The Family Clock

Family visits are something to relish: what’s new? What’s happening? Who has been doing well in life? Who has been sucking it up? Conversational topics such as those are what we as a family indulge ourselves with. Sometimes it can be rough, though, being with these people that you so hastily and desperately tried to emancipate yourself from.  

Don’t get me wrong; I like my family. I enjoy the times that we have together. I enjoy gathering around the dinner table to eat some of Mom’s famous cookies (that should read something else, but yes, we all gather ’round to eat cookies – every activity is somehow centered around a meal) while we play cards and discuss the latest in small-town gossip and reminisce about the good ‘ol days. Those times are fun, don’t get me wrong. My parents are great folks, lovely entertainers. The house has good curb appeal, the landscaping is homey and simple (some might say lacking), and the nostalgia is truly palpable in the air (sometimes the tension is, too). Siblings enjoy the pleasure of each other’s company, leering at each other and pushing each other’s buttons just to enough to realize that they really do love one another. Yes, Martin family home visits/interrogations are what make life worth living.

It would all be perfect it is wasn’t for that stupid grandfather clock that sits in the entryway.

For years, that clock has been chiming its gears off, counting the minutes, ticking at inconclusive and arrhythmic moments, dinging on the hour, on the half, and at either quarter. The house ambiance seemed to center around that clock and what events were occurring: where we going somewhere at 10 after? Was someone expected at a quarter ’til? Would dad lay his big, gnarled hand on your rear at a half past because you backtalked, forcing tears like a leaky faucet? Who knew. For all intents and purposes, that clock was the driving force behind everything that went on in that house. Forget Mom and Dad, forget relationships, forget family gatherings or sneaking into the workshop to try and sniff some ammonia to kill the thoughts of algebra. Put all that aside for now. There was a time when that clock ruled the household. And no one knew it. Except for me.

I wanted to put my fist through the glass cabinet door every time I walked by that thing. Why would I do that, you ask? Numerous reasons come to mind, but the crux of that attitude rests in the fact that the clock (I feel the need to name it – Clocky), Clocky, would beckon me, all day, everyday. I heard the faint ticks while I was in my bedroom trying to sleep, even with the door closed; I listened to it when I got home from school as I went down the hall to start on my homework; it rang out when I was alone at home. It was a force ever-calling, ever-crying, always singing it’s tune of incessant moment-keeping and time-telling.

It spoke to me, on more than one occasion.

Believe it or not, Clocky would tell me things. Things that were told to the tune of the tick, things that were marked to the movement of the motion. Yes, Clocky informed me of plans, of goings on in the home, with the family members. I was scared at first – but then I began to listen to the faint cry of Clocky’s words.

Don’t be panicked: I was never told to kill anyone or anything like that. I simply learned to listen to Clocky and what he had to say about life, the day, the night, stories he had to tell, etcetra, etcetra. Clocky and I developed a bond, a relationship to the point that i would come to expect a series of notes sent specifically to me for a certain reason. Information was just that – information. There was no other reason to have the clock speak to me than for information’s sake.

The I grew older. I couldn’t speak to the clock (clock-talk, I called it) to get information. I had to begin developing a more normal sense of cognition as I grew up, and I couldn’t allow myself the pain of trying to maintain a relationship with an inanimate object. Besides, I had reasoned one evening as Clocky was calling out to me in deep sways and chimes, I have other friends, people I can talk to.

I didn’t realize how I would go about severing the tie. But when I cut the cord, I cut it with a dull spoon, spit in its face, throw it on the ground, step on it, degrade it by calling it some names, and then get people to take pictures of the events. The I leave. all that to say, cutting the cord means exactly that. So what did I do? I told Clocky to get a life, to stop chiming like an idiot, to grow up. I told him off. There were times when I would stand in front of him, staring at the decorative instruments, giving looks that would need no explanation of intention. Looks that said “stop trying to talk to me,” and “if I could, I would throw a rock at you right now.” But the clock continued to talk.

By this time I had left for college, and clock-talk was the last thing on my mind. I had found myself amidst a new group of friends, people who had self-actualized and developed a moral sense of self. I was moving toward that, I wanted that. I was slowly developing those things. But every time I went home, that clock would try to talk to me again. He would sya “welcome home, my little friend! I hope you haven’t forgotten me, as I have not forgotten you. Would you like to speak with me?” Clocky continued in his incessant monologue, trying to get me to talk to him. But I couldn’t; I had severed the ties, and I had to remember that. Instead of bowing to the incessant requests, I needed to continue my self-actualization process and move on.

Needless to say, I got through those nights just fine. But I do regret how I decided to move on from the clock. Rather than be a jerk about it, could I have asked nicely to have the clock stop talking to me? Would it have made a difference? I like to think that it wouldn’t, and that I did exactly what was necessary. But sometimes I can’t help but feel bad about my words. I know that someday, I will be able to enter a stage of near delirium and start hearing Clocky again, but possibly in a different form. When I am old and living in an assisted living facility, I will hear the unmistakable tick of not only my good friend Clocky, but of death, in the form of Grim with a scythe.

 Ahh…