Like clockwork

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

Sometimes everything works out just the way it should, not always, but sometimes.

We knew that a special treasure sat waiting for us in Cullman, Alabama, about 450 miles south of the creek valley. We planned to drive down one day, spend the night, rent a box trailer the following morning, pack up the treasure, and drive back to the creek. This required finding a pet-friendly hotel close to the treasure, as well as a trailer rental, also nearby. With a bit of internet research, I was able to secure both lodging and trailer, and on the appointed day, Greg and I and our dear dog set off on the seven-hour drive to Cullman.

After a fine hotel breakfast, we drove 10 minutes down the road, picked up our one-way trailer rental, hooked it up, and headed 10 more minutes down the road to greet our treasure.

My heart stood still. The 100-year-old green turret clock stood shoulder high amid hundreds of other smaller clocks inside Taylor's Fine Timepieces. I had no reason to fall instantly in love, other than that the clock's strong beat sounded like music to my ears. The gears were all made of shining brass. The four-foot cast iron frame had been lovingly restored, down to its perfect red pin stripping. Greg ran his fingers along the beautiful old clock understanding how each gear and lever ran the time, struck the hour, and rang the chimes.

We learned that the clock had been built by J. Smith and Sons in 1929 in Clerkenwell, London, and was likely one of the last turret clocks the company ever built. It was originally a four-face clock, each face measuring four feet across and proclaiming the time high over a town. Sadly, no one was certain of the clock's original provenience, or even its exact age, but with certainty the clock had been built by J. Smith and Sons of Clerkenwell.

It had recently been lovingly restored and set in a 12-foot-tall wooden tower built by the Rocket City Regulators, a clock club in Huntsville, Ala. Several of the restorers were there at the clock shop to meet us and help us carefully load the clock into our trailer. It was clear to see that they loved the clock and wished to travel with care.

I asked them if they had named it. They shook their heads and told me they had not. Many of our clocks have names. Marcy is our 200-year-old French clock. We call the large cuckoo clock with dancing band, waltzing couples, bell ringer, water wheel, and river, The Village. Homer is our clock that once recorded the time of racing pigeons, and Roller is the clock whose pendulum is actually a tilting table with a track for a metal ball to roll along.

I earned that J. Smith, of J. Smith and Sons, was actually named John Smith. The clock works rest within a heavy cast iron frame that measures four feet long and is over one foot wide. The clock is clearly anything but little, but as soon as I laid eyes on it, I knew that its creek valley name would be Little John, after its builder. It was, obviously, quite a bit smaller than London's Big Ben, and so I figured Little John would be an appropriate name.

The clock club fellows helped us lovingly pack the clock and its twelve-foot wooden tower into our rented trailer. Kitty watched anxiously from the truck’s windows during the several hour process, and then, after warm farewells and promises to stay in touch, we were headed back north.

What had taken five men and one woman to load, one man, one woman, one dancing dog, and several pieces of farm machinery were able to unload. Little John now solidly ticks away inside our cabin. The 12-foot tower stands dismantled in the tractor show barn. Our plan is to build a clock face to mount on the log wall behind Little John so that he can properly tell time, for the time being, inside the cabin. The tower we will put back together and let run off of our solar energy as a very large electric clock that we’ll be able wheel out of the barn and keep time over our various farm events.

And then, over the course of the next two years, we will build a clock gazebo with a tower so that Little John can be properly housed outside and keep time over the creek valley. He might even end up striking one of my bells to ring the hour, while he rings each quarter hour with chimes. We shall see, but for now we dream, and fall asleep each night with yet another clock keeping time to our world.

And there is one more thing. I would be remiss if I didn't mention that the entire adventure went off without a hitch, just like clockwork.

Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.