By Ruth Clagan of the Clock Shop Mysteries by Julianne Holmes
But back to my ruminations on time. These dark days of winter slow down time a bit, at least for me. Since I live and work in my shop, I don't get out much. If I run out of food, I go down the road to the Corner Market to stock up. More likely, I go by the Sleeping Latte and get a meal. I always try and pay, but the Moira Reed won't let me. And then she always puts an extra cookie in my bag for later.
One great thing about these long days? Plenty of time to work. Fixing clocks, or rebuilding them, takes a lot of concentration. You can do everything right, and they don't keep time perfectly. So you have to go in, add weight, tighten this, replace that, until it works. The work for me is about precision. Precision requires patience. And time.
I think about time, and the idea of tracking it, a lot. When I was a little girl I remember my grandfather struggling with a beautiful old longcase clock that hadn't worked in years.
"Close enough is good enough," his friend Grover Winters has said when he brought it in. "I just want to see her running again. I'll happily adjust the hands a minute or two on winding day."
No matter what he did, my grandfather couldn't get the clock to keep perfect time. He finally admitted defeat one Saturday when Grover came in for a visit.
"Maybe she's keeping the time of another place, or planet?" Grover said. The two men laughed, but I've never forgotten the surge in imagination that fueled.
Maybe a slow clock is just perfect somewhere else? And that the clock is a glimpse into that other place?
That's the kind of thinking I do on these long, cold, New England winter days. How about you?