I have a thing about time.
I am a clock-watcher.
I have to know the time at any given moment.
Day or night.
I didn't realize just how bad I was until I was in hospital after the birth of our third son.
He was born at 9:30 in the evening and I was so keyed up that I couldn't sleep.
All night long.
I'm sure you've heard people say, “It was the longest night of my life.”
Well, that night was.
I kept listening for stirrings that would indicate the coming of day.
But in a hospital, in a maternity ward, there are constant stirrings.
From that day to this, I have made sure that I have some sort of time-keeper handy.
Moving on . . .
For all of his life, Dad was a rancher.
He was good at it.
After retirement, he poured his energy and meticulous nature into the making of clocks.
Beautiful, inlaid, hand-crafted, gently-chiming clocks.
Which he then sold.
Usually to me.
At one time, I had six of them.
They, together with my tall grandfather's clock, adorned various parts of my living room.
Even their ticking was noticeable.
When they collectively chimed the quarter hours and then the hours, it was pretty nearly deafening.
I loved it.
Had gotten so accustomed to it that I often don't even notice.
Sort of like living next to a set of very busy train tracks.
Oh, I had comments.
“It sounds like a clock shop in here!”
“I feel like I'm in some sort of creepy movie!”
Okay, I'm not sure that the person who made that last statement was totally talking about the clocks.
Ahem . . .
And my favourite, “Could someone please tell me the correct time. I think it just chimed forty-two in here!”
Hey. Love me, love my clocks.
Get over it.
There is a codicil:
Daddy is now 89. Over the past year, failing health has forced many changes. The first was the giving up of his beloved workroom. There will be no more clocks from those gifted hands.
Suddenly, my collection has taken on a whole new meaning.