Being late. Why?

The last page of The Atlantic magazine was an ode. I don’t know if it still is because the latest issue has been misplaced. But it was not a lyric poem in the form of an address to a particular subject, often elevated in style or manner and written in varied or irregular meter, as the definition of ode states.

In the January-February issue, 2022, it was “An Ode to America — “You’re better than this, sweet land of liberty,” by James Parker. Not a poem; more an essay.

But it was the March issue Ode that I identified with —“Ode to being late” — also by James Parker.

He began with the episode from “Alice in Wonderland, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!’”

And then goes on to state about himself, “Me, I’m always late. Or about to be late.” “Why do I do it?” he asks.

Which made me remember the years when I was always late to work, if only by about 5 minutes. This tardiness extremely irritated my supervisor, never mind that I stayed up to an hour late most days in my job as editor of the Fort Sill newspaper. And that every week, on deadline day I went to our publisher (The Lawton Constitution) after work to check the first paper off the press for errors. And if any were found, to make the corrections then and there while the pressmen waited impatiently.

Why didn’t I just leave home five minutes earlier in the morning? It’s a question I asked myself back then — and now. When I first went to work at Fort Sill in the G-3 office, the hours were 8 to 5, with an hour off for lunch. Nice, civilized hours. Then somebody decided that if we went to work at 7:30 and had only a half hour lunch period, we could quit at 4. I hated the new hours. I hated the half-hour lunch period because I played bridge with three others — sometimes military, the rest, other civilians in the same building — but even though we ate our lunches while we played, and the dummy shuffled and dealt out the next hands, 30 minutes was way too short a time. But I really, really hated starting work at 7:30 in the morning.

Was it a useless protest against driving to work in the winter, as it was just getting light? And since I seldom left the office at 4 p.m., especially on deadline day, I was also driving home in the dark.

It wasn’t my husband’s fault. He took care of getting our three sons up and breakfasted and made his own daily breakfast of bacon and eggs. I usually had toast, bacon and coffee before I reluctantly said goodbye and headed out the door.

No, it was some innermost protest which I still don’t understand. “Why did I do it?” I didn’t know then — and I don’t know now. Not that I do it any more. Now retired, I go to bed at midnight and sleep till 9 a.m. and nobody cares.

But I identified with Parker who ended his ode like this: “I choose lateness. It gives me velocity. Here I come. And if you’re waiting for me, relax. Stop scowling. I’m never that late.”

Mary McClure is a former newspaper editor who lives in Lawton.