All it takes is one good horologist
An horologist? That’s right. An artisan who makes and repairs clocks and watches. But first some context.
Last December a friend and her young family came over so I could show off my Christmas tree. The visit with her two little boys was going flawlessly until her husband announced that their 3-year-old son had broken my grandfather clock. Never having raised children, it didn’t occur to me that a curious little boy might be tempted to open the cabinet door of the clock and yank down the pendulum.
Naturally, it needed to be fixed so I asked the owner of my local electronics store for a recommendation. An appointment was made. David from Uzbekistan via Queens, (last name withheld to protect this blogger) arrived promptly at 8:00 AM the following Sunday. He explained that he sees Manhattan clients exclusively on weekends to avoid traffic and then, only in the early mornings. While this seemed odd for someone in the service business, I let this bit of obsessive behavior pass.
Opening the door on the first visit, I encountered a man in his late 30’s, a bit disheveled with tiny, coal-black eyes that darted around in search of who knows what. He burst into my home as if to escape some pending danger, took off his baseball cap reveling a shiny bald head, then unceremoniously threw his jacket on the floor. It was hard not to notice that David was overweight. The fifteen pound watermelon he carried above the belt of his saggy jeans was the giveaway. I observed, too, that he was nervously muttering to himself.
I introduced myself and briefly explained what had happened while holding high the loose pendulum as evidence. His non sequitur response was “I’m David and I’m Jewish.” Living in New York City, this personal factoid was hardly remarkable. He took one furtive glance at my 8-foot-tall, wooden grandfather clock and noticed there was no tick tock sound. A stormy look clouded his brooding face. Again, he retorted, “I’m Jewish. We don’t like it when a clock isn’t working,” inferring it portended something sinister. (Incidentally, none of my Jewish friends substantiated David’s claim. However, some internet exploration revealed that in Eastern thinking a stopped clock was considered a bad omen.)
David insisted that the clock be restored. I paused to consider why I might want this as the clock had never worked. For me it was merely a decorative piece of old furniture which I particularly treasured. When inquiring about the cost, he replied that it first needed to be taken to his workshop to determine what was required to make it work. Made sense to me.
However, thinking back on this first appointment, something did seem a bit strange. For example, in the middle of one of my questions, David blurted out, “You got kids?” While processing what that had to do with the price of rice in China, he whiplashed to the poor lighting in my entrance foyer. Then, he pivoted to the dangerous ladder pulled out for him. “Those rungs are too narrow. I’ll kill myself if I use your ladder,” he indignantly admonished me. Plus, throughout the entire service visit, David refused to make any direct eye contact.
“Where dja get that clock?” he demanded abruptly. Slightly taken aback, I politely recounted the story of how Ed, my late husband and a wine importer, had purchased the clock at a brocante in Burgundy. (This is a secondhand shop with vintage goods but usually mostly junk.) On a quiet weekend Ed had wandered into a small village shop on one of his frequent business trips to France. He casually asked the price of several grandfather clocks which caught his eye. Considering none of them worked, the brocanteur quoted an astonishing low price for each. Ed was never one to pass up a bargain. Subsequently, he bought three which were shipped home in a container of wine. Eventually, we decided to keep the most rustic clock and offered the others to friends.
Fast forward some forty years later and here was David, the clock repairman, who had come to rescue our grandfather clock. He jerked open the clock’s bottom cabinet door and detached the two heavy lead weights—one which controlled the time keeping and the other the chiming—and deposited them in a dingy canvas tote. Then, he unlatched the top cabinet door and carefully lifted out the clock placing it into another ratty looking bag lined with a stained towel. He promised to get back to me with the price within seven days.
Precisely one week later David woke me up in Paris where I was on vacation. “It’ll cost you $3,000,” he barked into the receiver completely omitting any greeting. As I was hardly awake, I reluctantly approved his quote chastising myself later for not having investigated earlier what repairing a clock might cost.
Like clockwork, David arrived promptly at 8 am on my first Sunday home ready to install the repaired clock. He brought his “tool case” which was, in fact, a bulging, beaten-up, brown leather briefcase. David had inherited this from his father who, he explained with filial pride, had taught him the craft of fixing clocks. “I could have a fancier bag, but I prefer this one,” he announced sentimentally. David went to work putting back the weights, then installing the clock mechanism. That second step took forever as the clock needed to be perfectly balanced.
Into his father’s briefcase he dove rummaging around for the right-sized shim to create a level surface. Still refusing to make eye contact, David claimed to have everything he needed in the bag. But after twenty minutes I lost confidence in his claim and decided to see if I had anything useful on hand to solve the problem.
Now I was David’s assistant trying to get the damn clock perfectly balanced. We struggled unsuccessfully with several thin wedges of wood randomly found in a closet. No good. David let out a low groan voicing his frustration. I internalized mine. Back into his father’s bag he plunged with dogged determination. At the bottom he found two plastic shims which were installed. Eurika. They did the job!
David slowly moved the clock’s minute hand around to set the time, then waited patiently for the chime to mark ten crisp, slightly metallic bongs. Then, three minutes later another ten. David explained the second chime was in case people missed the first one as well as to remind them about their prayers. I gleefully listened to the chiming remembering a clock my family once owned in Belgium where I lived as a young child. Very Proustian. I was euphoric despite the long slog to get the clock to work. I handed David a check and showed him the door as he continued to mumble to himself.
