I’ve been thinking about time and it’s about time — I’m 75 years old. When my mother turned 75, she announced to the family: “I’m 75 years old now — I’m an old lady.” Maybe she was. I never thought of her as old, but then, she was my mother. I don’t think of myself as old, either, even though, in the Pugh family, I’ve lived longer than any male in the past three generations.

Seventy-five years is a long time, but how long is it, really? I decided to measure.

I got out my tape measure and played it out to 75 inches, mentally labeling each inch as a year. The first thing I noticed is that I am older than I am tall. Next thing I noticed is there are a lot of years between zero and 75, but not nearly so many between 75 and what can reasonably be predicted as the number of years left to me.

Did I mention those years — all 75 of them — have gone by quickly? If I didn’t, they have, and it bothers me that the older I get, the quicker they seem to pass. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I don’t think so, because I can remember a time when time didn’t seem to pass so fast.

The New’s editor, Bill Speer, recently complained: “As I grow older, it seems as time has a way of speeding up. One blink and a season has passed.” I guess I’m not alone.

It sometimes scares me the way time moves along. I’ll be doing something or other and look up at the clock and an hour or more will have passed. Years ago, it would have been 15 or 20 minutes. Of course, maybe it just takes me longer to do things. Maybe the problem is I used to do something in 15 or 20 minutes that now takes me an hour or so, but I don’t think so. I think the problem was the clock.

It was a digital clock with lighted numerals that flashed when it needed attention. I don’t like things flashing at me — especially in the dark. This clock made a buzzing sound that passed for an alarm and had an obnoxious little red light that lit up when the alarm was armed — as if issuing a warning.

I never completely trusted that clock. If you picked it up and put it to your ear, all you would hear was a disconcerting hum. If, at noon, I would leave for a minute or two, when I came back, it would read 12:30 or later and offer no explanation for the unaccounted time. So, I asked it: “Where did all that time go?” The clock answered: “Time stays — you go.”

Gave me the creeps.

So I purchased a new clock. Now, I have an old-style, wind-up clock that comfortably alerts me to the passage of time with its audible click, click, clicking of passing seconds. It’s one of the best moves I’ve made in quite some time. Now, if I leave for a minute, only a few minutes will have passed upon my return.

The new clock has an alarm so loud it can interrupt time. Its hands glow in the dark but don’t engage in that unnerving flashing. Its second hand sweeps so smoothly I can watch it pass in comfort. Being comfortable with the passage of time is half the battle.

This old wind-up clock has some very attractive features. With a little knob, I can adjust the clock’s hands backward if they get beyond where I think they should be. Also, there’s a dial allowing me to adjust the movement’s speed if it starts running too fast for me, and if I fail to wind it, it will slow, coming in time, to a sympathetic stop. I’ve not yet used any of these features, but it’s a comfort knowing they’re there.

“A stitch in time saves nine” is an old English saying I always thought related to sewing — turns out, it’s about time.

Doug Pugh’s Vignettes runs bi-weekly on Tuesdays. He can be reached via email at pughda@gmail.com.