My father’s father, my FarFar, had a basement workshop that
was a wonder to behold. FarFar was a collector; he picked up things here and
there, at estate sales, and antique shops.
FarFar’s workshop was full of all kinds of treasures: iron
keys as long as my arm, their purpose long since lost to time; mysterious
springs and nails with no apparent use; rusty tools that were likely last used
by a pioneer family on some faraway prarie; and, if my memory serves me
correctly, at least one ancient rifle.
But what FarFar loved to collect the most were old clocks.
He had a shelf full of them and as a child I loved to set them all chiming at
once. It seemed to me that FarFar
had every possible kind of clock-- from wall clocks that donged the hours to tiny pocket watches whose tick was as quiet as a heartbeat.
Have you ever seen the inside of a clock? It’s a labyrinth of gears and screws and springs and pins, an impossible puzzle that you’d never want to have to solve yet somehow FarFar could disassemble them and gently coax them back to life.
FarFar was a quiet man, a first generation immigrant who
moved to 1950s America barely into his 20s, with his even younger wife and a
tiny baby. He was sponsored by his
brother and worked for him for several years; building a new life in a country
very different from the one he had left behind.
My grandparents’ move to the United States is enshrined in
family lore, and there are many stories about my grandfather through the years. My favorite is how FarFar, with his Danish accent,
couldn’t pronounce the word “three.”
And since he couldn't, he wouldn't. When he ordered hot dogs on his lunch break, he would always order
“two…and one more.”
My father likes to tell the story of when he was as a
teenager, while en route to the beach with his best friend he did some wild
driving that caused his car to break down. Stranded, they sheepishly called FarFar, who not only came
to the rescue but gave my father the keys to his own sports car so that they
could continue their trip.
There are many more stories, but the FarFar I remember
is the craftsman of my childhood, who built my sister and I exquisite matching doll beds, who
brought me handmade stilts for my birthday, who painted delicate flowers on a
chest of drawers that he refurbished. He was a quiet, supportive presence in my life, who never missed an opportunity to say
“I love you.”
Most of all, I will remember my FarFar the clockmaker who, a few
years ago, gave me a pocket watch of my own. It was one from his workshop. One that he had saved and fixed. I had put the watch away in a box and mostly
forgotten about it until this week.
Tonight, I found the pocket watch, and, by some small miracle, I managed to
find the tiny key that you need to wind it up. I turned the key until I heard the spring start to squeak,
let go, and held my breath. It
still ticks. I’m not ashamed
to admit I cried.
