Sunbonnet Soliloquy

By Jewell Ellen Smith

Father Time Interview

In a dream, on New Year’s Eve, I talked with Father Time -- right here at Ft. Rucker.

The way it came about was this:

The Hedgehopper was a daily newspaper, printed seven days a week at sundown, and devoted entirely to extraordinary, unusual, non-military items. It had editors and more editors, reporters by the dozens, all hired to get out a unique publication.

“The more bizarre, the better” was the quote on its logo.

Four days before Christmas, Helen, the feature editor, sent for me to come to the OWC (Officers’ Wives’ Club) building. I had an uneasy feeling that I had written something too namby-pamby and that she was going to fire me. So, I put my portable typewriter in its case and took it with me to Helen’s office. Might as well turn it in now, I thought.

Helen was busy. She didn’t even look up from her typewriter as I walked in. I eased my typewriter into a chair.

“Sunbonnet,” Helen said (she always called me Sunbonnet), “do you know how to interview dignitaries?”

“Well, uh-- uh-- years ago-- that is, I--

“Never mind, whether you know how or not, here is your assignment for New Year’s Eve.” And she handed me an assignment slip with one hand while she kept typing with the other.

“Now, Sunbonnet, don’t you come back here without some direct quotes, some good quotes, some that mean something. And pay attention to how these dignitaries are dressed, how they walk, how they talk. Note their mannerisms. All three of them should arrive about midnight.”

“Editor, you mean that at midnight on New Year’s Eve I’m to interview three--“

“Your assignment slip will explain everything, Sunbonnet. Goodbye.” And she went on with her typing.

Helen hadn’t even noticed that I had brought in my typewriter. Thank goodness. I grabbed it up and hurried out, reading the assignment slip as I went down the steps. All it said was:

Who -- Father Time and companions

When -- New Year’s Eve night.

Where -- Post parade grounds, near flagpole.

What -- Interview.

It was almost 2400 hours (midnight) on New Year’s Eve when I parked my car out in front of Headquarters and settled back to wait or Father Time’s helicopter to arrive. Then, as soon as my eyes got accustomed to the darkness, I could see a person tramping round and round the flag pole. He was looking down at the ground and wringing his hands.

Poor guy. He must have lost something. Wonder who he is. He’s not Father Time, I can tell that. Father Time wears a long white robe and has a long gray beard that sweeps the ground, and he always carries his scythe.

This fellow has on a long costume, but it looks like it’s made out of sheets of paper. It is paper. It’s pages off a calendar. He’s not carrying anything. He does have a scraggly-looking moustache, but not a flowing beard. He’s definitely not one of the dignitaries; but while I wait I may as well go help him search for whatever valuable thing he has lost.

“Sir, I’ll help you look. Did you lose a ring or a watch? Or what was it?”

Instead of answering my question he started muttering over and over, “I’m ready to go. I’m ready to go. I’m ready to go.”

He sounded sad, like somebody dying of pure heart grief.

“Maybe in the morning, when it gets daylight, you can see better and you’ll find it-whatever it. is.’’

The sad fellow wasn’t listening to me. He evidently didn’t even see me. But suddenly he stopped muttering, straightened up and began waving his arms.

“Over here!” he yelled. “Over here! Father Time, I’m over here, by the flagpole!”

I hadn’t heard the helicopter. But there, settling down not ten feet from us was a battered old Huey. Father Time stepped out. Sure enough, the tip of his beard swept the grass. He had his scythe. And he was leading a rosy, laughing child, naked except for a ribbon tied across his little tummy.

The ribbon read “1984”.

“I’m ready to go! I’m ready to go! It’s all yours, Sonny!” The sad man patted the ribbon-wearing child on the head and hurried toward the Huey.

“Don’t be in such a rush, Eighty Three.” Father Time spoke with much kindness and so slowly that I knew instantly he was a Southerner. “There must be much advice you could offer little Eighty Four.”

“No, not me, Father Time,” Eighty Three called back. “I did the best I could, and that wasn’t very good. So you tell Eighty Four whatever you want him to know, and let’s go!”

As Eighty Three climbed into the helicopter the December page of his costume got caught against the door and the wind bfew it down across the field, toward the Officers’ Club parking lot.

“Oh, Father Time,” I cried, “I want to interview you for the Hedgehopper newspaper. Please tell me something I can quote!”

“Ah, child, just tell your readers that I came at midnight, as I always do, to take away the old year and to bring the new one. Tell them Eighty Four looks like the most promising year I ever brought to man.” He turned to say something to young Eighty Four. Then he came back to me.

“You might mention this to your readers: Any year is a good year, if a person makes it so. It takes the hand, the head, the heart.

“What you must not mention is that life is very short, that the years each person has are few. Your readers will find that out, on their own, soon enough.”

He stooped to kiss little Eighty Four. “Sugar, I’ll come back to get you -- just 365 days from now. You take care, and remember you’re to hand each person one day at a time -- no more, no less.”

Eighty Four nodded his head. “Yes, Sir. I will.”

Father Time walked to his Huey. In less than a minute he lifted off. He waved to us. Little Eighty Four waved. I waved. And I woke up.

That Sunday, New Year’s Day, when I was parking my car out in front of the Officers Club, I noticed a rumpled sheet of paper that had blown against the base of the Live Oak tree just at the edge of the parade field. I picked it up. It was the December page from a 1983 calendar.

Published January 1984. Click your browser’s “Back” button to return.