Tick Tock Tick...

I write to the sound of one clock ticking. That would be a lot of ticks in some houses, but in this house, it means we’re down by two clocks. It’s the cuckoo clock this time, the cuckoo I mourned in an essay long ago.

A year ago, when I was home alone for a couple weeks, I remember writing in my journal about the sound of three clocks ticking. It was like jumping rope double-Dutch or playing all three contrapuntal parts of a Bach fugue, the satisfying finger-twisting struggle of it all. 

It isn’t difficult to vibrate to one chord, to rock to one beat. I like to think that having multiple ticks and tocks keeps me limber, aurally speaking.

Time for the cuckoo clock repair shop.

The Power of Play

Last night I stayed up late to watch one of the craziest, most fast-paced and ultimately satisfying basketball games I've seen in years. (Of course, I seldom watch more than half a dozen games a season!)

It was the University of Kentucky Wildcats (Go, Big Blue!) versus the University of Louisville Cardinals in the "Sweet Sixteen" round of the NCAA basketball tourney.

As you might expect with teams that are 80 miles apart and a coach who left one team and ended up at the other, the rivalry is intense.

At first, the UK starters, all freshman (Kentucky Coach Calipari having no problem with "one and done"), seemed nervous, out-of-sync. But by halftime the Cats had closed to within a few points of the Cards. From then on, they were on Louisville's tail, trailing by a point or three but seeming like  thoroughbreds patiently biding their time on the rail so they can let it all out in the home stretch.

Kentucky led for less than two minutes, but they were the right two minutes. When the buzzer sounded it was 74-69, UK.

The last time I watched the Wildcats beat U of L was December 28. That night I watched with Dad. Last night I watched for him.

(No basketball photos but here's a street scene from downtown Lexington, where there is much jubilation today.)

Freaky Friday

I don't remember exactly when I first heard this day described as Black Friday, but it couldn't have been more than 10 years ago. Since then the commercial has steadily encroached on the celebratory to the point where sales start only a couple of hours after the dishes are dried and the leftovers put away.

Don't get me wrong: I like bargains. And this day has always been the traditional start of the Christmas season. But the marketplace rules us so much anyway that I resent its claiming any more turf.

So when others were out scoring bargains I was sleeping. And now that the day is more than half over I'm just writing a post.

It's a freaky Friday.

Clock Emeritus

Today as we "spring forward," the one clock in our house we won't rush to reset is our charming cuckoo, our most independent-minded timepiece. Like a retired guard dog that barely lifts his head when burglars stroll off with the family silver, our cuckoo long ago stopped being a reliable time keeper. It's been elevated to clock emeritus, the pulse of our house. As for keeping time, well, let's just say we don't use it when we have to catch a train.

But we treasure our cuckoo clock just the same. Its tick-tock is the rhythm of breathing; it sounds as if it were meant to be. Besides, we have too few items in our possession that are this human - that work simply and not always efficiently, that can be fixed at home, and that when broken cannot be immediately replaced. Things like these are more than possessions; they are companions. Put enough of them in a house and you make it your own.