There is a clock on every corner, A car traveling at a mere two miles-per-hour under the speed limit will be forced to endure blaring horns. People check their watches every thirty or forty seconds to make sure that they will not miss the event that in their minds seems so important. The sweeping motions of the hands on a clock control their lives. This is evident of any busy sidewalk in any major American city. It could also be seen on one fall day in St.
George, Utah, where an endless throng of people moved east down the side of St. George Blvd. I shamefully admit that I was one of then, obsessed with the thought of deadlines, my life a mess of blind sprints from one thing to the next, I was approaching the Third Street intersection. The air was mild and pleasant, though I hardly had time to notice it.
The sun was high in the sky, and only a few fluffy, cotton clouds lingered in the rich blue expanse above me. The leaves were falling already, and the wind was dense with smell of autumn and the approaching winter. I checked my watch as I passed by Kelly’s, a small, unnoticed fast-food joint. ‘”That ” ll by $7.
61.” She handed him a ten. While waiting impatiently for her change, she wondered how she would possibly be able to make it to lunch with her old high-school friend, visit the library, and drop off her mail before her next class started at 1: 15.
