It was irony at its finest. I was helping dad tidy up his home, and noticed a box of vintage pocket watches.

A collection.

“What’s this?” I asked, expecting he had “scored big” at another auction. Dad never mentioned a collection of the sort, but I was well aware of his love for such things, as well as his dad’s love for them.

“It’s my dad’s pocket watch collection,” he said. After asking to look and take photos, I pulled the box from the table and started touching them one by one. I could hear a few of them ticking on half-seconds. All this time had passed, but they were still in operation. Wow.

Dad explained he had only recently acquired the collection of roughly 15 watches, even though his father passed away before I was even born. My grandmother kept the collection, so when she passed away nearly four years ago, Dad inherited the majority of the collection, featuring Walthum, Standard, Elgin, Illinois Watch Co. and a very old foreign key-winder Bautte Genéve Aiguilles.

I admired each clock, its hardware, the hands. The gold, the silver, the tarnished, worn etching. Many had chains, some tarnished, some leather, most makeshift with rope, shoestrings or ribbon – probably whichever material made sense at the time. The gears on a few were even visible!

I photographed the set and pulled out a few for close up feature photos in a makeshift studio I set up next to the window. I think dad enjoyed my interest. He came by my temporary studio and handed me a few aged Polaroids.

In the small stack, a high-school aged photo of his sister. A photo of a motorcycle. A car, which he explained was his first, and another photo of him standing by a station wagon. There was also a framed photo of him crossing a finish line of a 100-yard-dash, clearly giving it his all, and also clearly in third place.

I asked for details on each. The photo of him sprinting, possibly my favorite, was part of an inter-fraternity track meet. He mentioned someone had once asked why he’d want a photo of himself placing third.

Interesting point, and at the time, 50-some years ago, that point would be valid. Now, four kids, 43 years in business, a 36-year marriage and divorce, a few injuries and surgeries and a lot of lost hair later, it’s great moment to reflect back on. Even if he was third of three.

I continued taking photos, the shutter “click” of my camera accompanying the “tick-tocks” of the watches. I was loving the moment, the time with dad and the spontaneous conversation.

“I’m not sure whether photos are a good thing or a bad thing,” dad suddenly commented. I stopped shooting and looked at him.

Was I taking too many photos again?

He continued, “They make you think of – generally – better times.”

That’s when the irony kicked in. A library of watches counting every passing moment. Using the current moment to capture a piece of our history. Looking at Dad’s Polaroids and hearing the stories from the era when his dad was still around. The history. The simultaneous feelings of heartache and joy from time that had passed. And the watches reminding us: time hasn’t – and won’t – stop.

A library of watches counting every passing moment… The simultaneous feelings of heartache and joy from time that had passed. And the watches reminding us:
time hasn’t – and won’t – stop.

There are times you need a photo to jog the memory: an image to cue the reflection on an earlier time. Most photos bring back feelings – good or bad – you had the day they were taken. Maybe you wish you could go back, and maybe you don’t.

I’ll never forget the photos I saw that day and I’ll certainly reflect on the ones taken of the collection. More than anything, I’ll treasure the 3-generation Elgin pocket watch he gifted me from the collection with one stipulation passed on from Grandpa Stoneburner: wind it up often, and when you set the time, don’t turn the hands backward. Set the time by turning the hands clockwise only, as it’s best for the watch.

Forward only. Not backward.

That memory, and the many others we’ve had together, will fade, but the photos will always be a reminder and reason to dust off an old memory with a bittersweet smile and an appreciation for the old times.

Shootin’ the Wit is a sporadic blog about everyday life that should never, ever be taken too seriously.