have made the ladies at church gasp even more than the sight of an unshaven pastor, he soaked a washcloth and dabbed at the spot. The small seed of gel bloomed into a large blotch of greenish foam. Henry’s rubbing was only expanding the area affected so he pulled off the shirt and got another clean one – wisely waiting until after he finished shaving.

At 8:27 Henry was filling up a travel mug of coffee and thanking Katie profusely for brewing it that morning. And then the cup slipped out of his hand, bouncing on the counter and splattering his shirt.

He was out of clean dress shirts but found one in the hamper that appeared relatively fresh to the eye if not exactly to the nose. At 8:30 he was pulling out of the driveway and resisting the urge to inform Katie that her coffee was a little on the strong side.

He made it to church at 8:54, much to the relief of choir director Shane Reed and church secretary Tammy Billings.

After church, Henry dropped Katie off at the movies to meet a couple of her friends. He then went through a fast food drive-through to get lunch. “Whew,” he thought, “thank heavens that’s over!” He ate in the car, dripping ketchup on his shirt, then drove out to the airport to pick up his wife.

He was an hour late. He’d forgotten to reset his car’s dashboard clock for daylight saving’s time.