Of Pocket Watches and Memories

It's late. That time of night where I get a little too sentimental for my own good, you know how it is. I'm holding in my hand a pocket watch that I picked up today from my local watch repair shop, where I left it for a couple of weeks to get cleaned, oiled, etc. The repair guy is "Toby", a great guy that I've known for years. Toby hasn't been able to walk since birth and gets around in a wheel chair. What he lacks in the 40 yard dash, he more than makes up for in his boundless optimism and sardonic wit. The fact that he's the best watch man in town, is just a bonus. He handed me the watch and started going over the litany of things he did for the watch while in his custody, but I wasn't listening...my mind was miles and years away.

This watch was a circa late 1890's Hamilton Rail Road watch. Gold plated, not gold. It kept so-so time despite the best care imaginable. Somehow this watch had become a family treasure. My Great Grandfather gave it to my Grandfather on his death bed, and my Gramps did the same with my dad on his. This little ritual had earned the watch the moniker "the Grim Reaper" among the females of the clan. I wasn't thinking of any of this.

I was thinking of the time that I went down to visit my Dad in a hospice in Tucson. For weeks I had been sure that the experimental radiation treatments that he had receiving would halt the progress of his pancreatic cancer. Entering his bedroom, I knew instantly that, if anything, the "treatment" had hastened his demise. I saw the strapping guy that carried me when I got tired as a child, sitting on the edge of his bed, weighing 120 lbs. The eyes that once seemed to embody one of the most formidable intellects that I had ever known, looked out at me from a jaundiced death's head. We made small talk "Yeah, you're right. If those dammed Phoenix Suns don't pay the money for a big man at center, they'll never go all the way..." I maintained a jovial attitude, despite my stomach feeling like I had just hit the down button on a high rise elevator, and my heart pounding in my ears. The pounding got worse when I saw him gesture to my Mom, who then pulled out "THE watch". This was the moment of truth. It was all I could do to act surprised, and gush about how much I always wanted that ancient Hamilton.

While staring at this dammed thing, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my Dad nudge my Mom and point to me, obviously glad that I so "loved" the watch, and it was now safely in the hands of his sole male heir. It was all I could do not to curse and heave the heirloom out the window in an effort to bargain a few more days for my Dad. The dammed watch was all but burning a hole in my hand...

There must be a lot of wisdom in our family traditions. As the years since my Father's death have gone by, I have grown to love that watch. When I hold it I get a sense of continuity with the past that I would have not known otherwise. Much the same as when I smoke my Gramps pipe on nights like tonight, typing my ramblings to strangers who couldn't give a shit less.

James 'Bart' Graves, R.I.P.

Toby said "Well?". Woken from my reverie, I asked him to repeat the question. "I asked 'why do you bother with this thing, I mean you've got an 18k/titanium Omega 300 Chrono on your wrist, why screw with this?'" I just grinned at him "It's a Family thing, Toby, see ya next year".

R. 'Bear' Graves