STRIKING OF THE CLOCK

The house is quiet, everybody sleeping. The tv is off, the only noise is the cat purring and the rabbit nibbling. Then, amid the quiet, the clock strikes, 10 times, bong, bong...

I was transmitted back in time to the house in West View, staying with Essa Cova, my cousins, 70 years and more older than me. There were two mantle clocks in the house, one on the mantle in the side room and one on the hall tree upstairs. Every night Cova wound the one downstairs and Essa would wind the upstairs one when she went up to bed. I took turns sleeping with them and always loved watching them wind the clocks. After I was older I was allowed to help.

The two clocks were never on the exact same minute, which enabled us to hear each clock clearly. Each had it's own distinct sound, the upstairs clock was softer, but could still be heard downstairs. The house was always quiet at night, except for storms. It was hard to miss the striking of the clocks.

Cova slept downstairs in a tall bed with a high feather mattress. She used her small hands to fluff and smooth it every morning. The head board went almost to the ceiling and the foot board was about half as tall. Cova would let me climb on the foot board, straighten myself stiff and fall into the feather bed, where I would be consumed. I thought this was great fun. Talking with Cova at night was an adventure, she told me about far away places and famous people, how I should behave and treat others. She was the one who taught me about salvation.

Essa's feather bed, upstairs, was not as thick, nor was it as fluffed and smoothed. But it was so comforting. She told me stories, we talked about people we didn't like, and giggled for hours.

My clock is not one of theirs, but that's another story. My clock is a family piece, passed on to me by my mother. I like hearing it strike.