Chaos at the Time Change

We set up the patio furniture and braced ourselves for the onslaught.

Photo by Matthieu Joannon on Unsplash

No sooner had we turned the clocks forward than shards of sunlight shot up in the eastern sky. We dived into our emergency supplies for sunscreen then donned our sun gear - flip-flops, shorts, tank tops. We set up the patio furniture and braced ourselves for the onslaught.  

I knew if I didn't rush to Smith's, anxious hordes would empty the shelves of every brisket and briquette in the place. Soon, farmers' marketeers would sneak in with fresh produce. First responders would organize pancake breakfasts and search for new sources of BBQ.  

Within days of Spring rearing its head, blossoms broke out on every tree. Wildflowers and mustard flooded the desert, turning the entire valley green. Butterflies and bees swarmed the blooms. Birds built sturdy nests to protect their young. We knew we'd have to barricade the perimeter with calendula. Wild horses and bunnies did their best to subdue the plague, but they just couldn't keep up with its relentless spread. 

Then we got the call. HAMs were being deployed to support marathons, bike races, and even the Pony Express. In the midst of this chaos, people would need to find solace in music festivals, picnics, and parades. The parks would be inundated. 

Some evacuated to lakes and streams with their RVs, but were turned back, loaded with trout. We sheltered in place in the lawn swing, consoling ourselves with beach reads and iced tea. We knew… we hoped… we would be able to replenish our cache of pizza and beer, but the mob in the liquor aisles overwhelmed our resolve to enter the fray. 

After a week or so, when the initial panic had waned, we ventured out in the Jeep to survey the damage. It was horrifying. Weary souls collapsed under shade trees. Dirt bikers marauding the hills and canyons. We could hear gunshots from the desert shooting ranges. Even the local horse people resorted to seeking the meaning of life in a world bereft of keyboards and screens. 

This has happened before. Every year just about this time. And we never seem to learn. This too shall pass, we assure ourselves, but it will last for months… possibly until mid October. 

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Sue Cauhape is originally from Salt Lake City, but she now lives in Minden, NV and loves writing about the region. She’s written for newspapers, small press, and her website, Ring Around the Basin. She has three books available on Amazon.

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