Finding ways to mark the time, as it flies by

Something's wrong down at my dentist's office. Somebody or something has slipped up. Maybe their database got erased or a virus infected their computers ... or, in their case, an abscess. Regardless, I haven't heard a word.

For years, as regular as, well, as a trip to the dentist is supposed to be, I have received a little reminder in the mail, maybe even a phone call, to tell me it is time for my regular six-month visit. We are going on 11 months or so now, and not a word. Nada. Zilch.

And those visits were one of the ways I marked time, so it has kind of thrown me off. I like marking time and noting those things that help us do so.

Marking time is using little benchmarks to monitor how fast the time is flying by, or how slow, or what is coming next. Sure, a calendar is fine, but there are so many other subtle ways that I have found that help me keep track of time, and myself.

Lugging yellow sacks of water-conitioning salt down the basement, for example. About once a month, Spouse will ask me if we are low on salt. She, being the one with sensititive skin, notices these things. And about two weeks later, I do the lugging. So, I mark off about every six weeks with a conditioning salt exercise.

The beginning of a new school year. Commencement. Not getting nearly as much done during the summer as you were hoping to. These are the ways we mark time, tick off the seasons of our lives.

After a doctor's visit, Spouse felt compelled to buy me one of those week-long pill boxes, with space for all the pills needed each day. (Yes, unfortunately they are starting to add up.) I'm not kidding you — all I do is fill up those little mini-boxes with pills, I swear. I no sooner get all seven spaces filled, plus the ones in my hand for that evening's gulp, and I'm doing it all over again. If I ever get sentenced to 20 years in a Turkish prison or have to spend two weeks at my inlaws, I am going to insist on having one of those pill minders —- that's the perfect way to make the time just fly by.

Little pill boxes have become one of my main ways for marking time. Dang it all.

You used to be able to mark the time by the beginning of the new television season — remember that? There was a time when it was an organized moment in time for three (three — ha!) networks. Or how about "the new car season," which always happened at the same time each year? Now anniversaries of the bailout will be the only way to keep track of time relative to the auto companies, I suppose.

I had to buy a new blow-up pool for the backyard a few weeks back. Boy, you can set you clock to that one. Once a year, steady as she goes.

The wildfire season. Now there's one that rolls around regularly. Set your calendar in your brain by the ominous tones of the 6 o'clock anchor warning us that this season could be a bad wildfire season. Well, duh. Yes it could. Or not.

Or how about those stupid end-of-the-newscast video clips of the running of the bulls? Or of big wheels of cheese being rolled down hills in England, while idiots run after them, falling head over tea kettle? Regular as fireworks on the Fourth. And a way to mark time.

When I was a youngster, I could mark time by getting a new pair of eyeglasses. It happened every, um, late August, just before school started. We made the trip to Logan for updated school clothes and new glasses. With a sharper prescription, I was ready for the school year and could now see clearly the tether ball as it smacked me in the face, breaking the glasses at the bridge of the nose, and necessitating the white-adhesive-tape look that graced my face most of the year.

Lately, I have been marking time by how often I get to Pickleville Playhouse, by watching the level of Bear Lake go up or down and by how few movies I get to that aren't animated, by that crick in my back that comes and goes. We could all mark time by the number of newspapers going out of business or by how many trillions the deficit is in today.

I even caught myself marking time recently as I counted how many U.S. presidents I could remember. Hint: the rising generation doesn't get the old "where were you when JFK was assassinated" bit. Don't even go there.

I'm starting to see sons and daughters of students I once taught come through my office, for heck sakes.

Which just goes to show that regardless of how you mark your time, you've lost it.