Got a minute? I’ll tell the tale of my mother’s mantel clock

   Family heirlooms are not about monetary value. They stir warm memories. They remind you of a parent’s soft-spoken advice or teachable moments. They are priceless.

    When I entered my late Aunt Helen’s farmhouse kitchen last fall, there was a rush of memories and stories. I recalled cousins being tossed into the pool during the family reunion. Aunts and uncles swapping stories around the table about sleeping three to a bed during the Depression. The refrigerator was so dense with family snapshots that you couldn’t find the brand logo.

   Then I walked down the hallway with my wife, Mary, and cousin, Rosemary, and stopped in front of a table filled with framed photos, an antique lamp, and a familiar treasure.

    Mary spotted it first; it was like a beacon from the shore on a moonless night. There stood my mother’s tabletop clock. She probably discovered it during one of her tours of North County antique stores, or maybe it was a gift from her buddy, Fr. James Meehan of Alexandria Bay. Upon her passing, the clock spent the last 25 years at Aunt Helen’s home, a gift from her beloved sister.

   The hands were frozen, the chimes were silent, but it spoke volumes.

    This was the dastardly device that my parents relied on to track our movements. It rang once every half hour. So Eileen Holleran could lay in bed with one ear open. 12:30 a.m. – one chime. 1 o’clock – one chime. 1:30 a.m. – one chime.

   Even if you spent most of the semester 300 miles away in Buffalo, when you returned to her turf, an explanation was required. The morning conversation went something like this:

    “What time did you crawl in here last night?’’ she would ask.

    “I think it was 12:30.’’

     “Wanna rethink that? I had you a little before 2 a.m.’’

      She either benefited from ESP or she had a backup somewhere, somehow. This preceded the age of the ubiquitous security camera. The clock remained her sentinel.

   When I kept her and my father awake and strolled in during the wee hours of a June night, I explained I was watching the NBA playoff game at a friend’s house.

   “Games don’t last that long,’’ he said accusingly. “You know you were keeping us awake?’’

    Then I explained how the Boston Celtics and Phoenix Suns battled through three overtimes that evening in 1976. It is considered the greatest NBA playoff game ever.

  Darn clock. But those memories remain priceless.

    So when my cousin offered the clock, I jumped at the chance. This was my tabletop Big Ben from London. My Peace Tower from Ottawa. As memorable as the clock in Grand Central Station in New York.

    The problem was it no longer worked. The hands were stuck. A friend gently bent them back into place. Eureka. The clock began to tick. Then it froze 30 minutes later.  I never got to hear it chime.

   The first shopkeeper I met was a kindly woman, whose silver hair gave away her age. She stood before a sea of brass, etched glass and mahogany. Tabletops. Grandfathers. Wallhangers. The array of clocks was breathtaking. Then she announced she was retiring in two days. She could inspect the clock but not undertake the work.

   She looked at it long enough to tell me it was about 100 years old, and the gears needed work. She recommended another repair shop across town.

   It wasn’t a shop; it was a living room. Again, clocks were everywhere – in the corner, on furniture, on tables. Come back in a month, the repairwoman advised. It took two months. The gears were fixed; the mechanisms oiled; a cushioning pad was placed between the door and the clockface.

    The day I was scheduled for pickup, she called to say she had contracted Covid. I waited 25 years so what was another week?

   In conversation, she advised that if I hadn’t gotten to her when I did, the wait would have extended to three months. She had received a flood of business from the other shop.

   Eileen’s clock has been positioned prominently on a table in our foyer. It chimes faithfully day and night. My wife says you can hear it 24/7 from anywhere in the house. I’ll have to make sure I get home on time … or conjure up better excuses.

   Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/