No one expected such a finely built clock to die. But upon its death, no one cared.
For one hundred years the clock stood on the corner in front of the jewelry store, faithful to keep the town on time. Two bright white faces with long, slender, finger-like black hands could be seen from either direction along Main Street.
A lumber baron built the town he named Fir Grove and gave the clock as a gift to honor the town’s official founding. The community rejoiced and named the timepiece “Lloyd’s Clock,” after the benefactor. Out of respect for the gift, the townspeople built a concrete pedestal to raise the clock’s base above the mud and filth of the dirt street.
The clock’s workings, of the eight-day variety, required the spring drive be oiled and wound once a week. The town assayer and jeweler received the commission to perform this task, a duty he gladly held and passed down to his progeny: his son, grandson, and great-grandson.
Once a year, the townsfolk of Fir Grove gathered on the corner beneath the faithful clock, to celebrate the founding and to give thanks for those who built the town. Together as one family, they would hold parades, dance and sing, recite the history of the town, and tell stories of the old days.
Slowly, the years passed, and the town grew up around the clock. Cement replaced the rough board sidewalks. Citizens paved the once muddy streets, first with cobbles, followed by concrete and black tarmac. Curbs and Model A’s replaced the hitching posts. New buildings sprang up, some of clapboard and later of cement and cinder block. Still, the jeweler’s offspring cared for the clock and faithfully wound and oiled the works.
The town council, in an effort to beautify the community, planted small trees in a space between the sidewalks and curbs. Workers planted varieties of fast-growing maple and ornamental cherry. The townspeople eagerly awaited the blossoms in spring and the fiery colors of the leaves in fall. At these times, Lloyd’s Clock, its bright face faded from years of exposure to the sun, stood stalwart among the colors, hidden by the leaves.
Then a generation arose who did not remember the traditions behind the clock. More important things occupied their attention. Boxes with moving images of people not only told the time but also the date and the weather. These children’s children carried the time with them on their wrists or in a pocket. The town clock became an anachronism, hidden in the trees and invisible to all but the oldest of the citizens who still remembered, both relics of earlier times.
The community gradually abandoned the celebration gatherings on the corner beneath the clock. The town and the people grew up and matured. They no longer needed the mundane, the trivial.
Time passed, and older generations died. Others, for one reason or another, moved away. Two wars took their toll on more townsfolk. Eventually, few remembered the story of Lloyd’s Clock: where it came from or why it still stood on the corner.
One cold December morning, the clock keeper pulled the drapes aside and peered out the window. The storm still raged on. For the past five days, a storm pounded the valley where the town crouched between steep hills. Snow and rain slashed the square. Winds howled, whipped and broke the naked limbs of the maples and cherry trees along Main Street.
Not in this rain, he thought. Perhaps tomorrow the storm will let up.
The rain did not let up. Not the next day, nor the next. On the ninth day, the clock died, alone. Only the storm witnessed the passing. No one noticed. No one cared.
High in the mountains above the town, an earthen dam crouched against the onslaught of time and weather. Built by the same lumber baron who built the town, both he and the earthworks became all but forgotten. Over one-hundred years ago the pent-up water supplied power for the mill and the fledgling community. No longer needed, the dam, like the clock, languished.
Water from the heavy rains gorged the reservoir and began to over-top the obstruction, first a trickle, then a stream. Unable to hold back its burden any longer, the ancient dam ruptured. The torrent raced like a hungry animal down the valley and, in a horrible moment, erased the town.
Now all that remains where the town once stood is an empty field of hardened mud. The tops of several cinder block foundations protrude above the mud. At the corner of one of these, stands a concrete pedestal with a brass plate, which reads:
Lloyd’s Clock
Dedicated to
The people of Fir Grove
1885
Time never stands still