There are some things in life that either people love or hate; such as Moxie, bagpipes, or cuckoo clocks. I happen to love cuckoo clocks, their pine cone weights, their leaf-shaped pendulums, and their rustic wooden scrollwork. Their steady ticking is like the heartbeat of the house, giving it warmth and life.
One special memory of my childhood cuckoo clock is waiting for Christmas morning. The excitement and anticipation always woke me in wee hours of the night. The family rule required us to wait until six o’clock before getting out of bed.
Throughout the night I’d wake to listen for the cuckoo, announcing the hours like a night watchman. If I only heard one cuckoo, it did no good; for it could be one o’clock or any half hour of the day. I’d have to wait.
By the time it passed the five thirty mark, my brothers and I were sitting at the top of the stairs whispering to each other and watching the steady pendulum tick off the seconds. Even the silly bird seemed to call out those six calls with excitement, as we trampled downstairs to find our stuffed stockings.
My clock is a symbol of my husband’s love for me. It irritates him to hear it at night, but he bought one for me anyway. I pull the weights each evening and respectfully disengage the cuckoo part while we sleep. If I happen to be too busy to keep it wound, I miss its steady beat, and house seems dead and lifeless.
It fascinates him to know that I can go hours without hearing it. Oh, my ears pick up the sound, but I don’t notice it. I can be reading a book or writing at the computer, and suddenly, I realize that it’s almost noon or time to leave for church and I’m not ready. He’ll ask, “Didn’t you hear the cuckoo clock?”
It’s easy to be lost in time when I’m writing. My mind travels to another world, another land, another time. It’s usually my cuckoo that calls me back, and tells me that I’m still here, still in my own home, still with my own family.
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I like this Yvonne. Yes, I have been places in thought that I will never go to in life. Time flies by whether I am writing or reading what someone else has written. Life is also passing quickly. Let us write while it is still here. Anita
