The Presque Isle town clock

When I was a small boy, about five or six, my father introduced me to the wonders of the Presque Isle town clock with its white face and black arrow-pointed hands. It sat towering over the State Street Baptist Church performing a mission like that of a Colonial town crier, reminding those within range of his voice and the ringing of his hand bell that certain periods of the day were about to begin or end. The town clock was greatly appreciated by the locale. It acted like a musical composer directing its clapper to hit the skin of its bell, creating a composition of agreeable periods of minutes and hours. Fortunate were the few who owned a so called “Time piece,” a watch or a wind-up clock. Most of us relied on the town clock. Ray Cumming, a science fiction writer in 1922, defined time as “what keeps everything from happening at once.”
The town clock, with its hands in constant motion, like two marathon runners, one agile and tall, one short and rather lethargic, racing in a circuit around its face—each moving in harmony with each other—each in constant motion—as the earth spins on its axis from ante meridiem to post meridiem. The drowsy runner announces the time of day, while the agile runner makes that announcement possible by hurrying on ahead, crossing an invisible line on the stroke of twelve. Two great runners, separated by time, will join one another at number twelve twice each day. The tall runner will pass the sluggish runner on the circuit a total of twenty-four times each day. The short runner, like a slumbering sleeper moving slowly from one number to the next, will rendezvous with the agile runner two times within a twenty- four hour period. Like the melodious sound of the bell and exuberance of the town crier’s voice, this wondrous clock alerted the inhabitants of this small town. Time is like the fine sand seeping through the funnel of the hour glass and the movement of the shadow on the sundial. Time, set in motion by God, is like the inscription “Tempus Fugit.” Time flies. It hesitates for no one.
It was through these simple, crude, imaginative illustrations of the Presque Isle town clock that I was taught how to tell time. My father awakened my sleepy interest in the clock’s bell and what the rhythm of its music was saying to me. With his carpenter’s compass, a carpenter’s pencil and a sheet of butcher paper he went about, with the skill of an artist, drawing a simplified picture of what God refers to as “Time.”
With boyish fixation, I watched my father’s hands open his tool box and unfold a strange looking device having two legs. With the pointed leg he pierced a piece of butcher paper. To the other leg, he attached a carpenter’s pencil and, with a flick of his wrist, he swirled the device, and wonder of wonders, a circle appeared.
At the top of the circle he drew the number 12. At the bottom, he placed the number 6. On the right side, half way between 12 and 6, he carefully drew the number 3. On the opposite side of the circle he meticulously fashioned a number 9.
I attentively watched my Father’s hands as he crafted his masterpiece. The sound of the town clock’s bell, and the wonder of the circle, produced an eventful moment of illumination in the mind of a small boy. Suddenly I was awakened to the ever so simple task of “Telling Time.”
He laid his compass and pencil on the butcher paper and pointed to the circle and said, “The numbers on the circle are place holders; they are to remain there. Count the number of times the bell rings, put that number on the empty spaces of the circle.” Having given me that assignment, an intuitive father went about his multitude of chores.
The melodic peal and cadence of the bell were cause for undivided attention. Listening and computation were being sounded throughout the land. With a stub of a pencil and an eraser in hand, I could only guess when the clock was about to speak. Oblivious of the sun changing its position, I found myself scurrying to fill in the spaces. I had misjudged how rapidly time passes.
It was an extraordinary occasion when dad decided to inspect my assignment. I was to present the butcher paper. After careful observation of the finished product he vigorously brushed my hair with the palms of his rough, calloused hands. As he swept me up into his arms, he gave me a feeling of great elation—as though I had fulfilled his special dream. What a spectacle it must have made to see my three score and six year old tall father and I with my untrained feet, hilariously trying to imitate an Irish Jig.
I learned to fold the brown piece of butcher paper to fit within the pocket of my knee length, home fashioned trousers, protecting it as a rare gem. From time to time I was to retrieve this valuable item from my pocket while listening to the distant echo of the clock’s bell. I found myself frequently comparing what I had written on the edge of the circle to the number of times the bell tolled from the State Street Baptist Church tower. The butcher paper and contents were to become a constant reminder of a master craftsman and the simple things of life. Such simple things as a carpenter’s compass, a carpenter’s pencil, butcher paper, and the melodious bell of the Presque Isle Town Clock.
    Randolf (Roy) Wright, a Presque Isle native who retired in 1994 after teaching at Pine Street and Skyway schools, lives today in Lakeland, Fla. with his wife Colleen (Glidden). Their son Bryan teaches in the Easton school system and daughter-in-law Debra teaches at Pine Street. They also have two other sons — Jeffrey in Gorham and Michael in Madison Heights, Va. Wright’s guest column is used with permission from regular “Forgotten Times” columnist Dick Graves.