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Telling Time Is Not As Easy As It Looks
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Learning to tell time doesn't have to be a psychologically traumatic experience, but to me it was. My mother, otherwise a great mom, thought that I, at four–years–old or so, should have that skill. To that end she drew a series of clock–faces with hands in different positions and instructed me to puzzle–out what, to me, was a hopelessly arcane and confusing exercise. I didn't do well at all. For several weeks I had nightmares about snarling clocks. I overheard my mom saying to my dad, "Frank, I'm afraid your son may have a severe learning disability." My father took my side. As I remember he said something like, "Whaddaya mean MY son?" My dad always took my side. I didn't know what a learning disability was, but I was pretty sure it wasn't good and that it had something to do with not being able to tell time. At that age I was not one to displease his mother. After all, I was in no position to cut out on my own. I applied myself, and by sixteen I was able to tell time with the best of them. I did not own a wristwatch, however, until I was 37. That's when they came out with digital watches. If my trusty digital timepiece read 7:24, then by God that's what time it was! What my mother never knew was that sometimes when I'm very tired and someone asks me what time it is, and I'm wearing my expensive watch with hands and all, I have a tendency to say, "The big hand is on the three and the little hand is on the two." But I'm still trying, mom.
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