WristScan

Some of us have been married more than once. Things happen: spouses die, spouses change, WE change. And so it goes…

A fair piece down this road, in a quiet period in my forties, alone for the first time in awhile, a colleague in my department brought to campus a Norwegian woman whose work—the prevention of muscle-load injury in musicians—was ground-breaking at the time (late 80s—early 90s). In those days, though it might seem implausible, fully 80% of all professional musicians would at some point develop a career-altering injury related to their position at the instrument. The lady who had travelled so far to enlighten us was to spend a week attending seminars, private lessons, and giving private consultations to any faculty who might be interested in additional information. I, myself, had an injury at that time which made it quite painful to play for long periods. Mozart, whose symphonies rarely allow a string instrument to drop from the shoulder, was particularly excruciating. But it was a busy time in the semester, and I had had some doubts about attending the opening lecture. “Lunch?” a colleague asked as I approached on the appointed day, rather in a rush. “Oh—can’t today,” I began, passing the fellow and throwing over my shoulder, “Some old lady from Norway is giving a lecture on work-related injury!” 

But what was this? Down the hall, walking beside the faculty member who was hosting our guest, was perhaps the loveliest creature I’d seen since God knows when. “Well! This is no ‘old lady’ from Norway!” I said to myself, as I stood, transfixed, watching this vision in mauve drift down the hallway with the grace of the fog rolling in off the sea. Coming to my senses, I entered the lecture hall—needless to say—with an enthusiasm that had been lacking before.

Now, before you worry about the implied length of this story, I’ll trim quite a bit, skipping our introduction and the four months after her departure, during which time we wrote, in an almost continuous stream, back and forth “across the pond.” But in that exchange we found, to our mutual delight, that we each had reason to travel to New England in early July—I, to attend a summer music festival I’d been a part of for nearly twenty-five years; she, to attend the wedding of a close cousin. So we resolved to spend a week together.

It is the day of her arrival in Boston that brings me to the object of timekeeping that forever shall represent the joy of that first day on the coast of Maine and, by extension, the undeserved good fortune I have enjoyed for the past twenty years of our shared domesticity. 

A wristwatch decided upon on the spur of the moment, driving into the city to meet her with a large bouquet of Stargazer lilies. “Yes,” I mused, “New shirt, new Bermudas, new sandals… Of course I need a new watch! (Everything, after all, had to be perfect. No telling what clunky old thing I’d been wearing, day in and day out without thought, for some time.)

It will give away my relationship to high horology at that time to relate my reaction to that impulse. A.D.? (In those days I don’t think I would have guessed the meaning of those two capital letters.) Jewelry store? (Not even on the radar.) Thinking only of what little time I had left, and therefore expediency, I quickly pulled into a K-Mart parking lot, entering the store in a jog and launching myself toward a bevy of glass cases that looked like they might contain watches. “Hmmm, now what sort of… Oh, well now, that looks nice. But no seconds hand? Frederick, for goodness sake! Isn’t it about time you stopped sweating the small stuff???” And so, slightly aghast at not only my spontaneity, but the price (I'd never spent any real money on a watch), I forked over the ninety-nine bucks demanded by the hang tag. ($184.48 in today’s dollars!) 

That day, that lovely week,

                                                                                                    

turned into a seven-year holding pattern until vocational and familial circumstances changed to allow for us, finally, to buy a house and settle down together. Meanwhile, worn every day during those years apart, the watch’s flat glass crystal eventually cracked badly enough that a local Rolex (no less) dealer sent it to Chicago, where it was spiffed up—the entire movement exchanged, and glass replaced, whence it came back to me. Here’s how it would have looked off the shelf. I was surprised to find such a photo still extant on the Internet!

Eventually I found the watch inappropriate for every day, but stuck to cheap quartz watches because… Ah, but that’s another story altogether. However, the K-Mart Seiko, now on new black leather and as handsome a watch to wear with tails for a Saturday night subscription concert as one might imagine, still tells me the time wrapped around a pillow in an unused watch winder on my bureau.

The watch is so light and unobtrusive it is the only timepiece I have ever been able to wear while playing. And while I’ll admit a P.P. calatrava would look quite fine, would it be necessary? Is the Seiko a tad on the small side? Well yes, by today’s ever-expanding standard, rather diminutive. But as amanico has observed, “Elegance knows no size.” (Or something close to that.) Yet it asserts itself boldly, with high contrast, and simplicity. It tells the time, for heaven’s sake, and does so not without (as we say) some degree of class.

There will be far fairer watches representing equally marvelous events joining this week’s WristScan. But now that I know a balance cock from a barrel arbor, a chaton from a center wheel, I count myself fortunate to have a timepiece which, however modest, brings with the time it tells a flood of memories almost too sweet and special to bear. They gather together in that one object, to surprise and delight me each and every time I consult its amazingly accurate wisdom.

Thank you, dear Able, for the opportunity to share this story—the best I shall ever have. And here’s a kiss for the Norwegian lass who has given up so much (that magnificent country!) to brighten my every day.