One year when daylight saving time was still scheduled for the first Sunday in April, the day to switch the clocks fell on my older son's birthday, April 5. Russ was a young man who kept score on things: whose turn it was to chose the movie, pass out presents or do the dishes.
"They're stealing an hour right out of my birthday!" Russ exclaimed to no one in particular. It was one of a multitude of injustices inflicted on him, though the remark was made half in jest.
"Don't worry, son," his father said. "Next October, when they add an hour, we'll declare that hour as part of your birthday--if you don't mind celebrating at two in the morning."
Russ has been dead for ten years this April, and his father has been dead for sixteen. They are very much missed, but I smile at this time of year remembering the banter that the two exchanged.
Yesterday there were a host of people who had an hour stolen out of their birthdays. I wonder how many of them noticed it in quite the same way.
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