The Clock Always Strikes 13

Paul Loh - Pexels

One of the many household chores my Dad had was to wind all the antique clocks throughout the house. My parents didn’t have a whole house full of clocks, just seven, but each one needed winding every Sunday.

When my Dad passed away in 2012, it was tough on my brother and me, but I think it was a lot harder on my Mom. Over 50 years of living with the same man, and suddenly, she was on her own. A little five-foot, 80-year-old woman suddenly had to fend for herself.

Thankfully, she joined a fantastic support group called the WOW group (Women of Widowhood) and made some lifelong friends.

Fast forward five years, and my somewhat tumultuous marriage was just about to come to a screeching halt. My husband came to me in April 2017 and announced that “he couldn’t live this way anymore” and said he was moving out. Then, he suggested that my Mom, who was planning on moving to Nevada anyway, move in with me instead of finding her own place. It sounded like a good idea to me.

It took my husband three months to get out. My Mom’s beloved clocks and all her household items waited in storage. During those three very long, sad months, I lost two of my beloved felines, one to respiratory issues and one to kidney failure. But, I digress.

When Mom’s stuff finally arrived, it took days to figure out where to put everything. The clocks, however, had designated wall space, and they were the first things to put back on the walls. It gave my Mom a taste of home as she and her dog adjusted to living with me, three cats, and a dog.

Sunday came around, and I dutifully pulled the chains on the grandfather clock to lift the heavy weights back to the top. I carefully opened each clock, took their respective keys, and wound them. Not too tight or the springs would break. Not too little or they wouldn’t last until the next Sunday. The kitchen clock, when I turned the key, chimed. It chimed thirteen times, even though it was approximately 7:20 in the morning. I thought it was a fluke.

George Orwell’s 1984 book says this, which I love:

“References to a thirteenth stroke of the clock indicate that some event or discovery calls into question everything previously believed. Put another way, the thirteenth stroke of the clock calls into question not only the credibility of itself but of the previous twelve.”

Every Sunday, without fail, that kitchen clock will strike thirteen when I wind it. Whether it’s trying to tell me not to believe everything I hear or whether it’s making fun of itself, I like to think my Dad is standing there next to me, adding that 13th chime.