There's a Sad Sort of Clanging

It has not been my intention to make every entry a reflection on times past though it’s beginning to appear that way - but memory is an easy pool to pull from - and though I am not giving these entries their due, in terms of time and attention to detail, they allow me to at least capture an essence that, if I am ever moved to do so, could act as the bones on which to put flesh. I should also mention that I do take creative licence with them and embellish where necessary in order to produce a more even flow; in other words - don’t believe everything you read…

My grandparent’s house in Nebraska was a place full of wonders. It wasn’t that there was anything particularly exotic about it or the furnishings within it, but rather, the atmosphere, for this was the great gathering place of my clan.

Once, maybe twice a year, if we were lucky, we would drive across the country from Denver to Lincoln and spend a week with my grandparents. The trip seemed endless and the stay momentary but on reflection, I have so many memories from those visits that it is clear to me, they were rich in life.

In my grandparent’s den, was the television, a rather large working desk, and a piano. My grandfather was an able pianist and, as he used to tell it, it was his tickling of the ivories that swept my grandmother off her feet, into his arms, and a marriage.

At some point in our visits, when all the cousins and aunts and uncles would be over, my grandfather would sit down at the piano and we would all sing. This was especially thrilling at Christmas time when carols would be sung. We were a large Irish/Danish family and our numbers large enough to make a small chorus. This was grand for the sound was rib-rattling!

But the one object in the room that never ceased to fascinate me was the cuckoo clock which hung above my grandfather’s desk. It was not huge but it was old and worked beautifully. My great grandmother was from Schleswig-Holstein and when they immigrated to the United States, crossing those broad tracts of land to settle on the plains of Nebraska, she brought with her, the cuckoo.

As a child, that clock was a mystery and a delight with the little bird popping out to sound the hours and the halves, and the pine cones descending as the oak leaf on the pendulum swung back and forth. I loved that clock and even today the thought of it evokes a tenderness in my heart that still moves me.

In 1989, my partner and I took a trip to Europe - it was to be our last, as he died the following year. This was to be our ‘grand tour’; though we’d both been before, neither of us had travelled to all the places on our itinerary together - and I’d never been to Germany.

We started in Venice, took the overnight train to Vienna, then on to Munich and down into Bavaria. From there we headed west and before leaving Germany for France, stopped for a night in Baden-Baden.

Because it was November, it got dark very early and we arrived after the sun had set, so there was little sight-seeing to do at that hour. We checked into our hotel and then found a restaurant nearby to have dinner.

After dinner, we decided to take a walk and look around even though everything was closed up, tight as a drum. While walking past a row of shops, we suddenly found ourselves in front of a clock shop whose window was filled with cuckoos of all sizes. This was fate - I had to have one. Unfortunately the store was closed and we weren’t staying but the one night.

The following morning before getting on the road, I coaxed a visit to the shop from my partner who was anxious to get started. We were waiting eagerly at the door when the store opened and I quickly found a small cuckoo that I thought would be ideal - not too conspicuous (except for the constant cuckooing) and small enough to carry back to the States.

There was however, a much bigger problem: I hadn’t enough German marks left to cover the cost; I’d spent right down to the last, as we would soon be in France and the marks rendered useless as a result - so I’d spent them.

I don’t know if it was the utter disappointment in my face or the fact that the shopkeeper had a generous soul - but clearly something transpired between us for he waived the additional cost, boxed up the clock and handed the precious thing to me. I am not kidding when I tell you I was on the verge of tears, so overwhelmed was I.

After thanking him profusely, we continued on our journey and we finally made it back home; the sweet cuckoo clock was soon safely ensconced on the wall and happily ticking away.

It’s 23 years now I’ve had the clock and it has hung on numerous walls since it came into my possession. It has recently begun to ‘act up’ a bit but I would never replace it with another - I am too fond of it.

And though it’s been rather temperamental and only just this very day, began tick-tocking once again, not to mention cuckooing, I’d have no other.

Objects such as these become imbued with all the life that has surrounded them, including that which they are given by proxy - such as that of my grandparents and their cuckoo. I would not have considered having one were it not for them - and though it is not the same clock, I am reminded of them - and of so many things.

It’s just a simple, little cuckoo - but what a sweet and memorable song it sings!