There’s a deep and abiding hatred of Daylight Savings Time that’s run through my family for generations. “War time.” That’s what my granddad called it, because that’s what they called it when it was first instituted back in 1918. (We have very spread apart generations on the McCarter side of my family—he was born in 1887.) They said it would save energy for the World War I effort. Of course, where he and my grandma were ranching and farming at the time on the Flathead Reservation in Montana, that was bunk. It was all horse power as far as he was concerned, and dawn was dawn for the horses no matter what. Changing the clocks made absolutely no sense whatsoever, because what difference does it make where the hands are on a clock to a cow or to your crops?  He complained about war time every single spring, and would be pretty appalled to know that at this point we’re living in it almost year round. (As any sensible person should be.) That same loathing, obviously, has been passed down. Dad took up the mantle, of course, but he didn’t blame the war. He blamed the “goddamned Republican golfers” for keeping it going long after any national security justification was gone. Read more