Keeping Time

I can still hear them ringing - the clocks in my grandfather’s house.  In fact, that is probably the single most lasting memory I have of my grandparents’ home in Illinois.  No matter which way you looked or into what room you ventured, there would be a clock waiting to greet you.  Many of them were silent, but a large number chimed, rang or cuckooed.  It was not one loud, cacophonous sound, however.  Grandpa had set them all a few minutes apart, so the chorus played throughout the hour.  Once while sitting on their couch I decided to take a mental inventory and see how many clocks I could spy from that vantage point.   I believe my final total was 11.  A cherished childhood memory was watching my grandfather go from clock to clock, fish the key from behind each one, and begin winding.  It was a ritual I saw repeated many times over.

Many were traditional clocks.  I can still picture the mantle clock arching up from its base.   To this day, I look at a mantle clock and see Napoleon’s hat.   Near this sat a less traditional mantle clock.  Designed to resemble a temple, it was box-shaped and black in color with small marble columns on either side of the clock face.  A gold lion’s head adorned each end.  Although not large, this clock had the deepest and richest sound of all my grandparents’ clocks.  There was the traditional, dark, Bavarian style cuckoo, as well as a cuckoo clock fashioned after a hunting cabin, of which there is an identical clock hanging in my father’s home.  But there was also the small whimsical cuckoo with the little Swiss girl bouncing up and down on a swing.  In another room, sitting neatly tucked away beneath its globe, sat a white anniversary clock on which was painted small, delicate flowers.  Less impressive was a little clock designed to look like a giant die, an ode to my grandparents’ love of games.  

One particularly favorite clock sat on a stand near the front door along with my grandmother’s bell collection.  It was designed in the 1950’s and looks like a small fireplace with a very realistic looking burning fire.  The effect is achieved through an irregular foil cylinder that rotates while being lit by a small light bulb.  The effect was charming, and to a boy that had never had a real fireplace, it was a wonderful substitute.  My bed whenever visiting my grandparents was the couch in the living room.  Each night, after making sure I was tucked in, Grandma would then turn on the fire in the little clock and I would drift to sleep watching the dancing flames.  When my grandmother died in the late 80’s, the estate was divided up and sold.  Thankfully, my parents claimed the fireplace clock for me, and as I write this it sits off to my right on a shelf in my library, its little fire still burning.

Another clock that has remained in the family, although with my father, is the large, classic Regulator.  It hung in the hallway leading to the “back room” at my grandparent’s house, next to an old painting of a scantily clad woman from the 1920’s or 30’s.  Its lazy pendulum counted out a slow steady beat that set the tempo for life in my grandparents’ house.  To me it was the grand old gentleman of all their clocks.  It is not necessarily a thing of beauty.  The case is oak with simple carvings, but it has taken on the patina of age.  The clock face is faded and stained, and the Roman numerals are smudged, yet it still holds all of its original dignity.  It now keeps a silent vigil in what used to be my bedroom at my father’s house.  Once I had left home, this room evolved into a guest bedroom.  Visitors who tried to sleep in its tight quarters did not find its regular ticking beat as enchanting as I had as a child. Eventually, Dad gave in to the complaints and stopped winding the clock, allowing it to stop.  Now, the only sounds are those that exist in  my memory.

The little anniversary clock took on new meaning after my grandparent’s passing.  My sister had been at the estate sale and unknown to any of us, placed the winning bid.  The year was 1988 and it not only marked the passing of my last grandparent, but it heralded the 40^th anniversary of my parents’ wedding.    The anniversary clock, by its very name and through its association with my grandparents’ 65 years of marriage, seemed the perfect gift for the occasion.  Sadly, this will be the first year my parents will not celebrate their anniversary together, since Mom passed away last August, but the clock will still sit by my father’s bed, a symbol of their 62 years together.  I, too, am a clock addict and purchased an anniversary clock for my then fiancé nearly 25 years ago.  It still adorns our living room.

The anniversary clock joins my parents on their 40th anniversary.

