Sunday, November 3, 2019

Daylight Savings Time

Daylight Savings Time came into existence in the United States during the first World War in 1918 as a way to conserve energy and for the farmers to use as much daylight as possible to keep the crops growing. The idea was discontinued after seven months. During the second World War, however, the current model of Daylight Savings Time was signed into law by Roosevelt, and the format is still in use today. Today, 70 different countries have some form of daylight savings time, so it's not unique to the US.

The idea was not new when it was first executed in the US. In fact, Ben Franklin, back in 1784, wrote a letter to the editor of a Parisian newspaper, suggesting candle usage could be conserved if people would go to bed earlier and get up earlier. But Franklin meant it as a joke. It's a pity people didn't take it as such.

Turning back the clocks plays havoc with one's internal clock, much like jet lag. It usually takes about a week for my body to get used to it. Even though I don't have a job where I have to clock in anymore, my internal clock wakes me at 7 each morning when it needs coffee, and I'm ready to hit the sack by 11pm. We'll see how long it takes me this fall to get used to it.

What will I do with the extra hour today? Will I work on my manuscript, which I've been neglecting in favor of spending quality time with my sisters? Will I start planning a launch for my first new book in two years? Or will I roll over and get an extra hour of sleep? Inquiring minds want to know. Especially mine. In the meanwhile, here's a bit of an introduction to Libby, from my WIP:

 The proprietor gave her a sideways look when she appeared in the lobby.
“I’d like a room, please.” Libby gave him one of her solemn smiles.
“You’re alone?” 
Libby nodded. “Yes. I’d like to arrange for long-term accommodations.” 
The glint in the man’s eyes when she mentioned a long-term arrangement made her almost certain she would clear this hurdle. 
“Your name, please.” He held out a quill pen for her to sign the guest book. 
She took special care to put a Mrs before her new name. The man spun the book around and peered at her signature. 
“Mrs. Wexford, eh? Will Mr. Wexford be joining you anytime soon?” 
Libby manufactured a tear, which she made a show of brushing away. “I’m afraid Mr. Wexford just passed.” 
He mumbled an apology, handed her a key and took her money for the first week’s rent. Libby placed her fingers on her fluttering stomach. She’d told the truth, sort of. Mr. Wexford had recently passed. 

She thought she’d have a bigger battle on her hands, but evidently, widows were aplenty in Boston. The scuffle with Britain had been simmering for some years and was about to turn into a full-blown war. Just the kind of distraction she needed. If all the men in Boston were consumed by the Revolution against Britain, she could live here peacefully.

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