a timeless tale

For most of us in the United States, Canada, and Europe, today marks the beginning of Daylight Savings, the occasion upon which we rush about our abodes “springing” our clocks ahead one hour.  It seems a simple enough task if one has a reasonable number of clocks for one’s living space.  (We Fitzgeralds cannot exactly make that claim.  On the one hand, I could try to deny it.  On the other hand, it’s probably about time to gear up and face the music.  I have a borderline obsession with analog clocks…and apparently puns.  Let’s just say I was all about the tick-tock long before it was an alternately spelled social media platform.)

I have no place in my heart for a digital timepiece with its annoyingly silent operation and glaringly bright numerals keeping me awake all night.  The ticking of a genuine, meticulously engineered work of art, it is the very heartbeat of the home I love, or, rather, the many synchronized heartbeats of the home I love.  And I am very fond of those clocks, even when they go a little wonky.  (I’m talking about this photographed one in particular.)  I’ve purchased clocks; I’ve even built my own.  But this one is special, not because it’s rare or expensive or crafted by a world-renowned clockmaker.  No.  It’s extraordinary because it’s cheap and it keeps the worst time of any clock I’ve ever owned, yet there it sits with pride of place upon the vintage shelf for which it was purchased.

At 9:30 this morning, as I made my way from clock to clock, resetting the time, this one unashamedly declared the time was 5:05.  (And, no, it had not stopped.)  Even with a new battery, by 5:05 this afternoon, it’ll likely report back with a cheery 1:15 or a sleepy 8:37.  It’s anyone’s guess, really.  If the clockworks could be replaced without damaging the housing, I would do that.  I’ve done it before.  But on this little timeless gem—and I do mean timeless in the sense that it maintains a system of time known only to itself—it’s simply not an option.  So why do I continue to employ the services of a timepiece that defies its very purpose?  Because I love its barn-red finish, it’s distressing, the simple farmhouse charm of its architecture.  It’s the first clock I see every morning…and, until I get up and gaze upon another numbered face, I have absolutely no idea what time it really is, which, if I’m honest, kind of amuses me.  Some might call my little tabletop friend “unstable” or “off its meds”.  I prefer to think of it as a kindred spirit—a bit eccentric and operating on neurodivergent cogs, just like the woman who holds it dear.

Happy You-Just-Lost-an-Hour-of-Your-Life Day!  (But don’t fret, dear friends; you’ll get it refunded again come the first of November.)