Connections

I am an only child, as were my parents, which meant unless I eventually have children, my lineage ends with me. Some of my classmates thought it was great to be an only child because I received my parents’ full attention while they had to share everything with siblings. What they didn’t realize was if I did something wrong, there was no one else I could blame. It wasn’t until both my parents passed away within months of each other that I realized what being alone truly meant.

I had no one to help with funeral arrangements, but I got through it. The only thing left was to clean out the house before putting it on the market. I was due some vacation time, so I traveled back to my hometown to close out that chapter of my life. I worked out a plan of attack while heading home so as not to waste any time.

The well-maintained cape cod-style house should sell quickly. All I needed to do was host one giant estate sale. What didn’t sell would go to The Salvation Army. I’m not the type of person who gets sentimental over everyday items like dishes, used clothes, tools, or furniture. I was already amassing my pile of treasures and didn’t need to add to it.

The garage and first floor went quickly, but the process slowed when I reached my parents’ bedroom. My father’s old watch that he wore during his deployment to Vietnam, along with that special bracelet my mother never removed, and of course their wedding rings, caused me to take time and reflect on their lives together.

It was the photo albums that brought my sorting to a halt. To my surprise, most of the pictures were of me. Whether we were on a family vacation or having a cookout, I was the center of attention. I had hoped to find photos of the two of them before I was born, but all they had were wedding pictures. The rest were pictures of me. Browsing through the albums, I watched myself grow up through their eyes.

I finally finished the bedrooms and moved on to the attic. Its contents were sparse. I found a few boxes of Christmas lights, an old rocking chair and one box placed in the middle of the floor. Curious about what surprise lurked inside, I ripped off the tape and opened the lid. A porcelain cherub grinned up at me. It was the same mischievous grin that terrified me every time we visited my grandparents’ house. I hated it then and my feelings hadn’t changed.

According to family history, my ancestors immigrated to the U.S. from Germany in the late 1700s. The only item that survived through the centuries was this figure-ladened, porcelain mantel clock. The case was free of chips and cracks.

My grandmother told me its superpower was to connect people who were separated by time. Old wives’ tales never interested me, but making money did. Since the clock was old, it may be valuable. Time to get it appraised. I wound up the clock to make sure everything still worked, put it back in the box, and brought it to my car.

New Beginnings for Old Things was the only antique shop in town. I had never been there before today because I really had no interest in antiques. A small bell tinkled as I opened the door, alerting the proprietor of my presence. The lady was kneeling behind the counter and stood as I entered. I struggled to hide my surprise; Gayle was a classmate of mine and someone I had admired from afar throughout high school. We never shared more than a brief hello and never saw each other after graduation.

Gayle appeared as shocked to see me as I did her. We exchanged pleasantries, then got down to business. She inspected the clock thoroughly and discovered the crossed swords indicative of the manufacturer, Meissen. She did some research and found that a similar clock had just sold for $250,000.

We were both caught up in the moment, which made it easier for me to ask her to supper. We spent the evening catching up and agreed to a second date.

Maybe there was something to that clock legend. I think I’ll keep it a while longer.