What's in a Clock?

What's in a clock?

In the late fall of 1986, my dad was transferred from Maryland to Washington State. Moving meant leaving friends and memories, “home”, for something completely unknown. Two of the items we set up in our new home almost upon arrival were our grandfather clocks. One went into the living room and the other into the hallway by the main door.

Barely five months later, my younger sister thought it would be really fun to play April Fool’s jokes on the family, which included putting Vaseline all over the door knobs, especially those to the bathrooms, and hiding all of the toilet paper in the bottom cabinet of the hallway clock. Our parents were sleeping but I had come downstairs, not realizing she was setting up the pranks. I remember walking from the kitchen around to the bathroom, touching the bathroom door knob only to grab a big handful of Vaseline. Ugh… Suddenly, I heard a very loud crash, the sound of glass breaking everywhere, and a yelp from my sister. I hustled around to the living room to find my sister on the floor with the clock lying on top of her. Then our parents came rushing down.

The clock had broken right where the top half bolted to the bottom cabinet. The two had completely separated. The glass door panel completely shattered, spewing glass all over the hallway and my sister, who was now pinned under the top cabinet. Our parents carefully extracted her from underneath it. After ensuring she was fine, my parents began the lengthy process of cleaning up the hallway. We later determined that when my sister tried to open the cabinet to retrieve the toilet paper, something happened so that she pulled just enough to bring the clock over on top of her.

My dad kept the clock parts up in his bedroom for 39 years. The cabinets were tucked neatly away in the corner, the clockworks and weights were wrapped in towels, placed in boxes, then stored carefully in his dresser. Recently, he gave the clock to me so I could fix it. I have to say it was a rather fun project. You can see a few of the repair pictures below. Incredibly, as soon as everything was reassembled, the it ran perfectly. Of the two clocks I grew up with, this was my favorite one. Besides, it had a particularly nice chime.

Above, you are looking at the damage on the lower cabinet (right) and the bracket that connects the top cabinet to the lower bracket (left).

In these photos, note the bent brass bars on the left in the upper cabinet (left) and the damaged joint where the bracket attaches. Inside near the bottom, you can see part of the chime. Incredibly, there was no damage to it or the clockworks. Amazing. On the right, I glued several small veneer strips that my dad had kept all the years, back in place.

When I look at the clock, anchored to the wall in my house all restored and operating as though nothing had ever happened, I don't actually see just a clock. It isn't just another piece of furniture lurking in the shadows, cluttering up the house. I see memories. I see my home in Maryland, my friends, riding my bike in the rain, walking to school, chasing lightning bugs—kid stuff. I see the move across the country and the great April Fool's joke that didn't go quite as my sister had hoped.

So, what's in a clock? Well, what if I asked, what's in a photograph?

Certainly, a photograph can produce different memories for different people. The parents of their graduating senior will often relive all the years spent raising their child. They may see little girl with hair suddenly just long enough to put into a rubber band or their little boy when he had enough strength to walk around the backyard without his hand being held, yet the person they are staring at is an adult, about to leave high school to step out into the world on her own.

The beauty of the photograph is not always the photograph itself. It's often how we experience it. The photo on the wall is something we walk by every day. We may not stop to look at it every time, but sometimes just knowing it’s there provides a comforting feeling or produces a smile on our face.

Just like my clock.