The clock
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born
And was always his treasure and pride.
But it stopped short — never to go again —
When the old man died.
He was at mid-life when his grandfather’s clock — always a shadowy figure in the corner of his memory — became at last his own. Built in Zeeland, Michigan, it had been purchased in the early ‘20s and graced his grandparents’ Main Line home throughout his mother’s childhood.
When his grandparents’ home was closed, the task of disassembling, packaging, and rebuilding the amazing jumble of chimes and levers and cabinetry was assigned to the heir with the gifted hands. Never again was a mover or clockmaker permitted to violate its precarious works, as the family moved from Philadelphia to St. Pete to rural Pennsylvania and back to Florida again.
Now it was 1982, and the old clock — its varnish sticky from humidity, its strike unwilling to synchronize with its filigree hands — had found its predestined place in his home. Furniture had to be rearranged, and considerable effort brought to bear with spirit level and pry-bar before its massive form stood plumb once more, but at last it dominated — with dignity — the cheerful living room.
Years of wear have carved dips into its works, so that the big brass weights can barely pull the chimes through their melody. And if one part of its frame is precisely level, another is not. The huge pendulum at first traced its arc for only a few hours before stopping and silently demanding adjustment.
Evenings found its owner fine-tuning his treasure toward perfection. First he sanded the coffin-like cabinet, then applied stain and oil to bring out its rich mahogany luster. Each of the tubular chimes was gleaming from a gentle rub-down with polish before he was ready to hang them in place.
It was then that he realized that he had failed to note the order in which they had hung. He consulted the brittle, yellowed instructions in the cabinet base.
“The longest tube is the hour strike, hang it on right hand side facing clock, shortest following and so on in rotation.”
In rotation? His interpretation of these cryptic orders produced a tune not at all like the chimes of Westminster, and it took common sense and instinct to guide him to the opening cadence: C, B-flat, A-flat, E-flat, through to the slightly dissonant low B-natural speaking the hour.
“Plumb up the clock and see that the movement emits an even tick when the pendulum swings to and fro.”
He had to still the eight-day mantel clock over the piano (shown in an 1897 Sears catalog for #3.90); its brisk clatter covered the solid, decisive ticking of the grandfather.
Elsewhere in the house, the little French clock, an ornament on his mother’s old secretary, ping-pings the hour with urgency, and is echoed by the curious rhythm of the ship’s bell clock striking the end of each watch.
It was weeks before the grandfather’s brass pendulum was willing to pursue with total dependability the business it was meant for, but he was determined that it would. He is as stubborn as the clock, and a decade younger, and they both have a long time before their fourscore years have ticked by.
On each Sunday morning of the past 80 years, he has never failed to wind his grandfather’s clock. With the care he lavishes on it, unlike the clock of song and legend, it will remain the heartbeat of the house for his children and grandchildren.
Many hours had he spent while a boy;
And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know
And to share both his grief and his joy.
For it struck twenty-four when he entered the door
With a blooming and beautiful bride.
But it stopped short, never to go again,
When the old man died.
My grandfather said that of those he could hire,
Not a servant so faithful he found.
For it wasted no time and had but one desire —
At the close of each week to be wound.
And it kept in its place — not a frown upon its face,
And its hands never hung by its side.
But it stopped short — never to go again —
When the old man died.
