ANTIQUITY REWARDED

I’m ninety-eight years old. You’d think I’d have been retired long ago. But no, I’m doomed to go on sitting a-top a shelf for as long as I continue to tick. I’ve watched over the comings and goings of four generations. It has been interesting to note the changes in tempo, even though my job remained the same -- keeping track of that time.

Folks only take notice of me when they have appointments which they are expected to be prompt for. If they are late, I get the blame. They explain that their clock was wrong. I’m never wrong, really. I can only be what I have been set for. Every few days, someone comes along and pushes a big key into my face to wind me up. If a human being was ever wound up that tight, it would take a strong dose of cathartic to undo the damage. Me? I just have to wait until I run down again. I’ve often wished my main coil spring would go “boing,” just for a rest. However, the master would only come along and fix me. I did try acting up a couple of times by striking the hour on the half-hour. My mistress figured out how to correct that, so it is no fun any more.

The first generation I lodged with, in The Springs, NY, received me as a wedding present in 1880. I sat on a small ledge in the kitchen, to the right of the big, black cook stove. It was cozy and I couldn’t help but be noticed the moment the door was opened. When I was new, I suppose I was considered quite elegant. My bottom was broad and solid and felt smooth to the touch. Even the Victorian curlicues and lacy trim that ascended on each side of my waist were acceptable. My face is quite plain, but the glass door covering my private parts is beautifully decorated with lilies in gold-leaf. Inside, my pendulum is a work of art. Otherwise, I am just a box rigged up to tell the time by some craftsman in a clock factory.

To the family, however, I was the one who shared all the joys and heartaches of daily living. There was no electricity in those days, so I was subjected to the usual oily film caused by the use of kerosene lamps and the smoke from the wood-burning stove. I was quite a “dust-catcher,” too, but it really wasn’t noticed except a couple of times a year during the house-cleaning purge. In the soft light of the lamps, dust was often overlooked. I moved to another house about 1928 -- same owner, same town. This time I sat on a charming little table much older than I, and kept warm by the pot-bellied stove in the living room. Still lamplight and woodsmoke, so I felt right at home. It was pleasant to listen to someone reading aloud and to watch my owner, now an old man, paring an apple with a jack-knife. All the family was gone now, so there was no need to know the time. My master rose with the sun and went to bed early. The only time he paid me any mind was when he wound me up.

A few years later, the second generation took over and, though I stayed in the same place, I wasn’t too well regarded. I was just an old “dust-catcher” to the new mistress. Electric lights showed me up to no advantage, to be sure. This stage of my life was dull and I felt unwanted.

About 1944, I got the break I needed to boost my self-esteem. The third generation saw me as a priceless treasure and I went to live with her, dust and all, in Northport, NY. Even the little table, to which I had grown accustomed, went along. In my new home I sat on a handsome desk, surrounded by other old things. I fitted right in and became a part of the family. I was just in time to enjoy the arrival of the fourth generation. I was admired by all who visited. I was considered an antique. I was kept oiled and dusted. I was cherished.

The first time the great-grandchildren heard me strike the hour, they jumped as though frightened. They soon became used to me and knew me as a friend. I was the one they turned to -- letting them know it was time to catch the school bus. When they could “tell time” by themselves, they came in often to see if it was “Howdy Doody” time.

Later years found me watching endless ballgames on television. Such excitement during a World Series! The jumping up and down made my innards shake and go “boing.” I felt alive. One day I actually fell over and my topknot came unglued. One less furbelow to dust. Certainly was glad my beautiful glass door didn’t crack.

I’ve watched the fourth generation grow up and move away. Occasionally, the new members of the fifth generation come to visit and, again, I scare the little ones when I strike. These days, one seldom sees a clock with a pendulum. My mistress says she finds me company when the house is quiet. I hear few children’s voices now and I miss them. More often I endure the “soap operas.” The exact time is not important any more, so I sometimes run a bit slow -- at least until the lady who loves me comes to wind me up again. She even likes to hear me in the still of the night when she can’t sleep. I’m an old and valued friend to see her through her sunset years. Sometimes she wonders where I’ll find a home when she is gone. Maybe one of the children will have fond memories of me and give me a place to go on being a part of life.

I hope I never retire and end up in some attic. I’m just a clock, but I have absorbed many emotions over the years. I think my feelings would be hurt if I was ever discarded. For the time being, I’m contented to sit on the bookcase, flanked by a pair of copper candlesticks, waiting for the setting sun to glance my way. It picks up the gleam of the gold-leaf lilies on my door. I am happy to share the day’s end beside the leaping flames of the fireplace....

1977-1978
Northport, LI, NY

Another twenty years has passed. My mistress and I moved to Oxford, PA, in 1984 so she could be closer to her children. In a brand new house, I sat on the bookcase, next to the fireplace, with the copper candlesticks at my sides. The little table came with us and sat across the room from me. Old friends, to keep her company in a new and unfamiliar place.

After a time, it was decided that I needed a “makeover” as it is known these days. I was taken to a clockmaker to be cleaned. While he worked on my internal parts, my case was restored by another. The layers of oily film and coal soot were removed. I was returned to my mistress in good working order, my case now a warm, light brown color.

If my mistress worried what would happen to me when she was gone, it was not necessary. When her children visited or called on the telephone, they enjoyed hearing me strike the hour and half hour. I made her new house “home.” It was no longer if I would be wanted but, rather, to whom the honor of caring for me would be bestowed when she was gone.

My mistress’s health started to fail in 1992. A decision was made to sell her house and have her move to a retirement home, near her youngest son, in Oregon. A small apartment could not hold all of the treasures collected over a lifetime. Some would have to be left behind. The little table was a perfect size to fit in a small apartment and would go with her.

For several years her eldest son had come each week to wind me up. The arthritis in her hands made it impossible for her to do this task herself. With regret, she decided rather than move with her to Oregon, I was to live with her eldest son. She knew I would be well cared for.

I am now in York, PA. I am not in a large fancy house, but well loved and cared for by my new master. I sit in the kitchen on a small shelf he built for me. Life has come full circle, for you see, I have a cooking timer in my works and was meant to be in the kitchen.

My former mistress would call every few weeks to talk. She would listen for my chiming in the background and know that I was well. But, the phone calls no longer come. She is gone now. With her passing, the little table was returned to Pennsylvania to keep me company.

My master says that when it is quiet in the house, the sound of my ticking and striking makes him feel that I am watching over him and his wife. Watching over them is all that they ask of me, so now at the age of one-hundred and eighteen years, that is what I’ll do until my life changes again.

J. Los/1998
York, PA

The Howard-Los family clock was presented in 1880 as a wedding gift to my great-grandfather, Captain David Andrew Howard, and his bride, Emma Silenia King. When Captain Howard passed away in 1931, the clock resided with my grandfather, John Michael Howard, until my mother claimed it in 1944. Mom wrote this story for a writing class in 1977-78; the Epilog was added in early 1998 by my twin brother, John Thornet Los, in whose kitchen the clock now strikes each hour and half hour.