Sometimes New Life Springs From Old Wood

When I was a little girl, I spent a lot of time in my grandmother’s sewing room.  I remember Betsy McCall paper dolls and musty books of wall paper samples. I remember learning to hand stitch a nine patch quilt square.

But what I remember most is the sound of her parlor clock. Standing two feet high, with brass relief trim decorating its wooden case and a sun burst pendulum in motion behind a glass front, its gentle ticking lulled us to sleep at night and its soft gong woke us at sunrise, in time to hear the mourning doves greet the day.

For most of the past twenty-six years, the clock has been still, something awry in its delicate works. For reasons I can’t explain, yesterday I picked up the key and wound first the time train on the right, and then the strike train on the left. I gave the pendulum a light push and to my surprise the clock started to tick. Its measured and steady beat kept time throughout the evening and met me in the morning.

As I sit here at the keyboard, more than a day later, I hear it yet. It is the sound of a comforting croon, of a reassuring murmur, of something long silent come back to life.