I’ve always had a strange affinity for clocks; but not just any kind of clock.
It has to make a super cool ‘tick, tock’ sound and hauntingly chime the hour.
There’s a very special clock shoppe near my house that I visit from time to time.
Upon entering, I am immersed in this surreal ‘Willy Wonka’ -like world where the measuring of time is an essential component accompanied by the hypnotic rhythm of steel and machine working in unison.
My mouth forms a large ‘O’ as I marvel at these magnificent timepieces laboring away; the world completely unaware of the Seth Thomas Beehive, the archaic Grandfather clock and the fanatical Cuckoo ticking away the draining seconds of the day, the many sacred moments of life that we are, for the most part, seemingly unaware of.
I can’t seem to put my finger on why time amazes me so much, but it does.
I can’t hold it and I can’t change it; I can’t make it mine.
I have the week off and have gone on something of a cleaning/re-arranging binge and came upon this old (and silent) mantle clock from my grandmother’s house.
It’s the one shown above.
I heard the clock chime some 43+ years ago in her house and it amazes me that I still remember the chime. The clock resided in my grandparent’s house (my mother’s side) for years, a possible Christmas present from my grandfather to my grandmother.
But the strangest thing is that I remember the sound of the chime, the intrinsic feeling of its indelible and audible stamp in my mind.
The passage of time hasn’t changed my total and undeniable recognition of its tone and timbre. How can that be?
I wound it tonight and can hear the comforting ‘tick-tock’ of it as I type this post; an old friend telling me time is still incessantly rushing by and I am powerless to stop it.
It’s something of a comfort and I wonder if I’d really want to stop it.
Even if I could. . .