Stop All the Clocks

W. H. Auden, 1907-73

I stole the title of this post from W. H. Auden (whose poetry I've come to love more and more as I've grown ... older). It's from his poem "Funeral Blues,"* and here's the part I stole: "Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone ...." Link to entire poem.

Although most of that poem has nothing to do with this post, this particular line does. Let me explain ...

In our house we have three antique clocks--i.e., they have to be wound regularly (or, as in the case of our cuckoo clock, have chains pulled). The oldest and most precious is the cuckoo clock that belonged to my great-grandfather Warren A. Lanterman, who lived on a farm in Austintown, Ohio, for more than 90 years. When he died on March 30, 1963, that clock moved to my parents' wall in Hiram, Ohio, then traveled with them out to Des Moines, Iowa, in 1966 when they continued their teaching careers at Drake University.

When they retired and moved to Oregon in the late 1970s, it became ours and has hung on our wall ever since--in Kent, Ohio; in Lake Forest, Illinois; in Hudson, Ohio (three different places); in Aurora, Ohio.

We've had to have it repaired a few times, but it's generally been a steady, ticking companion for more than forty years.

Until this week.  It stopped. Usually this means it's gotten a little out of alignment on the wall, needs to be adjusted until the ticking is strong and clear and regular.

Not this time.

The two other antique clocks we bought in Lake Forest, Illinois, during our year's sojourn there (1978-79) when both of us were teaching at Lake Forest College, and I was discovering I didn't want to be a college professor. (A discovery I made very soon, BTW.)

Both are mantel clocks. One is a more traditional shape, the other more upright.

the quitter

The latter quit this week.

Again, I tried adjusting its position (usually works--didn't this time).

The single remaining functional wind-up clock is still ticking away, but throughout much of the house there is a silence I don't like. (Joyce doesn't like it, either.)

For more than forty years, you see, the ticking of those clocks has been the heartbeat of our house.

And it's also hard not to see ... symbolism! ... in all this. (Two English teachers in the same house? Of course we're going to see symbols everywhere!)

Lots of people, you see, have been posting a similar message on Facebook: Under the virus lock-down they're losing track of time. They don't know what day it is, etc.

So maybe our clocks, fed up with the disrespect on the Internet, have shut down and will--magically--begin ticking again once the lock-down lifts.

If they don't, though, I have a good "clock guy" to call.

But, oh, do I miss those steady sounds, day and night and night and day and night ...


*I've posted this before ... but I became aware of this poem when I saw the film Four Weddings and a Funeral in 1994. Loved the poem. Memorized it. And here's a link I've posted other times, showing the scene in the film when one of the characters, Matthew (played by John Hannah), recites it at the funeral of his lover. Very moving.

Link to the scene.