Several years ago, after I had purchased my own home, I scourred the countryside to find an antique clock just like my grandmother had in her kitchen. The gentle tick-tick-tick of the Regulator, coupled with the warmth of Grandma’s wooden cookstove and the aroma of Grandpa’s pipe, was the feeling I wanted to mimic in my own home. But finding the perfect clock was not meant to be until one day when my daughter and I were exploring Milwaukee’s Third Ward.
We came upon an obscure, out-of-the-way antique store amidst abandoned warehouses. Truth be told, we were a little lost. As we entered the store, we saw several old friends playing cards at a table while the owner was preparing snacks. They all greeted us warmly while we proceeded to meander through the store with no intent other than to meander through the store. By this time, I had given up on finding the perfect clock.
Lo and behold, I saw it. It wasn’t a Regulator but it grabbed me somewhere internally and said, “Take me home, please.” It had character, a wind-up key, no name, discolored pendulum, and a window whose crack you could see only from inside the door. It was love at first sight. The chime didn’t work; it was wound too tight, but its tick was exactly the sound I’d been searching for. It transported me to my grandmother’s kitchen and I felt comforted.
It wasn’t cheap and it cost almost as much to have it repaired but it quickly became a member of my household. The chime turned out to be more of a gong, reminding me of a dark, foggy London alley in the old Sherlock Holmes’ movies but that added to the charm.
The clock traveled with me into my marriage and subsequent new home. My husband, though, was disturbed in the night by the gong so I stopped winding that part. About a year ago, it stopped ticking. We had just placed our home on the market and didn’t want to have a blank wall for the four weeks it would take for repairs so we waited for the right time. It hung silent, its pendulum still. I resorted to a small digital clock on the end table but it certainly wasn’t the same as hearing the ticking and seeing the pendulum swing.
A few weeks ago, we decided to paint our living room. All the wall hangings came down, including the non-working pendulum clock which I brought it to the clock doctor. I told the clock doctor I didn’t want the gong rewound because it disturbed my husband. Five weeks passed and we truly missed seeing it on the wall, but after it came home, the comfort of my grandma’s kitchen returned, and, yes, Sherlock Holmes came back too, and my husband now appreciates it maybe more than I but he won’t admit it.
