Saturday Blast From The Past
Jorge looked down at the pile. Passersby saw a pile of clock parts, the timeless faces staring up unable to answer to their one question in life, what time is it. But Jorge saw something different, he saw the years of his life heaped into one big meaningless tangle of springs and gears.
Clock making had been his life. The only life he'd really known. He spent many years perfecting his craft and many more years earning the respect from his peers. He gave his family a home and a future. He was well known in the city, if anyone wanted the best clock they went to Jorge.
When his son announced that he didn't want to be a clock maker, Jorge was crushed, and their relationship stretched like an over wound watch. He could never understand how his son could walk away from the life that Jorge worked so hard to provide. Now, looking down at the disarray of watchworks he began to be thankful, thankful that his son refused this ending. His son, the banker. Sure, his son could help him finance the rebuilding of the shop but what would be the point?
The age of electronics had arrived. His work was mostly for the rich anymore, the rich and the very old, the ones who have time and money for quality. He could rebuild the shop and live through the eventual slow death or he could salvage what's left of the pieces and parts and retire for good.
Here he was, master of timekeeping, retired early through an accident, and behind the times on purpose. He was sure that people would still want the precision of mechanical clocks over the newfangled electronic version. He was positive there was still a place for his craft in the world, and until the city's historical society put him and his shop on the historical tour he thought he had plenty of time.
The driver of the truck was positive he changed the batteries in his watch just last week. He was sure that he was on schedule, but the digits told him otherwise. And while he tapped and strained to hear the metallic ticking he didn't notice the pedestrian in the road until too late. He had just enough time to swerve, miss the pedestrian, and crash straight through the old clock shop.
Jorge looked down at the jumble of timeless faces looking back up at him, all telling him the same thing. His time had come.
Clock making had been his life. The only life he'd really known. He spent many years perfecting his craft and many more years earning the respect from his peers. He gave his family a home and a future. He was well known in the city, if anyone wanted the best clock they went to Jorge.
When his son announced that he didn't want to be a clock maker, Jorge was crushed, and their relationship stretched like an over wound watch. He could never understand how his son could walk away from the life that Jorge worked so hard to provide. Now, looking down at the disarray of watchworks he began to be thankful, thankful that his son refused this ending. His son, the banker. Sure, his son could help him finance the rebuilding of the shop but what would be the point?
The age of electronics had arrived. His work was mostly for the rich anymore, the rich and the very old, the ones who have time and money for quality. He could rebuild the shop and live through the eventual slow death or he could salvage what's left of the pieces and parts and retire for good.
Here he was, master of timekeeping, retired early through an accident, and behind the times on purpose. He was sure that people would still want the precision of mechanical clocks over the newfangled electronic version. He was positive there was still a place for his craft in the world, and until the city's historical society put him and his shop on the historical tour he thought he had plenty of time.
The driver of the truck was positive he changed the batteries in his watch just last week. He was sure that he was on schedule, but the digits told him otherwise. And while he tapped and strained to hear the metallic ticking he didn't notice the pedestrian in the road until too late. He had just enough time to swerve, miss the pedestrian, and crash straight through the old clock shop.
Jorge looked down at the jumble of timeless faces looking back up at him, all telling him the same thing. His time had come.
posted by Mark at 7:28 PM
1 Comments:
hi mark.
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