Time Tells the Truth
Some folks would like its art deco look, even now,
in 2013. The electric clock was about 5 inches high and 9 inches wide. Its case
was a warm mahogany colored wood, worn smooth by the hands reaching behind it
early in the morning to push the alarm button off. The sweeping line of a Bell
curve graph would represent its shape precisely. Its face was a perfect circle
with cream background, edged by a brass ring. The brass toned hands and amber
color behind them seemed to portray time in its warmest and kindest
manifestation. The electrical cord was only slightly frayed, and the plug did
not have the one wider prong that modern plugs do. But the clock’s connection
to its power source had been effective. As far as we know, there had never been
any late milking, or a missed personal appointment due to malfunction on its
part. But Grandma just didn’t think it fit her décor anymore. Or maybe she had
received several other clocks as gifts, and you can only use so many electric
alarm clocks, now really. Maybe she wanted to help out her daughter-in-law in
setting up her household, so Grandma asked my mother if she wanted the clock.
After that, the clock stood on the
nightstand beside my father’s side of the bed for years. I remember hearing
that electronic buzz on many mornings when Dad had to arise early for some
outdoor work duties. It was a fixture on that night stand along with the tin
of Mentholatum and the extra coins from
Dad’s pockets which often drew one of us three girls to the nightstand where
Dad told us we could find some extra change for our own use.
Grandpa had been ill for some time.
He had a bad heart. He retained fluid and often couldn’t breathe. In those days
they called it dropsy. He was often so weak he could barely get out of bed. A
tall green oxygen tank stood beside his bed which had commandeered the former
dining room in Grandma and Grandpa’s house, because he could no longer go up to
his second floor bedroom to sleep. When I was 11 years old, Grandpa died.
Grandma found him dead in his bed when she went first thing in the morning to
check on him. The local general practitioner estimated that he had died around
4 o’clock in the morning.
A telephone call instead of the
alarm clock awoke my father to report to him that his father was no longer with
us. After years of perfect service, the
mahogany art deco clock had stopped working at 4:10 AM that day.
Years later while preparing for her
own moving sale, Mom found the old clock wrapped up in a towel and packed away
in a box among piles of other boxes in her storeroom. The time was still 4:10.
I told her not to put it on her auction sale, to keep it, but don’t plug it in
or use it. That clock had led a life of telling the truth.
Note: I wrote this story in 2002. It is a true story with one poetic license taken. The license only
regards the description of the clock. The clock was actually square. It still
exists in my mother's storage. The story is one of several that I have experienced in my lifetime that seems to point towards the paranormal, or perhaps in today's jargon, some sort of quantum physical entanglement between this clock and my grandfather.
I would invite comments about this true story.
