Weekly Scribblings. "...it's only with the heart one can see rightly." Those words, plus the carnival painting by Shelle Kennedy, inspired my prose this week. Moments in time cling to certain treasured items, and it is so with the carnival clock. Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United November 11, 2020
Sitting on my shelf with grace and dignity is a carnival clock my father won in the shooting gallery of a little traveling carnival over 75 years ago. In my treasured store of memory I see them still, my father determined to win the clock, and my mother not wanting him to spend another dollar for six more shots. At last five mechanical ducks fell from the moving row, the clock was handed to my smiling father, and the clock was given a place of honor in the kitchen of our little farmhouse, where it kept the time for all the years of my growing up and moving on in my life. Twice they moved, and twice the clock was given a place of honor in each new home. They’re gone now to what comes after, and the clock has come to me, equally proudly displayed in my home each time I’ve moved. I smile at the electric cord, spliced by my father with electrical tape, showing traces of paint from long ago redecorating projects. It is a piece of family history, a memento of the times that used to be. I like to think it will one day be a treasured part of family history displayed in the homes of those who come after me, as much a part of family as the spiraling chains of knowledge hidden in every cell of their bodies.