In the early 1980’s, my grandfather died.  I joined my family in Illinois for the funeral services, and while there my grandmother slipped into her bedroom and re-emerged with a small box.  With tears in her eyes and a trembling hand, she reached out and placed it in my hand saying, “Your Grandpa Jesse had intended to give this to you.  His parents gave it to him for not drinking or smoking. And because he was so proud of you and happy that you didn’t drink or smoke, he wanted you to have it.”  I opened the box, and there wrapped in one of Grandpa’s old handkerchiefs was a gold pocket watch.  I could see that once it had contained decorative etchings on its surface, but those had long since been worn smooth by nearly 70 years of use.  I pushed the release on top, and the front lid opened.  Inside my grandfather had glued a photo of his then young wife and their first daughter.  I can still see him now as a young man opening that watch during his busy work day, pausing and smiling as he looked down upon his new family.  I then proceeded to open the back lid where it was etched that the watch was a present to “Jessie E. Fifer on his 21^st birthday, May 29, 1915.”  To make sure everyone knew the significance of the watch, Grandpa had long ago written the explanation for the gift on a small piece of paper glued it inside the back cover.  I can’t think of any gift that has meant more to me.  I loved and admired my grandfather, and to think he thought enough of me to pass on his beloved watch means more to me than I will ever be able to explain.  And the fact that it was a form of clock, the prime symbol of my grandfather, made it all the more special.

Clocks seem to have always been a part of our lives.  When my great, great, great, great grandfather, George Fifer passed in the early 1800’s his estate was appraised.  He was a simple farmer with few possessions, and very little of what he did possess was of much value.  Yet recorded along with a few farm animals, tools, bedstead and kraut knife, was an eight day clock.  It seemed so incongruous with the simplicity of his remaining property.  It must have been a great luxury, and for all I know may have been a family heirloom from his German parents.  I smiled when I found this because it seemed so fitting.  I now believe my family’s love of clocks in genetic.  I, too, carry on the family tradition.  Every quarter hour various clocks ring out the time, including our stately grandfather clock at the top of the stairs.  I think I fell in love with my first grandfather clock when as a small boy I would watch Captain Kangaroo great Grandfather Clock each morning.  I don’t say hello to it each morning, but it tells me goodnight each evening.

Clocks are a good metaphor for our families and lives.  We are the gears in the clockworks, and we must all work together to make the apparatus (family) function properly.  We mark the passage of time and chime out regularly, announcing birthdays, anniversaries and holidays.  Sometimes life becomes too rushed and we get ahead of ourselves, and at other times we are so burdened we fall behind, and we must pause and reset.  But like the swinging of the pendulum, the days tick off one by one, and time forever marches on.   

Spring

I need the spring.  Please don’t get me wrong, I love the winter and could not live anywhere there were not four distinct seasons, but by the time March rolls around I desperately need spring.  I need its warmth, I need its color and I need its reassurance.

When autumn creeps in I relish in its crisp days.  The cool air invigorates me and pushes me on to complete my late season tasks.  I watch the green fade from the landscape to reveal the plants and trees in all their glorious colors.  The wonderful smell of wood smoke ignites distant memories from my childhood, as my neighbors begin to use their fireplaces or burn piles of leaves.  And in those early months of the season, I take in my expanded view of the surrounding woods minus the leafy curtain that has hidden so much the previous summer.  The ducks and geese are again visible on the distant pond.  There is the muted pallet of gray and brown which pleases my desire for earth tones.  I anxiously await the first flakes of winter and later the big snowfalls that transform the landscape into a fairyland. 

However, by March the novelty has worn off.  The landscape has remained unchanged for four months.  The grass is brown and lays flattened from the weeks of heavy snow and ice.  The winter winds have gradually redeposited the leaves I so meticulously worked to clean from my lawn last October.  My flower bed, so colorful last summer, is an ugly scar across the lawn, and the garden ornaments sit askew.  The area beneath the birdfeeder is buried in sunflower hulls which smother the grass.  It is still too early for the return of the neotropical migrants, so it is the same cast of characters at my feeder each day, and these still sport their dull winter clothes.  

This is the time of year I begin to lose faith.  Despite my 48 autumns that have passed successfully into spring before, I still look upon the yard and woods and wonder if it is forever lost to me.  It all looks so dead.  The winter winds have left branches broken and hanging in the trees, and I survey them looking for any possible signs of life.  They don’t always come back.  Dutch elm disease has taken a few of my trees each year, and by winter’s end large slabs of bark have sloughed to reveal the white skeleton of their trunks below.  Will this be the fate of all my trees?  It is the foolish question I ask myself each year.  It is so hard for me to believe they could have survived the long, cold, dark months that have passed.

