I have to admit, I am a creature of habit — pretty much rigid in my need for order and I take comfort in knowing what I am supposed to be doing any given day.   I very much dislike change (sorry, Jack, you can blame that on O.G.), but after I get used to it, I can accommodate it to some extent.  I jokingly, but I fear it is really rooted in reality, base this on being brought up with my mother referencing Dr. Spock’s child guide.

What has this got to do with the picture of the old clock?  Well, I have a habit of winding it every Friday.  It has kept excellent time ever since my Grandpa Lee gave it to me (to the cheers of my Grandma Florence who wanted it out of her clothes press  [her term for a closet].  The clock belonged to Grandpa’s parents, my great grandparents, Grandma and Grandpa Weaver [that generation was referred to be their sir name, not their given names].  And with our recent self isolation, the days are running together.  I am losing track of what day it is and what needs to be done.  It was late this morning that I realized that I needed to wind the clock.  You know, there is some comfort in hearing its incessant ticking.   And, on the upside, Grandpa could never get the chimes unlocked so it doesn’t bong on the ¼ hour.  I would have tinkered with it, but out of respect for Grandpa (not to mention my need to not hear it go off — I can manually strike the bell and it is LOUD) I chose to leave it in the condition Grandpa gave it to me.