The following day, David called me hysterically yelling that my check was no good. He claimed his bank, Capital One, had never heard of my bank. How was this possible? PNC is a very respectable New Jersey bank. He threatened to take me to court for giving him a bad check. “Next time I’m going to insist that my clients pay me in cash!” he shrieked.
Clearly, David didn’t understand that you needed to wait several days before cashing a large check while the bank made sure the funds were available. That issue aside, it was the verbal abuse I found so disconcerting, especially as one more visit remained for David to check the clock’s accuracy and teach me how to maintain it.
David arrived the following Sunday precisely at 8:00 AM, luckily with no mention of the check episode. However, within the first minute he started in again about the children. “Why don’t you have any kids? I have two but my ex-wife won’t let me see them,” David blurted out. That didn’t surprise me at all, but I said nothing, preferring to concentrate on the clock and getting him out of my home as quickly as possible.
David fiddled around looking for something in his briefcase. He pulled out a plastic bag then started berating me for having given him a shoddy crank key. “But it’s the original one,” I retorted. “It’s busted; I told you! But I got you another one which works. It’s $150.”
Obviously, there was no off ramp offered. “Just write down his instruction and get him out of the house,“ I told myself. My first attempt at turning the crank was not to David’s liking. “Do it again. Gently this time!” he commanded like a Marine drill sergeant. Finally, the clock was up and running. The last thing he said to me was “You’re far too rough. I know you’re gonna break it.” At this point, I was relieved that the lesson had come to an end. As he walked out the door, he was shaking his head from side to side, still muttering to himself.
Despite my poor performance as a clock winder, I refused to allow David—who I imagined was on the spectrum—to deter my enjoyment of the clock. I found the chimes welcome company. Their rhythmic sound was not only soothing but also nostalgic, bringing me back to my happy youth. Simply put, I was grooving to my chimes.
All was well for several weeks during which time I diligently wound the clock every eight days. Then, one afternoon the hour hand fell off. The next day, the minute hand followed suit. Oh no! But calling David was definitely out of the question this time.
The next repairman was located on Goggle by searching “Best ten clock repair shops in Manhattan.” I chose the first one, Sutton Clock Shop, and made an appointment. Several days later, Sebastian Laws showed up. A tall, trim man in his late 40’s wearing a beautifully tailored, three-piece, gray pin-striped suit, no less. The difference between this gentleman and David could not have been more striking.
Sebastian, as he preferred to be called, was a second-generation Black American “horologist” whose quiet dignity and calm presence immediately put me at ease. He shook my hand with a gentle firmness, then gracefully removed his chic, red and black checkered coat. Sebastian carefully surveyed the clock giving me a reassuring smile and a slight nod of his head as if saying, “I’ve got this.” He opened his small, immaculately organized tool kit, then mounted the ladder with calculated steps, placing his kit on the top rung. I asked if he would like me to hold his flashlight—something David had vehemently insisted I do—and he said, “No thank you, I’m used to doing this.”
My new-found horologist exuded confidence. His movements were half surgeon-half male ballet dancer. From his long, thin fingers to his supple feet, each gesture was refined, measured and beautifully executed. This may seem odd, but after the David debacle, Sebastian’s “performance” was a welcome, Zen-like experience.
Looking down from the ladder at me, Sebastian approvingly declared, “Oh, this is a Morbier clock,” offering an authoritative reference to what Ed had purchased so long ago. Ironically, I was familiar with the name Morbier but only in reference to a French, raw milk cheese with a layer of ash running through its middle. However, the horologist explained that the town of Morbier in Franche-Comté (Eastern France) was at one time as famous for producing clocks as cheese. Sebastian explained that “back in the 1800s farmers would work together during their slow winter months to manually produce clock parts. These would be sold to a retailer who would put the pieces together, then sign his name onto the clock’s ceramic dial along with that of the village where it was completed. For example, my clock reads Vouillarmet Garnier, for the person who assembled the clock; then à Tonnerre referring to the town in Bourgogne-Franche-Comté (near Morbier) where the work was finished. The last step was to pass the clock to a local carpenter who encased it in a decorative pine or oak cabinet. Most French country clocks have some level of painted decoration. Mine has a flourish of spring flowers on the bottom half of the cabinet.
When I asked Sebastian if I could watch him work, he seemed pleased. Each of his movements demonstrated forethought and precision. He knew exactly what he was doing as he peered into the clock’s mechanism, carefully looking at the movement of the parts and attentively listening to its rhythm. Was it my imagination, but it appeared as if Sebastian was also admiring the subject of his work. This was no average clock repairman. This was an artisan who had mastered his unique craft and was proud of his knowledge.
Appreciating having an expert present—plus a lingering image of David in the back of my mind—I asked the question: “Tell me Sebastain, what would you have charged to get this clock functioning again? “ He replied thoughtfully, “It’s hard to say but probably between $2,500 and $4,000 depending on how much work was required.” That made me feel a little bit better as I was convinced that David had tried to rip me off.
The clock’s value was also nagging at me. So, I inquired. With the skillset of a seasoned diplomate, Sebastian replied, “To purchase or to build? Their value is very low as no one these days wants one of these old clocks in their home. But to rebuild it—considering every piece from the screws to the enamel dial is handmade—from $25,000 to $35,000.”
Looking me straight in the eye, Sebastian summed things up as if to give credence to the high estimate. He replied speaking both as a philosopher and horologist. With a smile on his face and the tiniest twinkle in his eyes, he mused. “After all, a ticking clock is the heart of a home.”