AN ANTIQUE REGULATOR CLOCK. Wait. Is this an old guy metaphor?

Krom999 @ Flickr

Petunias
John @ Flickr
I'm a 73-year-old man watching hoodlums, I mean, grandsons practice skateboard jumps over my petunias. So, I guess it's only natural for me to remember my past when me and my immortal pals ruled the world.

My teens were a snap. 5-mile hikes to school through snow so deep I needed a periscope. Sure, I had to dodge a few dinosaurs. And we had nothing to eat but rotten radish roots, but that's just the way it was in the 50s. 

The 70s
Things were easier in the 70s. I got lucky and won a combat tour in Vietnam. When I got back, I was having a Sassparilla in a bar somewhere and met this guy, Chuck B. He'd spent some Navy time in a sub, standing off the Russkies during the Cuban Missile thing, so we had that whole uniform thing in common.

Chuck and I and our pals spent our twenties riding high, in between being interviewed by women looking for the perfect mate. Chuck was luckier than most. Coolastheycome Debbie picked him. He ended up becoming a vice-president of a gigacompany, and they traveled the world. He was my best man the first time and showed up with a coal scuttle full of iced Dom Perignon...


The Clock??
Oh, yeah, the Regulator clock. Man, us old guys can wander. 

So, in 1976, Chuck and Debbie lived in a bungalow near Washington Park and on the wall of their living room was an antique Regulator. He'd been telling me what a venerable thing it was. Apparently, when it struck the toll of midnight, it was totally psychedelic. 

Stephen Hocking @ Unsplash
I was 30, I'd been a platoon leader of a mechanized outfit and I had a soft spot for the gear-driven facts of life. They invited me over one midnight to witness their clock's performance. 

Weed
It was the seventies, so we were obligated by law to infuse ourselves with some weed. Debbie found a lighter, and we proceeded to.

If your sensibilities about greenery make you want to check out here, I get it. You're probably concerned that I've somehow gnarled my memories with the stuff. You'd be absolutely correct.

The Workings
Chuck's explanation of the clock's machinery seemed to float in the dark, smoky room. Take a deep breath. Here's the math: 

The first quarter-hour of every hour the piece would ring twice, then four rings on the half-hour, six at three-quarters of the hour and eight total rings on the hour. After this final octet, there would be a momentary pause followed by a gong for each advancing hour.

See? Simple. I paid close attention because of, you know, the weed.

12 Midnight @ Flickr
Winding the Clock
Chuck wound the clock springs, then we waited in the quiet, listening to its stately tick. In the final seconds before midnight, I heard gears moving, then a whirring as the minute hand, on the stroke of midnight, loudly locked into place. The clock began its preamble:

Ding...ding...ding...ding...


Ding...ding...ding...ding...

A pause. Then the stately gongs began. Gong..., the first was struck grandly, taking its time for the impressive tone to float up into the rafters.  Then the next, Gong...and the next...

We were all counting to twelve. I was admiring the clock's concentration and the aim of its hammer. I began to imagine an old blacksmith who'd been hammering on this bell every hour for years on end. And every day, at noon and midnight, he'd lay that hammer down, take up his 20-pound sledge and just blow the roof off the place. 

70 Years Old
This finely made clock was cherished but still, it was an antique. Its gears and hammers had been ringing in the middle and end of every day for maybe 70 years. What's that, like, a hundred thousand times? It had celebrated the timing of its life in such a dead-on way that people now listened to it like music.

The question was, could its spring last long enough for midnight? 

It struck its tenth tone. It was perfect but careful. 

The eleventh tone sounded. It was a little troubling. 

Was the ancient spring tiring? As it uncoiled, was it becoming labored with the effort? 

We waited...

GONG...

The tone reverberated into the room, then slowly, regally, diffused. Seconds slowly passed into silence. The ticking continued.


Striking Midnight

I can still hear that spring pouring all of its dwindling energy into pounding the gong one last time. For an old man, the passing of time is an event. Now. And then. The clock? That clock is a metaphor for every one of us.


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