My Story of The Old Clock
On the end-table, in my living room, stood
an old broken clock.
"Why do you keep that old broken clock,
Grandma? It doesn't tick and it doesn't chime. And, Grandma -
One day, when you were dusting, I saw inside the clock when you
moved it and the back fell off - and, well, the parts are all
out of it and in a jar." Carl was full of questions.
"There's a real story behind that
old clock, Carl. Would you like to hear about it?" asked
the grandmother.
"Well, is it a good story?" the
boy asked.
"Why don't I tell you and then you
can judge for yourself?"
"I guess." Carl was almost sorry
that he had asked about the old clock. Funny thing, he thought,
I kind of like the lions' heads and the pillars. Even though the
the face was yellowed with age, he couldn't help wish he could
open the glass and take the big key and wind it up. You had to
wind it in two different spots. Hmmmmm...... "Yeah Gram,"
said Carl, "I think I would like to hear the story. Really!"
"Now let's see," started his
grandmother. "I grew up during the depression in the thirties
and..."
"Golly-gee, Gram - you're old.
I mean YOU ARE OLD! I bet you're older than that old clock."
"Well, after all, I am your grandmother,
Carl. Do you want to hear this story or not? It will take a long
time if you keep interrupting."
"Sorry. Go on, Grandma, and I'll try
to 'button my lip', as you sometimes say."
The woman smiled and started again. "To
your remark about me being older than the clock - I am not, as
you will find out. When I was just a wee bit of a girl, my summers
used to be spent in the country on my uncle's farm. It had been
my grandfather's farm. When he died, before I was even born, he
left it to my uncle with the provision that my grandma always
had a home there, with him and his family, for the rest of her
life."
"Grandma, is this going to be a sad
story?"
"This is a true story, Carl. I don't
find it sad. I think it's a little like a mystery and something
of a love story."
"Golly-gee! Mushy stuff; I should
have known," he mumbled.
"Well, let's finish and you can decide.
None-the-less, it happened - not a made-up story. And, best of
all - it happened to your own family."
"This farm that I visited in the summers
was where my father grew up. My grandma was his mother. When she
was quite old, she fell and broke her hip, and so walked very
carefully with the help of a cane. She spent most of her days
sitting in her rocking chair doing handwork."
"What's handwork?" asked Carl.
"Good question," said the grandmother.
"My grandma knit and crocheted and tatted and sewed on quilts.
All that is called handwork, and before you ask, tatting and crocheting
are ways of making lace."
"Because of her bad hip, my grandma
had her bedroom downstairs. It was a nice room off the parlour,
as they called our living rooms in those days. I slept in a bedroom
right above hers. Sometimes, when I woke up in the night and felt
alone and scared because the big house was so quiet and everyone
was asleep, I listened and heard the ticking of this very same
old clock. I would wait and listen for it to chime and nearly
always fell off to sleep again before it did. It was just like
it was talking to me. I really loved that it was there."
"You mean this was your grandmother's
clock? Golly-gee! It really is old. But how did you get
it, Gram?"
"First, I'll tell you how my grandmother
got it." Looking over at Carl, the woman settled back in
her chair and started remembering................. "This
is what my dad was told," she said.
The Story of The First Owners
Farming was not easy. One year, at the
very beginning of the 1900's when money was scarce, John Adams
remembered that he had loaned money to a man almost a year before.
He thought how much that money would help his family over the
long winter. So, he went to the man and told him that he was sorry,
but he really needed repayment of the money he had loaned him.
The man sighed a long sigh. "John,
I know you wouldn't ask if you didn't need it, but business has
been slow and I really don't have it." Now, this man happened
to own a shop - a clock shop. He said, "I'm sorry I don't
have the money, John, but you can choose any clock in the shop
if you will consider the debt paid."
John Adams didn't really want a clock but
didn't want to make his friend feel any worse. Perhaps he could
sell the clock, he thought. He looked around at big ones and small
ones and medium ones. As his eyes paused on a shiny black mantel
clock, it chimed the hour. He said, "I reckon that one will
do, if it is alright with you."
