Taking time to take the time

Luckily I have my hearing and I know exactly what time it is. Say what? Yes, Art just told me. He struck eleven solid and resonating bongs all the way in the other room and I knew that it was way past my bedtime.


Art is the antique clock that has been passed down to me from my mother, which was passed down to her from her mother. It was given to my grandparents as a wedding gift from a friend of theirs named Art, thus the endearing moniker. This is the kind of stately and beautiful clock that makes the "top ten" list. You know, the list of the top ten things you'd grab if a hurricane was about to hit, the roof was caving in, or the house was on fire. It is strong and majestic.  Classically beautiful.  Functional art, if you'll pardon the pun. 


I wind him every Sunday and he keeps time to the minute, even after 101 years, many moves to various states, and even high humidity. If Art had a last name, it would be Reliability.


It is nice to have this bit of "constant" in my life.  It reminds me of my family, comforts me in the wee hours if I am having trouble sleeping.  It reminds me that I'm running late to work and that I've stayed up too late again. It calms with with its rhythmic tic toc tic toc. It welcomes me home.


Art is a wonderful memento that is the artifact of my ancestors, as well as the possession of my descendants. Future generations that will look upon Art and be reminded that they too are late for a date,  have only fifteen minutes to catch the jet-tube tram, and need to fold themselves up into their sonic sleep chamber.


I think I'll slip a little note inside the back of Art and turn him into a time capsule, if you will.  It will say, "Keren was here and loved this clock. Please take care of it, and it will take care of you."


"Ding!" Shoot, now it is half an hour later and I still need to take the dogs outside.  Goodnight!