This morning, Bill and I drove to Madison to meet with a clock repairman and collector. My father, was a merchant marine who went to sea for many years, and he had a ship’s clock in his quarters that accompanied him on many voyages, all around the world. The clock was passed down to my brother, but it was broken. Some years later, he gave it to me. The other day, I took it out and decided that it was time to to have it repaired and appreciated once again. It took me five phone calls, but I found a man who knew what the clock was all about and he said he could fix it. It is amazing, but the clock repairmen all know each other. His name is Carroll Rosamond and he was well into his eighties, but very bright and full of knowledge. Clock repair is a dying profession. Young people have little interest in learning such skills, and it will soon pass into obscurity. His shop was awesome. He told me that my father’s clock was built around 1900 and that 10 years ago, it would have been worth $7-800.00 dollars. Now with the waning interest in clocks, maybe $500.00. To me, the value is meaningless. To have it repaired and hung up in my house means the world to me. Precious memories are hard to come by. So I await his call to tell me it can be repaired and come and get it. If it just needs cleaning, I’ll be lucky. If not, he will have to contact another man on the west coast who is one of the last people on earth who can replicate parts. While we were looking at his shop, I found an embroidered poem that was hung up over his desk. It read...
Time for patience
For understanding too
Time to remember
Thoughtful deeds to do.
Time to believe
In all fellow men
Time to perceive
The value of a friend.
Hey! That dude was probably born after ME!
ReplyDeleteBut who in the HELL would go and name a boy 'Carroll'? Geez!