"The Courthouse Clock" (from the Sunday Afternoon Rocking Series) We have always called it the "courthouse clock", because that is exactly what it reminds one of, with its faux marble base, and top, with its six columns and its air of importance. When it chimes it does so such an authoritative manner that we do not keep it wound. It sits on the mantle and presides over the living room, an appropriate place for a piece of such dignity. It is a Seth Thomas clock, origins unknown, but an amusing story behind its appearance in our family. Long ago, when I was a young child, we lived in a town where obviously one could not keep chickens in the backyard. My father, however, had not quite grown away from the farm life he was accustomed to, and believing whole heartedly that "country eggs" are much better than "store-bought eggs", he set out to find someone who sold such. It was not long before Clara became a hard and fast family friend. An elderly German lady living in a great old white country farmhouse, she became our outlet for purchasing "country eggs", cream, and chickens. Clara and my folks seemed to mesh from the first time they met, and a respect and enjoyment of one another's company sprang up between them.They shared stories, laughs and kindnesses with one another. Clara had one fault, if one can call it that. She was intensely stubborn, and when she made up her mind about a thing, that was that. One day when we arrived to pick up those brown country eggs, she was busy stuffing something into the garbage. It was the courthouse clock. In answer to the obvious question, her reply was short and bristling, "Does not work! No use for it!" And she continued stuffing it in the garbage along with other things that obviously needed to be there. Because the courthouse clock was so pretty, regardless of whether it worked or not, my father asked if he might have it. And she promptly gave it to him, but told him he just as well stuff it in the garbage himself when he got it home, because it did not work. Back at home, my father removed the backing of the clock, and very quickly discovered the source of the problem. A small foil dish holding cotton soaked in oil sat inside and was quite obviously keeping the mechanisms inside from being able to move. Apparently Clara had thought to oil the clock by letting the oil evaporate into the works. He removed the dish, oiled the works and returned with the clock to Clara. She would not take it back. "No," she said shortly, "I gave it to you. Not having it back. It is yours." And so it was. Several times he attempted to give it back to her again, and always the answer was the same. She had given it to him, and so it was his, and that was that. And so it was that the courthouse clock went with us where ever we lived from that day forward. And I never look at the courthouse clock without a smile, remembering a very kind, very stubborn elderly German lady who was a friend to our family long ago. Such is the story behind yet another very simple thing that my children have grown up seeing all of their lives, every day for so often that like so many other things, they take it for granted. I am not sure that any of them know this story, although it has been told in the hearing of all of them. We do not live in a home where anything much is new, where anything matches, or where much attention has been paid to making it so. Although most we have is old, we are not "antique collectors" or "restorers". What we have simply is old, some of it more so than others, because new never seemed all that important. None of it is really valuable, but the things simply serve their function as they have for years. We live with the things that have been a part of the lives of this generation or that, passed down or given, things that "happened" into our family as the "courthouse clock" did, or old things we saw here or there that we simply liked. We have always simply enjoyed the feel of used things, and the character that seems attached to things that have served their function well for a very long time. And almost every piece has a story... Some of the stories are more interesting than others, of course. Some of the stories tell of surprising twists of fate that brought these things to a family. Some of the stories are invitations to tell of beloved family members or friends now gone. And some of the stories really are not stories at all, but simply statements of fact about how this thing came or that thing came. But, for those who have ears to hear and the willingness to listen, a walk through our home is an endless series of stories. The time has come for me to write those stories, and this I have been doing. Indeed, many of the Sunday Afternoon Rocking pieces have been in fact the stories I will attach to particular items that my children may understand the significance when they grow into the time for that. I frequently hear from folks who tell me of delightful pieces they have that had belonged to parents or grandparents. All too often I also hear the sad addendum, "but I do not know where it came from", or "I do not know if it belonged to someone else in the family before this". And then I know, that just as in my own family, nothing was written down. Perhaps a story was told orally once upon a time, but if it was, like my own children, relatives were taking for granted what they saw daily and not listening, unaware the day would come when the story might be important to them. Since we cannot count upon tomorrow, or wait for our children to grow into the season of hearing, I see no other way of being sure the stories have the opportunity to survive, than simply to write them down. Perhaps we attach the story in some way to the piece. Perhaps we make copies of our stories and give them to each child. Perhaps we place all of the stories in a notebook prominently marked "READ BEFORE DISCARDING!" <smile> But somehow, we get those stories in a format that will survive ourselves. And so, it occurs to me that one day Clara's clock will sit upon a mantle in the home of one of my children. Someone will notice it and ask, and the reply will be, "Oh we have always called it the courthouse clock. There was long ago an elderly German lady who befriended our family..." just a thought, jan Copyright ©2000JanPhilpot .________________________________________________ (Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be shared...simply share as written without alterations...and in entirety. Thanks, jan) Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to [email protected] _________________________________________________