My first daffodil of the year

And then March arrives.  I look at the branch tips silhouetted against the sky and can see the subtle swelling of their buds.  I scan the earth for any signs of life.  When the snow finally receded this year the snow drops were already standing proud.  And as expected, the tips of the daffodil leaves had already pushed their way through the leaf mulch.  I knew the crocus plants would be the next to appear, and thankfully they both burst into bloom this week, simulated by an unseasonably warm period.

The diminutive Harbinger of Spring

Soon the woods will go through the transformation that renews not only the landscape by my soul as well.  The change reminds me of the scene in the Wizard of Oz where Dorothy leaves the black and white world  of her storm-tossed house and emerges into the vibrant and colorful world of Munchkinland.  I enjoy the crocus and daffodils, but I planted those. It feels a little like cheating.  To really feel that all is right with the world, I need to see the native spring ephemerals make their return.  The first of these is aptly named Harbinger of Spring.  Also known as Salt and Pepper, it is the smallest of our spring flowers and emerges well before any of the others.  It is easily overlooked, and you must set out to find it.  For me it is like the first blip on the ECG screen signally that the flat-lined patient is not dead after all but is still fighting.

A clump of bloodroot

A few weeks after the Harbinger of Spring the patient convulsively bursts back into life.  Simultaneously, the rue anemone, the spring beauties, the cut-leaf toothwarts, Jacob's ladder and bloodroots will all spring into bloom.  Bees will appear and visit the violets that bloom on the edge of the woods.  My bleeding heart sends out its dripping heart-shaped blossoms while its wild cousin, the Dutchman’s breeches, hangs his laundry out in the woods.  Ferns uncoil their fiddleheads.  Dog-toothed violets nod next to trilliums.  My trilliums are a maroon color except for a single nodding white trillium that I carefully protect each year.  The wild ginger hides its burgundy bloom deep beneath its velvety leaves, and the mayapple shades its white blossom with its tropical looking, umbrella-like leaves.  In my younger days, this is when I would roam the hills for sponge mushrooms, but my little patch of woods has yet to yield a single morel.  Mother Nature also forgot to give me hepatica or wild phlox, although they bloom down by the creek.   I’ve added to the natural flowers with pulmanaria, tiarella and brunella.  The bugleweed that serves as a groundcover will deepen its burgundy color and will later carpet the woodland’s edge with its purple blooms.  Once the weather warms, I will sit on the old bentwood hickory rocker on the front porch and survey nature’s show.  

Dog-toothed violet

False Rue Anemone

Dutchman's breeches

Cut-leaved toothwart

My beautiful bleeding heart

Hepatica

 The bird life is soon tochange, too.  Already, the bluebirds have checked out the nesting box, and the phoebe’s are again chasing bugs through the woods.  I will soon hear the flutelike call of the thrushes, although they are not as frequent as they once were.  By early April I will see my first warblers, probably the yellow-rumped warbler, and blue-gray gnatcatchers will dart from branch tips to catch small insects.  The goldfinches will lose their drab green and don their vibrant yellow breeding plumage.  By the last weekend in April, the ruby-throated hummingbird will visit my feeder for the first time.  My favorite part of spring is opening the windows and listening to the chorus of birdsong early each morning.  Territory is being staked out, mates are being courted, and it seems each bird wants to outdo the other. I have to admit that although they are not exotic visitors, cardinals and robins still have my favorite songs.  But I’m also partial to the boisterous “tea kettle” of the Carolina wren and the “Old Sam Peabody, Peabody, Peabody” of the white-throated sparrow.  The noise reaffirms that the world is again alive.  When the children are gone, the most conspicuous sign of their absence is the silence of the house.  That is how I feel about the woods in winter.  The kids are gone and the house is too quiet.  

Prairie trillium

My lone nodding trillium

Spring beauties

The velvety wild ginger

I’ve reached that point in life where I am losing family and friends, and life seems all the more fragile.  That is why I need the reassurance of rebirth that spring brings.  Now I am just waiting for the fat around my stomach to melt away like the winter snows and the bare spots on my head to fill in like the lawn.  Maybe I’m putting a little too much pressure on spring’s shoulders, but I can keep hoping.

