From now on, all I want in life is for people I hire or utilize for services to do what they say they will. Oh, I expect to pay for it, of course. That’s my end of the bargain.
The ongoing clock conundrum, the clock being my Dad’s “major award” in the eighties, is complete.
Peter Rioux was the epitome of professionalism. You see, I have zero knowledge about clocks and a lot of other topics. Rioux came recommended, and rightfully so. We only decided to replace the movement after Rioux explained why the visible brass shavings littered the bottom of the timepiece.
The clock had a good run. It was in the perfect position to observe the family activities at the Cottons’ house—weddings, funerals, and birthdays—so many birthdays.
My Mama kept it wound, dusting it regularly. The quarter-hour chimes were timely reminders of fleeting moments, blending in with the laughing, snoring, crying, and the Old Man’s Red Sox games. And like the Old Man, it wore out, giving up on proper ticking and gonging about six or seven years back. Daddy lasted longer, but not much longer; we are thankful he stayed with us, clock or no clock. We all knew it wouldn’t be long enough.
And so it goes.
Enter Peter. It was a stroke of luck that the self-taught clock whisperer hung up his shingle just one town over from where the clock watched our family.
The behemoth of a timepiece had been silent for a long time, but it still looked regal and elegant when I walked into the empty apartment attached to my house. The ticking was gone; the voices, too.
The hum of the fluorescent light in the kitchen has replaced the play-by-play of Red Sox and Celtic games. But only after you flick the wall switch several times to wake it up properly.
When the painters went through the house, we covered the clock, advising them to be careful around it, for someday, we’d try to make it tick again.
My father’s name is inscribed within, “Registered to Arthur L. Cotton, June 13th, 1988—Howard Miller Clock Company.” Howard didn’t build it specifically for my Dad; it could have gone to anyone.
I had to go out the evening Mr. Rioux could come look it over, so I left the Significant One in charge. I knew it would be expensive to fix it, but I didn’t realize it would need a completely new German movement.
Those Germans—being meticulous is costly.
Peter gave her the price, and the SO didn’t flinch. “We should get it working again,” she said, “Dad would have liked that.”
Somehow, we lost the number one from the dial in the removal process. No problem, “I made one,” Rioux told me later. It matches perfectly.
This afternoon, Mr. Rioux arrived carrying a briefcase full of tools and a wooden box. He also brought me the old movement to show me where things went south. I didn’t ask him to open that box. It felt like a violation of a casket that’s already been closed for the last time. I trust him.
I annoyed him throughout the reinstallation by getting in close, taking some photos, and admiring the tiny hammers that would impact the chimes from now on. I asked many questions, mostly about winding, servicing, and setting the movement after he left.
He gave me some tips on how to speed up or slow down the movement if necessary. We listened to the quarter, half, and three-quarter-hour chimes multiple times and learned their significance—four chimes at quarter past, eight on the half-hour, and twelve at a quarter of the hour. The Full Monty and the hour gong are the crescendo at the top of the hour.
He set the moon phase to appear simultaneously as the actual one. I always wondered how the clock knew about that; I continue to be mesmerized by simplicity melded with intricacy.
He showed me what switch to flick if I wanted it silenced between ten p.m. and eight a.m.
“It’s not magical, it’s mechanical,” Peter shared, explaining how people attach a little mystical magic to his chosen field.
After he packed up and left, I thought about that for a few minutes. The clock is working perfectly and appears to be adequately adjusted.
The gentle sway of the pendulum and the soft tick-tock make napping in the living room a little too easy. It’ll be a pleasant backdrop to low-volume play-by-play of some spring Sox games. I can almost hear my mother doing dishes in the kitchen. That, in itself, is magical.
That was the only thing Peter lied about; a good magician never reveals all their secrets, so I can’t hold it against him.
He did what he said he’d do.
From the Jagged Edge of America, we are on time tonight. I can hear it from here.
TC
Contact Peter if you need a clock repaired or even a deep surgery.
riouxclock@aol.com
As always, thank you for supporting my writing, here and on the socials. BuyMeACoffee is how I keep the clock wound; the banner and simple process are available on the main page if you choose to become or continue your support. Either way, and regardless, I am so happy that you swung by to read the stuff. It means a lot. tc