When I was a kid we had a banjo clock in the front hall. It’s called a banjo because its shape resembles that of the musical instrument. I have a memory of my mother getting it as a Christmas present in 1956, and from then on until they moved back to Perrysburg in 1997 it was one of the many clocks — antique or otherwise — that told time in their house, some more accurately than others.
The banjo clock from the front hall now hangs in my sister’s dining room — I saw it last weekend — and I’m glad it found a place where it will be passed on to future generations of our family.
My friend Bob collects antique clocks, and he has a banjo clock hanging in his living room. When I told him of the one we had and the memories of childhood it evoked, I never thought I would have one of my own. But last night as he and the Old Professor and I celebrated our delayed Christmas, I opened their gift to find this:
It is nearly identical to the one we had in our home, right down to the painting of the ship and the brass fittings along the side. Tears of joy and memories welled up and I don’t think I could express the gratitude I felt for such a gift.
It now hangs in a prominent place in my home, ticking and chiming away like the one I remember so well.