30 Objects in 30 Essays
From the objects that I have made, objects other people have made, objects that I live with, and what they have to say. The products of hands and brains. The obvious differences between things and words. The tangible and intangible rewards of effort. Use and beauty as the two primary qualities of objects, words, hands and brains. For through objects we make the stories of our lives: a life made, a life bought, a life well-used, a life beautiful and useful.
Until three days ago, I had not heard the chimes of my grandmother's grandfather clock in 30 years.
Objects come. They go. Some endure. Some come back.
Those chimes brought back so much I had not thought of in years, perhaps forgotten -- a flood of my grandmother's sweetness and light. Her home. Those moments growing up.
Bong bong bong bong... The Big Ben chimes.
My grandmother Aileen lived on the second floor of a split-level on Murray Ave in Milwaukee, about a mile from my house. She taught home economics classes, mostly at night, at the local community college, starting in the 1930's and only retiring in the late 1980's. In her spare time she loved to make decoupage: lamps, wood purses, wall art, and much more. When she was younger, she would give whistling concerts and slide show presentations on her travels in the local high school auditorium. She cooked big dinners for our family, always an enormous Thanksgiving turkey, a ham at Christmas, with all the trimmings and special desserts. She had her hair done twice a month, sometimes with a blue rinse. Lavender and purple were her favorite colors, and she enjoyed wearing a fancy hat. Strangers on the street would compliment her hats, and the ensuing conversations could last an hour or more. She drove a '71 red convertible Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. She had a favorite 78 rpm record of zither music that she would ask me to play on her phonograph, because she wasn't sure how. My grandmother Aileen was very kind and sweet, and I loved her much. She seemed to enjoy her time with me. I have very fond memories of her and deep gratitude for how she cared for me as a child.
Bong bong bong bong...
My step-grandfather Harvey was blind, and mostly listened to baseball on the radio, drinking bourbon on the rocks, smoking his pipe and sitting in his comfy chair by the fireplace. I found him scary, even though he had the most gentle laugh. He would tell stories about his work that I couldn't understand. He died when I was 7, so I never got to know him well. Grandmother Aileen loved him much, and once told me, when I was older, that he was fantastic in bed.
Bong bong bong bong...
Growing up, I spent many weekends with my grandmother. We would go the park, or to the Domes, or to the zoo. I'd help her cook in the kitchen, and with the household chores. She made the best chicken liver sandwiches. I'd sleep in the guest bedroom, where Harvey had slept. There were bird prints on the wall, and a chest of drawers that held his bow ties and medals from the Second World War. The whole house had white wall-to-wall carpeting, so I ran everywhere in my socks, a big treat. She liked Louis XIV furniture, and had a bombe dresser in her bedroom that she decoupaged with Fragonard ladies on swings. In the hallway between her bedroom and the bathroom was a tall clock that would chime on the quarter hours. I'd sing along with it "bong bong bong bong". She told me they were the "Big Ben tones," from a clock in England. I imagined Big Ben as a clock about the same size, though fancier.
Bong bong bong bong...
For you, it might be smells that trigger memories, or the smells that return with memories. For me it's sounds. The ticking of the grandfather clock when I lay awake in bed. The gentle chimes every quarter hour. They somehow embody my grandmother's apartment and that golden time with her.
My grandmother had an expert tune and lubricate the clock every year. It was special to her, for it came from her father's house, and she grew up listening to the chimes. My mother did as well. She told me she once tried to open the case with a knife, and got in big trouble. I looked and found some tiny scratches. So strange to think that my mother, now in her 80's, made them when she was a small child. And now it is in my living room in Chicago, chiming as I write this.
My children did not grow up with it. The clock had a long hiatus between the death of my grandmother in the early 90's and today. In retrospect, it is a miracle that the clock survived, and in working order.
In her later years, the clock fell into disrepair and stopped running. Some friend or visitor had scrambled the order of the hammers by bending their supports. Perhaps it was a drunken prank to hear the chimes backwards. Or a family member who couldn't take the endless chiming any more. It was hard to say, and she didn't get it fixed. My grandmother had became senile and forgetful. I delayed graduate school and stayed with her over a summer trying to help; but in the end, my mother put her in an institution, and she died two years later. I don't remember hearing the clock over that summer.
My grandmother left the clock to my mother, but she didn't want it, so I disassembled the clock and moved it my home in Connecticut. It was too tall to fit under the low ceilings of my home. So it went to my father's house, where there was room. As was his way with things, as soon as the clock was in his house, it became his. The prospect of repairing it was tricky. It involved negotiating comments about the potential "racket" it would make if it ran. It involved accessing his house (by negotiated appointment, which usually took a few phone calls). It involved learning about clocks I didn't understand well. And it would likely involve money that I didn't have. As I was the only one would would likely enjoy it, and I didn't live at my dad's place, or even visit often, I gave up. It stood, partially assembled, in his damp and moldy living room, silent, for 25 years.
On his death, my father gave the clock to my step-mother. Thankfully, she did not seem to want it, or want to sell it, and told me I should take it. I put the parts in my car and drove them to Chicago, where, thankfully, the 9 ft. ceilings could accommodate its 7' 7" height.
I found a book online about cleaning and repairing old clocks. I read a few pages. I learned a few things. I reassembled the clock, cleaned it, lubricated it, untangled the twisted chime hammers, tested and adjusted them. Then I swung the pendulum. To my surprise, it worked. It worked well. The clock has run well for three days, bringing back so much joy in old memories.
This old clock conjures precious memories that no one can take from me. The clock is not precious in itself except were I to embed my memories in it. I am glad to have the clock again, but only because it brings back what I had forgotten about my grandmother. I expect my kids will, when I die, sell it, for it is meaningless to them. Or perhaps they will visit often, and hear the chimes, and associate good times with their dad with the chimes. Or maybe their kids will. Then they might want to keep it. Or not, as it really needs a big room and a family of heavy sleepers.
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