Looking out my back door: The last mechanical clock in the whole USA

Just when life in my neighborhood returned to normal: 8,000 motorcycles roared out of town. 50,000 tourists followed. Lingering snowbirds flew north. An unexpected and welcome rain shower blessed, washed and renewed the atmosphere. Geckos came out of hiding to skitter across my walls. Peace and quiet defined both day and night.

Peace. Quiet. Too quiet. I rolled over in bed and looked at my clock. I distinctly recalled winding it last night. Poor thing expired halfway between midnight and one. I’m devastated. Please understand. I’ve had this clock ... well, I cannot remember when I didn’t have this clock. This clock could well be as old as ... time. Since I slept upstairs as a child, and since I had to get up to feed the chickens and cook breakfast before school, I can be certain the clock was given to me during my school years. Since I would remember a new clock as a special occasion, I can verify that the clock was old before I acquired it.

My clock is a simple mechanical wind-up model, made of metal with a golden colored rim, a Westclox Baby Ben. The alarm function gave out several years ago but that never bothered me. The second hand quit functioning a couple years ago. I seldom used an alarm and how often does one need a second hand. I can set my mental clock and wake up to the minute — a talent I acquired while going to college when I suffered woefully from lack of sleep. I trained myself to grab any available ten minutes for a snooze and wake to the exact minute. I never lost that ability.

My clock has traveled my world with me. We racked up exactly the same number of air miles and highway miles. I don’t wear a watch. You’ve heard the expression, “her face would stop a clock,” well, when I strap a watch on my wrist, I have a similar result. Body chemistry, maybe. I’ve tried cheap watches, expensive watches, pocket watches, watches on a chain around my neck. Within days they simply stop functioning. So be it.

I know. Most of you are rolling your eyes and thinking, “Get a grip, honey. Join the modern world.” Most of you have a small rectangular device attached to the palm of your hand that tells you the time, who of your friends is eating oatmeal for breakfast, the latest breaking news, the current status of your investments, the top 39 recipes for paella, plus, sings how high’s the river, Mama.

I don’t. Carry one. Or want one. Or know how to use one. I want my poor mechanical clock to resume ticking. I did what any normal red-blooded American with any wits about them would do. I conducted a lively discussion about its future. I shook the clock. I hit it. I banged it on the table. No response.

With my handy-dandy screw driver and pliers, I removed the back and the base. I shook the clock again. A small pile of metallic filings fell onto my lap. At this point I admitted defeat and put the clock back together. It still didn’t work when I again communicated with it, shook it, slapped it and banged it on the desk.

Out of curiosity, I looked up Westclox Baby Ben on the Web. Near as I can figure, my old clock is a 1930’s model. I fancy the looks of the 1964 clock. I could actually order a used clock, working or nonworking (?) online.

For something this important, I prefer hands-on shopping. I want to hear the tick-tock. When I get back home to Havre this summer, I’m heading to the Salvation Army in search of a new-to-me used Westclox Baby Ben, mechanical wind-up model alarm clock. I tossed my former treasure, vintage 1930s mechanical alarm clock into the trash. Rest in peace.

(Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Mazatlan, Sinaloa, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].)