My work trip to Chattanooga ended very nicely. I even found time to walk around their downtown, which is darn nice what with the river walk along the Tennessee River, the Walnut Street Pedestrian Bridge, and the spacious, wide sidewalks leading to loads of quality restaurants. The nice thing about doing consulting work with schools is that you are typically done by 4 p.m. at the latest.  I am happy to report that many a Frisbee floated in the Chattanoogan sky that eve.  If that city wasn’t in the South, I could totally see myself living there.

While at our client’s school, I was able to admire some of the artwork in the library, including several prints by John Falter. In fact, I liked them so much that I did a little bit of research on a few of my favorites. “The Bridge” stood out for its chaotic layout and stark portrayal of a Revolutionary War era battle, soon-to-be Americans bayoneting the hell out of some British jerks (no offense, Dan) who were trying to cross some bridge, hence the title (no image online of this painting as far as I could find, dern it). After a bit more Googling, it turns out that the bridge in question is The North Bridge of Battle of Concord fame, a integral moment in American history and one of the reasons why I had today off from work.

For today is Patriots’ Day! Most of the workin’ folk of Maine and Massachusetts had today off from toiling thanks to those long deceased minutemen. I spent the day most patriotically, starting off with a nice three-hour yard raking session. “The Pond” has all but dried up in the back, and I am determined to make use of as much of our property as possible. Those American revolutionaries didn’t charge into battle with rifles that couldn’t shoot a man with his finger in the barrel just so I could sit back and let a full third of my half acre estate fall into forgotten disrepair. No sir. As a true patriot on Patriots’ Day, I left no leaf unraked, no fallen branch uncollected. I’m happy to report that the yard looks a large percent better and ready for some shade gardens and such. And I even unearthed an action figure — a humanoid camel who turned out to be none other than Sandstorm, the cool camel captain!

Following all this patriotic lawn work, I loaded the family up and drove us all over 40 miles to the nearest Target for some all-American consumerism. Truthfully, we just needed to stock up on some things for Hazel’s first day of daycare, which is tomorrow. Rather than just settle for our local Wal-mart, we made a day of it and head to Augusta, our state’s fine capital. How could we have better paid tribute to those fallen nascent Americans than by touring the cerebral cortex of Maine’s democratic government? No better, fair readers, no better at all.

America, we breathed you deeply today, this glorious day, this Patriots’ Day. Amongst the olfactory tinge of the Union worker on the line, the immigrant family yearning to be free, and the odorous smoke of freedom-ringing fireworks, we sniffed fries and burgers. So, on the way home, we had a drive-thru dinner, like true American patriots.

Last night, Hazel decided it would be a hoot to cry uncontrollably from 1 a.m. until about 3:30 or so. The most likely culprit is teething, which I see as more of a red herring for parents to rely upon during ambiguous caterwauling spells than a consistent tear bringer. She also might have been really bummed by the latest casualties of “American Idol”, but since she has never seen the show, this is another catalyst to strike from the tally.

The most certain answer that I see is that today is February 29^th. Not only does it mark the end of a pretty cool month—February has the common decency to last only four weeks, thereby stepping aside quickly in my everlasting desire for November, the month of turkey and birthdays—but it also means that March is nigh upon us. All in all, March is a scary month. Not only does it come in like a proverbial snarling lion, but it also holds within it 31 days the dread Ides of March. I’ve been trying to get through the complete Shakespeare catalog with Hazel, but she has an unfortunately short attention span for long blocks of dense text with no illustrations of cuddly bunnies or chirping baby chicks. The result of her budding ADHD or just being a baby: You Make the Call! Even March’s name is frightening: MARCH! It may as well be called Schnell! for all the imagery of forced trudging through muddy desolation it brings to mind. The softest correlation of March’s moniker would be Sousa; this name change might impart a sunnier disposition. But after looking at his photo (ol’ John Philip bears an amazing resemblance to a Stratego game piece), I think any way you slice it, March is destined to strike fear in the hearts of any feeling souls on this planet or any other that recognize the Gregorian calendar system. Surely, this must be the cause of Hazel’s twilight terrors: a tearful goodbye to February coupled with a horrified acceptance that yes, March’s tyrannical rule starts tomorrow.

Just think of how sad Hazel will be once she figures out that she won’t see another 2/29 until she’s nearly five years old. It just doesn’t seem fair.

In the classic irresponsible fashion of youth, Hazel forgot that we turn the clocks back over the weekend because Daylight Savings Time ended or began – I can never remember which is which. So on Sunday, she was up and ready for action at six AM sharp. Megan and I weren’t as peppy, but so it goes with a human alarm clock.

The simple, arbitrary change to our timepieces pretty much bamboozled Hazel for the rest of the day. All the consistency we’ve meticulously built for her over the past six months was wrenched apart and strewn about the place like a scarecrow in a hurricane. Yes, Daylight Savings Time (DST [Not to be confused with WDST]) is truly an evil, winged monkey, with Hazel’s daily routine in its poop-flinging mitts. “My naptime is over there! And some of my afternoon walk is over there! And they took my bath time and threw it over there!”

I offer my deepest apologies for that quagmire of ill-worded imagery.

Back on task, I’d like to take a moment to cast aspersions on the inventor of DST. Damn you, William Willett! I decree a pox on you and your daylight-savin’, vest-wearin’, influenza-dyin’-of ways. Haven’t you ever heard of circadian rhythms, you dumb jerk? I’m glad that Benjamin Franklin, a guy who wanted the turkey to be the gobbling symbol of America, often gets credited for your brainchild. And that sundial erected in your memory? Well that thing doesn’t even tell the correct time year round thanks to your monstrous invention. For shame, you deceased golfer and avid outdoorsman!

Sure, DST may be a biannual bane, but at least it has a sense of poetic justice. Not only has Willett been regimented to an oft-overlooked footnote in the annals of history, but his great-great-grandson, the lead singer of Coldplay, had a daughter and named her Apple. That’s a real fly in the lineage ointment.