The shopkeeper parcelled up the clock and
the two men shook hands.
John went home, wondering who might pay
him for the handsome clock. When he arrived home, his wife asked
about the money matter and he told her about the shopkeeper's
predicament and showed her the clock.
Grandma Eliza Jane and Grandfather John
Adams had a large family. John did not have money to buy his wife
pretty things like some men did for their wives. He saw his pretty
wife's face light up when she saw the beautiful, shiny-black clock
- a lion's head on each side as handles, three pillars on each
side of the big white face that had black numbers and hands, and
brass trim around the outside of the glass. The round glass opened
up and there were two places to wind, using the big key.
"Do you think it would be alright
if we wound it, John? Just to make sure it keeps good time?"
Her husband agreed, and so the clock was
wound and set upon the top of the chiffoneer in their bedroom.
Every hour the clock chimed the hour - two beautiful chimes for
two o'clock, twelve for twelve o'clock. At the half hour, it chimed
once, and the constant tick, tick, tick continued throughout the
rest of the day and all during the night.
"This is an eight-day clock, Eliza,"
said John. "Will I have to sleep with the eiderdown over
my ears all night every night until it stops?" Eliza just
smiled and rubbed the duster over it, humming all the while.
On the night of the eighth day, John and
Eliza could not sleep. Grandfather tossed and Grandmother turned
and it was so very quiet. The beautiful shiny-black clock, with
the ribbon scroll at the top of the front, had stopped. When daylight
came and the rooster crowed, John rolled out of bed and found
Eliza in the kitchen baking bread. Nothing was said of the clock,
but, when Eliza went in to make the bed, the clock was gone. Things
continued on as they had before; nobody, not even the children,
ever mentioned the clock.
Christmas came and the house was full of
extra-good aromas from the big black stove and oven. John bought
oranges for the children, a few nuts in the shell because they
really liked them, and apples were taken from storage. Eliza had
knit socks, hats, mittens, scarves, and even sweaters for everyone.
The best lace doilies were set out and the finest quilts donned
the beds. The house smelled of gingerbread and pine and everyone
gathered around the old pump organ in the parlour to sing carols.
On Christmas morning the children found
the much-awaited, familiar packages of candy left by Santa. The
gifts were gathered from under the tree and everyone exclaimed
over their wonderful treasures.
John went to the big kitchen table where
his wife was preparing the large Christmas goose for the oven.
"Eliza," he said, "there appears to be one more
package here and it doesn't have a name on it. Would you open
it?"
Eliza washed and dried her hands and sat
in her rocker while she opened the brown package. Her blue eyes
shone like pools of spring water dancing in the sunlight and she
turned her face upward to look into the eyes of her loving husband.
Grandmother and Grandfather weren't very old, but at this moment
they were both as caught up in the love of Christmas as their
children were.
"Thank you John," was all that
she could trust herself to say. John had given his wife the clock
that she had loved so much. To tell the truth - he had kind of
missed it too.
Back to My Story of The Old Clock
"That was the story that was told
to my dad by his mother, Carl. Well, my dad learned to love that
old clock too, perhaps sitting on his mother's knee when he was
little. When my dad married my mother, she loved to listen to
the beautiful clock, as well. Maybe it was because my parents
loved each other so much, the same way that my grandparents had,
that they felt the personality and rhythm of the clock. Somehow,
it said everything that needed to be said at times. Of course
my mother and father could only enjoy the clock when they were
visiting his parents - although they did live with them for a
time. It was especially precious to my mother, and grandma knew
it."
This grandmother glanced over at Carl to
see if he was getting tired of her story, but, found him deep
in thought, so, she continued.
"Anyway, I came along - the youngest
of three living children and I, too, became caught up in the romance
of this old clock that softly whispered stories in the night and
heard everything that I dared to whisper back. Imagine the secrets
that it could tell. It was a friend to those who loved it and
ticked to their heartbeat and felt the romance and love around
it."
