Grandpa's Pocket Watch

Grandfather’s Pocket Watch

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. BONG!!. It's about 7:45 Wednesday morning, May 20, 1987. I just spent a couple of minutes winding and cleaning my grandfather clock simply called ~ Grandfather. At 107-years-old, Grandfather is still fit as a fiddle. Because I can hear the clock's mechanism as each second slips over a cog on one of his gears, I don't need to see the pendulum's sway. In all its brassy beauty, from inside its mahogany and glass cabinet, the pendulum whooshes from side-to-side, as it always has, counting down almost 31.8 million seconds yearly. As a kid, I used to lie in front of Grandfather and watch the pendulum go back and forth, similar to the tennis balls I watched at the June 1915 US Open in Forest Hills, Queens, New York, the first and last tennis match I ever watched.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. From my birth at 4:45:17 am, on June 15, 1899, I lived in posh New York communities I didn’t like. After spending summers at PaPaw and MaMaw's house in upstate New York, I knew someday, I'd be seeking rural America's refuge. These down-to-earth relatives on Mother’s side taught me patience, compassion and love for time pieces. Because I was entangled in the hands of time and had no time for dalliances, it was a long time before my dream of being a farmer materialized.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. I sit in my 20-year-old Lazy-Boy, just across the living room from Grandfather. For 44-years, except for the last 6-years with Snap Pea, my little Blue Merle Australian Shepherd, I’ve been the sole occupant of the upstate farm where I spent so much of my growing-up time with PaPaw, my human Grandfather. He was about 6’ tall, pushed 170 after one of MaMaw’s delicious Sunday, fried-chicken dinners with ALL the fixins. He also had the bluest eyes I ever saw. In just seconds, his eyes could make you melt with the power of his love or make you cower in fear for the person at whose soul his steel-blue eyes took hold.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. He didn’t smile often, bad dentures. When he did, he usually looked at his pocket watch for many a long second or two. When asked about his watch, PaPaw always described it as a Jean Marcel 17-jewel, shock-resistant Fishing Fisherman pocket watch that Dad gave him for his 80th birthday. It was an especially tender and meaningful present since MaMaw quietly died in her sleep just a few months later. MaMaw, Grandfather and that pocket watch meant the world to PaPaw. He always held it close to his heart, until 3:12:17 pm on March 29, 1943.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. PaPaw often said he came from nothing but had everything. I didn’t know what he meant until long after he died at the amazing age of 97, about 15-months after the outbreak of WWII. One of PaPaw’s famous quotes was, ‘We don’t own anything. We’re just borrowing stuff.’ I guess that’s true, since after he died about 16-years after MaMaw took ill and died, I became Grandfather’s ‘temporary’ owner. At the time, I was on the downhill slope, fast-approaching middle age. As some people say, ‘My clock was atickin and the seconds were aflyin by!’ Now, I was blessed with PaPaw’s most-prized possessions ~ his name of Russell and his two timepieces ~ Grandfather and the pocket watch.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Once a day, before the sun rose, PaPaw wound his pocket watch and every Sunday morning, just before coffee, he wound Grandfather. I loved that huge clock with its stealth-silent pendulum, heavy weights and haunted chimes. Yep! Haunted chimes! When that sneaky clock knew we weren’t listening to him, he occasionally bonged super, extra loud and scared the crap out of everyone. Even that Swiss-made pocket watch surprised people. When PaPaw wanted to entertain someone, he opened case, blew on the sapphire crystal and waited for the Marcel logo to briefly appear on the fogged crystal.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. I loved that old man and the memories we made together and I know PaPaw loved me. I was the only child of his only child and the last of his Wiseland line. Though PaPaw lived almost a century, I never saw it coming and I was beyond stunned. Just as Friday’s sun set, a gentle-voiced attorney from Chautauqua, New York, a bit south of the US-Canada border on Lake Erie, called me. It seemed surreal my PaPaw and I’d never talk again. I thought of all the ‘nevers’ to happen in my future. I’d never see his twinkling, steel-blue eyes. I’d never see his infrequent smile. I’d never feel his long, skinny arms envelop me with tenderness. And, I’d never hear his frequent endearment of, ‘Russell, I love you to the Moon and back.’

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Sunday, 9:45 am. A foggy, overcast morning escorted me to PaPaw and MaMaw’s old homestead. Sadly, Snap, the mutt always by PaPaw’s side, didn’t greet me. For the last 13-years, he rested under the old Pignut Hickory tree, out behind the chicken coop. That area used to bustle with the rooster crowing and scratching the dirt and delicate cheeps and peeps from hens and chicks. What I remember most about the hens was the fresh eggs MaMaw cooked any which way, any day of the week.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. For about 27-seconds after I entered the old house, I was brutally assaulted by the incessant quiet. I couldn’t even hear the dust motes as they momentarily swirled and divebombed the floor. Because Grandfather hadn’t been wound, the pendulum, gears and whatnots were stilled and the sound of time was inaudible. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a couple of seconds, walked 3-plus-miles from the foyer into the living room and, as I did so many times before, stood at attention in front of Grandfather. I almost bent double in gales of laughter when I realized Grandfather ‘mooned’ me. Monthly, PaPaw and I chortled about being mooned when Grandfather’s face flashed a full moon. MaMaw thought it rude to accuse Grandfather of that.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. As I opened Grandfather’s door to wind him, I bent over to pick up the key from inside the bottom portion of the wooden cabinet. Next to the key was PaPaw’s pocket watch and a piece of paper, both of which I picked up. The watch’s steely cold seemed to burn the palm of my hand. When I put PaPaw’s pocket watch to my ear, I heard my, my ~ my own heartbeat! Not knowing what I expected to hear, I opened the watch and saw it stopped at 7:26:54. How? Why? When? I put the paper in my shirt pocket and remained rooted in place for about 13-seconds. Then, with a man’s version of a Mona Lisa smile, I closed my eyes, put the watch to my left ear and wound it.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. It took about 166-seconds for me to dust, reset the time and wind Grandfather. Afterward, I ambled into PaPaw’s neatly organized kitchen and opened the decades-old refrigerator he always called the icebox. I knew there’d be a few bottles of ice-cold Genesse Beer on the bottom shelf. I church-keyed the top of PaPaw’s favorite beer (think only!) and sauntered over to his well-worn recliner. I carefully eased my tired legs and aching back into the soft leather cushions. As I took a deep breath, exhaled and then a big swig of that teeth-numbing cold beer, Grandfather quietly chimed the three-quarter hour. As that first gulp of beer went down my throat, I patted my chest and heard the paper crinkle a bit in my shirt pocket. Over the ensuing 44-years, I must have read that note on that slip of paper at least 10,000 times.

Russell and Adeline Wiseland

Chautauqua, New York

Dear Russell,

Lately, it seems time just passed too fast around these parts. Soon, you’ll be up to visit. Before you do, I wanted you to know about my (now your) old Jean Marcel, 17-jewel, shock-resistant Fishing Fisherman pocket watch. The day I found your MaMaw, ‘asleep,’ I forgot to wind the watch. Since that day, the watch has never wavered in keeping the perfect time of 7:26:54.

Take care of your timepieces ~ your pocket watch and Grandfather. Remember, his occasionally loud gongs will jar eye teeth loose. Also, next Spring, will you check on Snap and make sure the Blackberry brambles aren’t swallowing up the marker on his resting place? They always did cause trouble in his beautiful fur when he’d chase the chipmunks into the briar patch.

Russell, I love you to the Moon and back,

Your PaPaw.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock. BONG!!