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.
Sigh.
From that day to this, I have made sure
that I have some sort of time-keeper handy.
Always.
Moving on . . .
For all of his life, Dad was a rancher.
He was good at it.
Now 87, he pours his energy and
meticulous nature into the making of clocks.
Beautiful, inlaid, hand-crafted,
gently-chiming clocks.
Which he then sells.
Usually to me.
I now have five of them.
With one more on the way.
They, together with my tall
grandfather's clock, adorn various parts of my living room.
Even their ticking is noticeable.
When they collectively chime the
quarter hours and then the hours, it's pretty nearly deafening.
I love it.
And have 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.
Sort of.
Oh, I have 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.
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