The Time Machine
As far as old clocks go, it’s not much. A Beehive Seth Thomas with an 89A movement. A simple clock for simple folk who simply wanted to know what time it was. It is roughly 100 years old; I’ve not checked for the date code to confirm.
It is but one of a few artifacts I have from the grandparents whose name I share. The man I never met died in ’55, my grandmother in ’72. As we cleaned out her house, I was allowed a few things to call mine — this was one of them. As an 11-year-old infatuated with all things mechanical, a clock with a myriad of springs and gears was a magical thing.
After bringing it home and cleaning it up for the first time, my Mom took a shine to it and “appropriated” it, taking it to a clock repair. After it came home, it sat on the mantle, far from my room. I’d kept a key from one of the other clocks she had, and secretly tweaked the mechanism until it kept time within 15 seconds a day.
A few years later, my uncle came over and wanted to take a nap on the couch, but was annoyed by the ticking of the old escapement. He whipped the clock around and as I watched, angrily bent the main mechanism to make the clock stop. After he left, try as I might, I could not make the clock run again.
When we were married, I asked my mom if I could have Grandma’s clock. She had forgotten that it was bequeathed to me 15 years earlier. Since it didn’t run anymore — sure. Take it home. I proudly brought it into our new house in the spring of 1988, placing atop the china cabinet we’d just bought. When I came home the next day, the clock was gone — moved to a dark corner where it didn’t “clash with the décor.” This was the day I discovered that my house really wasn’t my house — it was merely the place I was allowed to rest my head when not working or traveling.
Over the years, I’d occasionally attempt to get the clock running. I think the best I’d been able to accomplish is 90 minutes. Since 1972, this nondescript clock has moved (and I’m not making this up) 14 times. I’d discovered it was designed to be a traveling clock — there’s a special retainer for the main shaft which holds the pendulum, and a hook for the pendulum inside the cabinet as well. When the spirit moved me, I’d unhook the movement, hang the pendulum and watch carefully as the ratchet hook (I’m not a clock guy — please forgive me — clicked unevenly across the escapement. It would eventually stop ticking, which was a source of frustration. Eventually, it became One Of Those Things That Gather Dust On Shelves.
On my birthday, I was presented with an overly large package. In it was The Clock. My wife, who had banished it 30 years earlier, took it to a clock repair and it now runs better than it did when repaired nearly a half century earlier. I’ve not asked, but I suspect she’s come to realize its significance as a connection to a past and memories lost to Time.
Its original master (my grandfather) is gone.
His wife is gone.
The uncle who damaged it is gone.
My mom is gone.
The china cabinet it didn’t quite enhance is gone.
And still — the clock remains, functioning as intended a century after leaving the factory. In an age of atomically regulated precision, the clock is a wonder. It’s been running nonstop for several weeks now, and its accuracy is dialed in to the point where it’s a few seconds fast one day, and a few seconds slow the next. I could do the math, but it appears it is now accurate to within a minute a month. It is sensitive to temperature changes, so we’ll see what happens come springtime.
Having a mechanical clock ticking away in the living room is a delight. One of minor irritants of our lives is the constant checking of the wristwatch, the smartphone, the microwave, the computer, the tablet — just to see what time it is. I think our ancestors had a better idea — let’s have a device ring out the time so we don’t have to check! I can be deep in an article and the clock faithfully chimes out the hour — a reminder that we don’t have to segment the world into 5-minute segments. The job is done when it gets done, and the need to measure our success against a series of digits is a self-imposed stressor. I find myself taking work into the living room so as to be comforted by this brass and oak metronome. The soft click of its movement changes the mood and tone of the room; it’s quieter, slower, measured. Through a quirk of either age or manufacture, it chimes the half hour two minutes late — every time. I figure anything still functioning after a century of service, especially our disposable word, is allowed a quirk or two.
To my wife — Thank you for this most wonderful birthday gift which has truly withstood the test of time. I love it. It’s a reminder we’re all connected…in time.
