Sunbonnet Soliloquy

By Jewell Ellen Smith

Father Time and the Sandman

Every January I get worried. It’s because of the New Year.

On New Year’s Eve I sneak off to bed early and cover my ears -- can’t bear to hear other folks whooping it up, ringing out the old year and celebrating the new.

The bells and horns and whistles that sound on the stroke of midnight are to me just a reminder of how fast time goes by. And as I lie there with a pillow on top of my head instead of under it, I get to thinking of bow the year just ended has slipped away into nothing, how I accomplished next to nothing.

But this New Year’s Eve was different. I hid that pillow from myself and made my eyes stay open. I read for a while -- the newspaper, a “National Geographic” article, part of a chapter in the Bible. Yet it seemed that I was dreaming a dream.

The old Sandman came floating in with his bag of dust, but he didn’t bother to sprinkle any of it in my eyes. He was too busy laughing and talking with a long-robcd fellow who had the whitest, longest beard I ever saw. It dragged to the floor. At first I thought this must be the Sandman’s assistant, or, maybe even his boss. But that couldn’t be so for the old man didn’t have a bag of dust. Instead, he was carrying a sickle.

They spoke in whispers and I couldn’t hear half of what they said. It was the old man who was doing most of the talking.

“Sandy, my boy, you have it easy! You deal in days. With me, it’s years. And I—“

“But, Father Time, it’s not easy to—“

“Don’t interrupt me, son! I’m lots older than you are. Show some respect for your elders!” The old man laughed, slapped the Sandman on the shoulder, and kept talking.

“The problem I have with people, Sandy, is that they don’t understand time. And years. Especially years. People simply don’t understand years. They try to rush through ‘em. But they seem to think the years are rushing by them. It’s the people -- not the years -- who are going along at break neck speed.”

“Why, Sir, that seems odd. A year is just 365 days. Surely people can understand that. It’s 365 nights, too, and that means 365 bags of sand for me to take on my sleepy-time rounds.”

Father Time didn’t seem interested in the Sandman’s rounds.

“Sandy, what I wish I could tell people is this:

Whoever made time -- well, I shouldn’t say ‘Whoever’, for it was the divine Creator -- made it so that there is a time for all things. A time to be born, a time to die. A time to plant, a time to reap. A time to laugh, a time to weep. A time to be sad and mourn, a time to be glad and dance for joy. A time to win, a time to lose. A time to live, a time to be loved. A time to keep silence, a time to speak. A time to work, a time to rest. A time for war, a time for peace ...

The old man’s voice faded out. He and the Sandman floated right through the bookcase. I wondered why they didn’t leave through the window.

Next morning, New Year’s Day, I woke bright and early. As I thought of that dream I decided to try to understand time, especially years.

When I reached over the bookcase to get my glasses, I noticed that the bookcase was covered with dust -- thick dust. The newspaper, the magazine, and the Bible were lying on the floor.

How clumsy of the Sandman and Father Time!

Published January 1981. Click your browser’s ‘Back’ button to return.