Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!! That blinking clock!!!” as I toss and turn at the interrupted sleep.
Dad’s pride and joy (apart from me of course). It was given to him by Nanny and Poppa for his 21st, 5 November 1937. It sat proudly for all to see on the mantel above the fireplace. There were a couple of pieces of dowel, or such like, hammered precisely in front of the legs. In the event of an earthquake, it would not vibrate onto the hearth to smash. Heaven forbids! If Mum had her way, it would not be in the house.
Ding Dong, Ding Dong. “Ok, it's half past, but half past what?”
Each Sunday morning Dad would lovingly retrieve the key from its special spot in order to wind it up. Not just for the time, but also for the chimes. Much to the chagrin of Mum. She’d be happy enough with it being an ornament, just sitting there. It was one thing having it wound up as a timepiece. However, it went entirely against the grain, for her, that he wound up the chimes. In doing so meant that every quarter past the hour the clock would loudly announce: Ding, Dong! Then double on the half an hour and of course triple at quarter to the hour.
Realistically it didn’t take long to return to sleep. If I were to be totally honest with myself, it generated something very familiar and soothing as it peeled off the minutes.
Frederick John William was the eldest son of Fred and Dorothy; conceived before Poppa was sent over to France to fight for ‘King and Country’.
Dad was a New Zealand boxing champion. Don’t ask me what class because I don’t know. Welterweight? Lightweight? And whatever happened to his trophies is a bit of a mystery. We never learnt much about his sporting prowess. Perhaps Mum thought young ladies shouldn’t be faced with such “violence”. I do know that Nanny, his mother Dorothy, refused to ever attend any such event due to that precise reason. Yet she’d happily attend wrestling matches. Go figure!
He stood only 5’6”. Mum was taller than he. That bothered neither of them. In his youth he was a handsome, fit (obviously) young man. At some stage Dad ran his own boxing gym – over in Taranaki. I learnt this whilst bartending, supplementing my income (uni days). On a quiet evening one of the patrons and I were chatting. Apparently, Dad had trained him in the art of the pugilist. He too had become a champion – due to my dad and his gym. I was so proud. Plus, a little melancholy, because it was something about my beloved father that I came close to never knowing.
Dong! Dong! Dong! “Ok, it’s three o’clock. Get back to sleep Shirley. School tomorrow!!”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!! That blinking clock!!!” as I toss and turn at the interrupted sleep.
Dad’s pride and joy (apart from me of course). It was given to him by Nanny and Poppa for his 21st, 5 November 1937. It sat proudly for all to see on the mantel above the fireplace. There were a couple of pieces of dowel, or such like, hammered precisely in front of the legs. In the event of an earthquake, it would not vibrate onto the hearth to smash. Heaven forbids! If Mum had her way, it would not be in the house.
Ding Dong, Ding Dong. “Ok, it's half past, but half past what?”
Each Sunday morning Dad would lovingly retrieve the key from its special spot in order to wind it up. Not just for the time, but also for the chimes. Much to the chagrin of Mum. She’d be happy enough with it being an ornament, just sitting there. It was one thing having it wound up as a timepiece. However, it went entirely against the grain, for her, that he wound up the chimes. In doing so meant that every quarter past the hour the clock would loudly announce: Ding, Dong! Then double on the half an hour and of course triple at quarter to the hour.
Realistically it didn’t take long to return to sleep. If I were to be totally honest with myself, it generated something very familiar and soothing as it peeled off the minutes.
Frederick John William was the eldest son of Fred and Dorothy; conceived before Poppa was sent over to France to fight for ‘King and Country’.
Dad was a New Zealand boxing champion. Don’t ask me what class because I don’t know. Welterweight? Lightweight? And whatever happened to his trophies is a bit of a mystery. We never learnt much about his sporting prowess. Perhaps Mum thought young ladies shouldn’t be faced with such “violence”. I do know that Nanny, his mother Dorothy, refused to ever attend any such event due to that precise reason. Yet she’d happily attend wrestling matches. Go figure!
He stood only 5’6”. Mum was taller than he. That bothered neither of them. In his youth he was a handsome, fit (obviously) young man. At some stage Dad ran his own boxing gym – over in Taranaki. I learnt this whilst bartending, supplementing my income (uni days). On a quiet evening one of the patrons and I were chatting. Apparently, Dad had trained him in the art of the pugilist. He too had become a champion – due to my dad and his gym. I was so proud. Plus, a little melancholy, because it was something about my beloved father that I came close to never knowing.
Dong! Dong! Dong! “Ok, it’s three o’clock. Get back to sleep Shirley. School tomorrow!!”
Shirley Kelly
August 2025
Postscript: My Dad’s clock has travelled with me on my journeys and is now sitting silently here in my living room in Benalla. It needs a good, proper clean. Anyone know of a reputable watchmaker I could trust to bring it back to life as it was meant to be?
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