There was still no movement from Carl's
chair, so, I continued. I was speaking but the words were memories;
it was as if I was thinking, not speaking.
My grandma died when I was only twelve.
The clock sat on the shelf, quiet, dusty and forgotten. When my
uncle died many many years later, after I had married and had
Auntie Jan and your mom, there was a sale at the farm. Everything,
even the big house-of-many-rooms, was to be sold by auction.
My father told me he was going to go to
the sale to say goodbye to the old homestead; he asked if there
was anything that I would like him to bid on - something for me.
I didn't have much money and didn't feel at all hopeful, but,
I told him the only thing I really would like was Grandma's old
clock; and perhaps the portraits of Grandma and Grandpa that my
great-aunt had done with coloured charcoals.
Dad went on the trip and came home looking
hot and tired and wasn't carrying anything when he came in. I
could hear him talking to my mother about the long trip and who
was there.
After awhile, and I was busy downstairs,
my father came down, his blue eyes twinkling just like his mother's
had, and he held out the old black clock to me.
"Oh, Dad! I never dreamed! It must
have cost a fortune," came spilling out of me as I took the
clock and held it close.
"Got your pictures too, but not the
frames. The whole works was seven dollars."
"Oh, Dad! Are you sure?" I never
thought that you would get the clock - not for a million dollars!"
"Nobody in the family wanted it as
much as you. Grandma would be pleased you have it."
"Dad, what did you get for Mom?"
"Some crocheted pieces," he answered.
"She always liked to copy her crochet. Well, guess I'll get
back upstairs to Mom," he said. "Glad I could get you
what you wanted."
"Dad - just a minute. You know, Mom
always loved this clock and so did you. Are you sure Mom didn't
ask about it?"
"No. Maybe, like you, she didn't think
there was a hope of getting it."
"Well, Dad, I'll tell you what.........
You and Mom have the clock and enjoy it; when you're finished
with it I'll have it."
(Once again my memories were words but,
at the same time, like thoughts.)
It didn't take any arguing for my dad to
take the heirloom treasure and I watched my parents that evening,
sitting side-by-side, quietly listening and admiring Grandma's
dear old clock. Their faces made me imagine how my grandparents
had probably looked.
The clock once-again shone with care, was
wound regularly, and chimed like it had chimed all those years
ago when I was in the room above my grandmother's bedroom. Now,
living downstairs in my parents' basement apartment, I could hear
it chiming from upstairs.
When my mother and father moved to the
country they took the clock with them. "It was missed by
not only me but by Auntie Jan and your mom - especially your mom,
Carl. My father had never asked me if I would like to wind the
clock, but he taught your mom, when she was just a little girl,
how to look after it."
Now the story takes a strange turn. My
mother had been sick for a very long time and one night, in the
hospital, she died. Do you know - that beautiful old black clock
stopped ticking on the night that she died and has never gone
since! I tried to have it fixed, but Uncle Ray, who was a watch
and clock repairman, was sick and couldn't get out to shop around
to find the part that was needed to fix it. That clock had been
loved by two special couples for so many years and their love
kept it ticking. I guess when my mother's heart gave out, the
old clock's ticker thought it was time for it to rest, too.
I never got to wind my clock, but I still
love it and I was happy knowing that it kept ticking for my beautiful
Mom. I told your mom, years ago, that it would be hers
when I was finished with it. She hopes to have it repaired. I
hope she will be able to hear my beloved friend, the old clock
ticking with love again.
"Who knows, Carl.............. Parhaps
some day it will belong to you and then to your children."
When the story-teller looked over at her grandson, he was sitting
there quietly, with big eyes, his chin on his hand.
After awhile, he looked at his grandmother
and said, "Gram, that's awesome! And, like you said, it's
true. You're a little mushy," and he grinned, "but pretty
cool, Grandma," and he crossed the room and gave her a hug.
Joan Adams Burchell (copyright)
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