When I was a kid I was not allowed to be inside the house when the sun was shining. On a farm that included 1,500 chickens, 60 pigs, 30 steers and two cows, and grew corn, wheat, hay and potatoes, and contained peach, pear and apple orchards plus a large truck patch, there was no time to sit around reading. This was made clear to me on any number of occasions.

As a teenager I went to some lengths to sneak reading time. Our tractors all had little toolboxes, and I slipped paperbacks under the tools. I had books stashed away in the chicken houses; I gathered up the eggs as fast as possible, and then took a ten-minute reading break.

I once attempted to read while cultivating corn. In theory it should have worked. The corn rows in our fields above Preacher's Camp were long and straight, and I thought if I could hold the steering wheel steady, I would be able to read, and no one would know. It didn't work. I was able to read just fine, but when I looked back I saw that I had ripped out about 50 yards worth of corn rows.

Years later I was still working a similar theory. On a Sunday morning I was driving on I-80 across the salt flats west of Salt Lake City. That stretch of roadway is as straight as a ruler for mile after mile. I was pulled over by a Utah trooper for weaving. He asked me if I had been drinking, and I assured him I had not. I said maybe I wasn't paying attention because of the monotony of the straight road. He let me off with a warning. What he didn't notice on the floor of the car was the New York Times I had been reading before he pulled me over.

To this day, I'm not convinced I was weaving. I think he may have stopped me because I had California plates and one of those Darwin fishes with the little feet on the back of my car. It was Utah.

Also, in my defense, I have never texted anyone while driving. Actually, I've never texted anyone.

Guilt instilled at an early age tends to stay with us through adulthood. This means that even though I live on what might be considered a "hobby farm" and am a retiree, I can't escape the feeling that it is just wrong to be inside during daylight reading a book. Weeds should be pulled, grass should be mowed, sheds should be painted and the chicken pen should be cleaned.

As a consequence, in the summer my magazines pile up and books are never finished. In late June at 9:15 p.m., when the day is done, it is just about time for bed.

As you might guess, winter is my favorite season, followed by late fall or early spring. As you might also surmise, I'm not a real big fan of daylight "saving" time, but in a few weeks that will end, and it will be dark by 5 p.m. Wonderful.

Roy Christman