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Time and I need to kiss and make up. For as long as I can remember, I've treated time like an enemy. At age 10 I couldn't deliver my newspapers and get to school in time to avoid Miss Russell's scowl. I walked my route; daydreamed; talked with Goat Grindy, the bartender; and played with the dogs along the way. Then I'd sprint through gardens and across yards, slipping into my seat at roughly 8:29 and 57 seconds. In high school, I was embarrassed when a friend told me play practice never began on time because everybody had to wait for me. "I can't help it," I pleaded. There was just too much to do and too many people with whom to linger.
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