’tis the season…
A bark, a shot in the dark and we land at the changing of seasons only to find the illusion of more sunshine, later sunsets, later sunrises…all the while, the clocks keep ticking.
Ticking is like itching and the difference can be equated to internal vs. external, sympathetic vs. parasympathetic…to control (sic) or be controlled.
I lived on the border of North Dakota and Minnesota in a bustling, quaint metropolis called Fargo-Morehead in 7th grade [school year 1967–68]. In addition to being in this remote region of elongated winters, soul music was heard via Wolfman Jack on XERB on clear nights. It was also a region where cultural singularity was the norm. With the entree of me, the only African American in the school district and the first “live” person of African descent many had encountered, change was in the air.
While the winters were long and dreadfully cold, summers were short and hot and Morehead acknowledged Daylight Savings Time and Fargo did not. This made for bizarre media broadcasts, disjointed migrant farmworkers schedules and ultra early broadcasts of Johnny Carson.
I wonder how the animals in nature respond to the humans altering their clocks. I would love to be a fly on the wall of a deer den, as not only could I get the latest deer-talk about current affairs, I most likely wouldn’t be swatted.