My Dad's Memories

I have spoken with my father over the past month about the positive feedback I had received regarding my blog.  I explained that I had written a few stories about my childhood days, and in return had received nice comments from friends as well as strangers from as far away as England.  Over the past several years my father has become more and more willing to share his story with others, so I guess it should not have been a surprise when a few weeks ago Dad walked over and tore a page from a legal pad and handed it to me.  In his unique and slightly sloppy handwriting were notes regarding his early life.   There were only a couple entries, but as he held out the paper Dad said, “Here, maybe you can write a blog about this.”  I must admit, it was not much, so I do not know how well I can flesh this out, but I’ll do my best.

Young Walter posing with his big brother Earl and his sister Nell

Dad is 3rd from right.  Notice the bare feet in October.

Let me begin by briefly introducing you to the most important person in my life.   Walter Fifer was born in 1922, cutting his teeth during the roaring 20’s, spending his formative years during the Great Depression and reaching manhood huddled in a cold B-24 Liberator in the skies above Germany and France in WWII.  His family was just an average Midwest family, farming in an area known as Chicken Bristle in west central Illinois.  In the early days, their home lacked both electricity and water, and it wasn’t until the 1930’s that Dad ever knew of such luxuries.  He escaped disaster as a young boy when he and his older brother were given the job of discing the farm field.  Dad would sit up front and slap the horses to keep them moving, while his brother Earl kept control of the reins.  On this particular occasion, Dad slipped and fell beneath the equipment.  Earl stopped the horses, but Dad was “disced” into the soil and trapped.  In a panic, Earl ran back to the house to get their mother, but somehow Dad had dug himself out by the time they returned.  Dad watched his father work hard to buy his dream Waterloo tractor, only to lose it a short time later to bankruptcy during the Depression.  Those lean years instilled in my father a strict sense of thrift.  Dad has always been conscious of cost and never throws anything away.  To this day, if you need anything from a tool to building material, Dad can walk into his basement or garage and find it for you.  Despite earning a scholarship, Dad never went to college.  In his day hard work was generally valued above education, and that is what he chose to do upon returning home from the war.  He worked simultaneously for the post office during the day and a steel company at night, before realizing his family needed him, too.  He settled on a career with the postal service and retired as postmaster of the Southport branch post office.  He was married to my mother for 62 years until her passing last August.  In her final years, Dad nursed Mom through physical disabilities and severe dementia, until her care became just too difficult for him to handle alone.  Reluctantly and with great sadness, he put Mom in a nursing home the last year of her life, but he was there every day to share lunch and dinner with her, and brought her home each week for her hair appointment and to spend a night in her own home.  He was the epitome of devotion. I am happy to say that as he approaches 89 years of existence he is still a strong man and the rock of our family.

Dad on the left

Dad jotted down his notes during the heat of Wisconsin’s grand dispute regarding labor unions and finances.  So it is not surprising that Dad’s first recollection was of one of his early jobs.  As a teen, Dad worked at Weaver’s Grocery in Tuscola.  Weaver’s was both a grocery and a meat market.  In those days patrons would come to the store and tell the clerk what they wanted.  The job would then fall to my father to round up the requested items.  If they wanted chicken, Dad would dress the roasting hens or dress and cut up the fryers.  Farmers would bring in their slabs of bacon for curing, and it fell to Dad to ready them for the smoke house out back.  His least favorite part of the job was scraping down the butcher block late on Saturday night as the butcher was very strict.  And what was Dad’s pay for this job?  My father worked 65 hours a week and earned a total of $12.  Now people will sometimes refuse a job that pays $12 an hour.

Dad with his dog, Teddy

Dad’s final note was about an early lesson in manners.  One day while working at the grocery store, Harvey Bassett came in.  Harvey was the owner of the local tobacco store.  Dad, upon seeing the older gentleman, chimed out, “Hi, Harve!”  In that day and age elders demanded respect, and Harvey bristled at the comment.  “Young man, I’m Mr. Bassett to you.”  My father learned his lesson and appreciated the sentiment.  From that point on, Dad always treated his elders with the utmost respect, and that is something that was driven home to us, as well.  

And so I have fulfilled my father’s request.  It is certainly not my typical entry, but I felt I owed it to Dad.  I hope you enjoyed his memories, and perhaps you gained a little more appreciation of your own life through his.