Tick Tock

My mother taught English at the grade school I attended as a young girl, and she frequently read to the students from one of her most treasured books, my great grandmother's copy of The Best Loved Poems of the American People. She often had the students memorize these narrative poems and recite them in competitions at our yearly Fine Arts Festivals.  In the sixth grade I memorized and recited the poem, "Grandfather's Clock" by Henry Clay Work.  To this day it remains one of my favorite poems and continues to remind me of my own dear grandfather and the clock that sat next to his bed, faithfully ticking, keeping time, hour after hour, day after day, year after year.

A few years ago I purchased my own clock, much like my grandfather's, at an antique store for only $2.  It sat at my bedside, ticking, keeping precise time until a few months ago.  I was so sad when my clock's rhythmic ticking suddenly stopped, and I continually kept my eyes out for another one.  It's quite difficult to find one in its original state that still works.  I found lots that were either broken or bedazzled...yes, bedazzled, silly gemstones glued around the clock's face...I'm not sure what that trend is all about, but I don't care for it.

A few weeks ago, after noticing a comment where I mentioned my broken clock, a very sweet friend, Debby, sent me this lovely vintage clock.  I was completely overwhelmed by her generosity. She packaged it up so neatly and enclosed a thoughtful, handmade card.  I just had to share a photograph of the packaging...I loved the string carefully tied around the box, keeping it tightly closed.  It reminded me of a package that someone would have received many years ago...making the thoughtful gift even more special. I really cannot express how happy I am to hear the nostalgic ticking of this old clock. Thank-you so much, Debby!  Your kindness has truly touched me.

Grand-Father's Clock

by Henry Clay Work (1832-1884)

My grand-father's clock was too large for the shelf,

So it stood ninety years on the floor;

It was taller by half than the old man himself,

Though it weighed not a penny weight more.

It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born,

And was always his treasure and pride;

But it stopp'd short never to go again 

When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)

His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)

It stopp'd short never to go again

When the old man died.

In watching its pendulum swing to and fro,

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 at the door,

With a blooming and beautiful bride;

But it stopp'd short never to go again

When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)

His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)

It stopp'd 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 stopp'd short never to go again

When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)

His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)

It stopp'd short never to go again

When the old man died.

It rang an alarm in the dead of the night -- 

An alarm that for years had been dumb;

And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight --

That his hour of departure had come.

Still the clock kept the time, with a soft and muffled chime,

As we silently stood by his side;

But it stopp'd short never to go again

When the old man died.

Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)

His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick)

It stopp'd short never to go again

When the old man died. 

(Photographs taken by my daughter)