I Believe In Signs

My dad was a very driven individual. He started his company at age 30 when I was eight years old. My dad worked hard to build his business and sacrificed for its success. I remember moments from my childhood that felt like milestone moments for my dad. The first big "luxury" item I remember my parents purchasing was a grandfather's clock. The clock is oak with gold inlays and has several chime settings. There is a brass pendulum that swings, with heavy brass weights that make a familiar clicking noise as they drop. The chimes sounded every fifteen minutes, and the clock made a mechanical whirring sound when it needed to be wound. Winding the clock was a great privilege. This clock was the sound of my childhood and teen years. It was part of the comforting noises of home.

After the clock was purchased, it became the centerpiece of our "good" living room, which was only used when company came and on holidays. The grandfather's clock also became the background for our family photos. Every picture from Christmas, Easter, high school dances, proms, and graduations was staged before the clock. This grandfather's clock has become a piece of my family history. Today, the clock sits in my dad's former office, or "the front room," as we call it. Unfortunately, I no longer keep it wound. The Bibbed Wonder says its ticking and donging keeps him awake at night. The Bean claims the sound of the clock at night is creepy. I must point out that The Bibbed Wonder could sleep through a war, and The Bean plays soft instrumental music while she sleeps. This is a practice I began when she was an infant and continues to this day. I tell her that listening to Bach and Mozart when she was little made her so brilliant. I don't believe, dear reader, that their complaints have any merit.

The clock has sat silently in our farmhouse for more than a decade. On rare occasions, I miss its comforting sounds and wind it. However, it has sat in regal silence for at least three years. This detail is essential to my story; you must remember it, dear reader. With that in mind, I continue my tale.

Yesterday morning, The Heavy-B and I went for our usual morning jaunt. As I have shared in past posts, my morning walk with my canine BFF is also my time for self-reflection and talking with my maker. Once my conversation with The Head Honcho is complete, I often reflect on various aspects of life or allow memories to flood my thoughts. Unsurprisingly, the memories that frequently arise are of my dad.

I ended my walk by detouring to the lone pear tree in our field behind the house. The pear tree has been a staple here since my dad was a boy. In my guesstimation, it is somewhere between 75 and 90 years old. The poor old tree looks a little worse for the wear these days. After strong winds, a dry summer, and progressed age, she needs a bit of trimming and TLC. Losing this tree is going to be emotionally challenging for me. I view it as one more tie to a life that included my dad. Stories of the pear tree and antics of The Tonkin Boys abound throughout the farm's history. If this tree is lost, I will take it to heart as one more tie to my dad that has been broken. I know, to most, it doesn't make sense, but to me, it is personal.

As I examined the poor state of the pear tree, I started talking to my dad. My conversations mainly consist of sharing how much I miss him, how life has not changed for the better since he has been gone, how my family is no longer a family, and how I wish he were here. As I examined the tree and the reality settled in that we could lose it, I began to cry. Although I try to quell the anger and resentment I carry surrounding certain aspects of my dad's passing and choices that were made that went against his wishes, sometimes it bubbles to the surface, and I have to allow it to come. When this happens, I usually point out the obvious and apologize that he has not been honored. It also usually ends with me begging for a sign that he is here. Yesterday was no different.

I ended my outing by checking in with The Bibbed Wonder, then to shower and prepare for the day. As I entered the house, I mumbled to myself to get it together and said one last, " I miss you, Dad." I gave The Heavy-B his morning treat, went to the laundry room to gather a basket of clean towels, and headed upstairs. The staircase sits right in front of my dad's former office and is also where the grandfather's clock now rests. As I stepped onto the second step, the grandfather's clock, silent for at least three years, made a clicking noise and chimed. I stopped in my tracks. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and I walked over and stood before the clock. Nothing was amiss. The weights rested at the bottom of their cables, the pendulum was still, and the hands had not moved. As I stood gazing at the clock's glass front, the clock chimed two more times.

My first reaction was a tentative, "Daddy?" Then I smiled, felt an overwhelming sense of comfort, and just like that, the moment passed. The clock was silent. I walked back to the studio dumbfounded and shared my experience with Eric. I waited for him to denounce my sign from my dad or explain it away with logic. However, he smiled at me instead and said, "That's cool, buddy. Your dad has always been on your side." He talked me down and helped me process my bewilderment. And with that, I went about my day, but I felt lighter, more at ease, and had an inexplicable feeling that all would be well. Those feelings have carried over into today.

As I write to you in my dad's old office, sitting in the bedraggled leather chair that still displays the greasy mark his head created from evenings spent sitting in it, I look at the grandfather's clock that he was once so proud of. I do not doubt that my dad sent me the sign I needed. When I walk my Heavy-B this morning, you can be sure I will thank the One who gave me the sign I was looking for and the comfort it brought. I do indeed believe in signs, blessings, and miracles.

On this overcast day, stay safe, be smart, and be open to receiving the signs you need. Remember you are never alone, no matter how alone you may feel, and keep washing your hands.