Introduction: I first wrote this piece nearly 10 years ago, when I was in a creative writing class during my undergraduate studies. The assignment was to write a piece with Magical Realism. Magical Realism involves incorporating elements of magic and weaving them into a realistic setting, blurring the lines between what we know as reality and fantasy.
This story has always been a favorite of mine. For a few weeks, I’d felt the inkling to rewrite this piece. The day after I started editing it, my grandfather, the one whose personality and qualities I used to bring the grandfather character to life, had a stroke.
I never knew why I’d chosen a clock as the magical realism part of my story. But now, I think I’ve realized it emphasizes, we never have enough time with the ones we love.
Dedicated in honor of my grandfather, Darwin. Though, he has over 50 grandchildren, I know each one of us feels that we have a special bond with him. And that’s his real magic.
My Grandfather’s Clock
In the year 1920 the greatest man, my hero, was born. Though he was never famous or anything like that, this man taught me more than anyone. This man was my Grandfather. A man who was constantly working; you could say he put the “work” in “workaholic.” I can only remember a few times when my grandfather wasn’t woodworking or taking care of the farm; I guess that’s what happens when you grow up during the desolate times of The Great Depression and you fight in wars: you work hard, fix what’s broken, and never give up. My grandfather was a strong man, with hands that were calloused from years of hard physical work. He was also kind, the wrinkles on his face had given him a kind of permanent smile, and his crystal clear blue eyes twinkled with joy each time he laughed.
We’d always been close, me and my grandfather. Even though I was one of many grandchildren, grandfather and I seemed to have a special bond. He even promised me that I would inherit his dentures when he died. Now this may be odd and a bit off-putting to many people, but it’s a testament of his incredible and unique humor. My grandparents lived on a farm, in a tiny white house with blue grey accents and a big faded red barn. I can still recall the sound of the pebbled driveway as we drove up to their house. The farm was a magical place. Everyone in our family, aunts, uncles, and cousins all loved the farm. Whether that was swimming the canal behind the house, playing basketball on the top floor of the barn, and never ever going into the basement of the barn because it was haunted. When my parents were away, my siblings and I would spend the night over at my grandparents’ house; we’d bake cookies with grandma, and then grandfather would pull out his vintage phonograph and we’d dance to the oldies. I fondly remember my grandparents holding each other close, swaying sweetly to Perry Como’s, “If You Were the Only Girl in the World.” Married for over 70 years, but you’d think they were on their honeymoon.
Of all the things I did with my grandfather, my favorite thing and most cherished memories were sitting on his lap in his oversized armchair, listening to him while he read to me selections from Grimm’s Fairy Tales. My favorite was, of course, Cinderella. Whenever my siblings were mean to me, I imagined that one day some birds would come and peck their eyes out, just as the birds had done to Cinderella’s stepsisters. Gruesome, I know, but we’re on good terms now.
My grandfather’s favorite place in the world was his den at the back of his house. The den was furnished with old mismatched furniture and my grandmother’s rejected décor. A bookshelf, filled with an assortment of books ranging from classics like Charles Dickens and Williams Shakespeare, religious scriptures like the Bible and the Qur’an, and even a small selection of children’s books like, “Goodnight Moon.” Reading was my grandfather’s favorite leisurely activity. Only in the den could my grandfather sit and read books without being interrupted. The den was also his place where he would look at pictures from his days in the United States Navy. My grandfather barely survived World War II. My grandmother once said that the war changed my grandfather. Before the war he was a loud and jovial man, but when he came home, he was quiet and suffered terrible nightmares. “Shell-shocked” was the term my father used, though it’s now called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Grandfather rarely spoke about the war, too many difficult memories, I guess. My grandmother told me that many of my grandfather’s friends were killed in the war and that my grandfather sometimes felt guilty that he’d survived when his friends had not. On a few occasions I’d catch my grandfather talking to the pictures as if his buddies were still alive.
One of the few physical possessions that my grandfather treasured, was a large and ornate cuckoo clock. So large, it took up half a wall in my grandfather’s den. Oak wood with carvings of birds and leaves embellished on the sides of the clock. Underneath the clock face was a crooked cottage with a large front yard. The yard was decorated with a large tree, an array of flowers, and colonies of red mushrooms. The yard was also home to tiny fairytale creature figurines. Dancing in a circle, in long shimmery dresses were three beautiful fairies with delicate gossamer wings. A cerulean colored pond was the home of a beautiful mermaid with flowing long red hair. Peeking through a bush near the pond, was a naughty leprechaun spying on the fairies. Each day at the stroke of noon and midnight, a little window at the top of the house would open and a beautiful phoenix bird would emerge in a flurry of red and gold feathers, announcing the time in a soft coo.
Everyone in the family thought this cuckoo clock was hideous, because it was too large and cramped with figurines, but I thought it was magical. My grandfather loved to tell me about this clock. He had inherited it from his mother, who had inherited it from her mother and so on. My grandfather claimed that this clock had been specially designed and crafted by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, the famous German brothers who compiled the fairytales my grandfather and I loved reading, including Cinderella, Rapunzel, Snow White, and Rumplestiltskin. Sitting in his rust orange armchair, my grandfather would pull me up on his lap and tell me that this particular cuckoo clock possessed magical qualities. When I asked him what the magic was, he would always reply, “One day when you’re old enough, maybe I’ll tell you.”
One day, my grandfather told me that the creatures we hear of in fairytales exist but can’t be seen by the unbelieving eyes of humans. I could barely contain my excitement. I instantly began to daydream of my own adventures with magical creatures, hoping that one day I’d experience my own fairytale. Maybe I’d be the princess locked away in a tower just waiting until the handsome prince rescued me or maybe I’d make friends with mermaids and learn to breathe underwater. My fantasies were cut short when my grandfather then told me that the good magical creatures existed, but that also meant that so did the evil magical creatures, such as minotaurs, dragons, and ogres. My once adventurous fantasies turned to frightening nightmares; I imagined running into a troll or getting eaten by ogres. To comfort my fears grandfather assured me that good always triumphs over evil. He explained that winter happens because magical creatures go into hibernation, turning the world bleak and cold. But each year, spring comes around when the creatures emerge from their sleep and color the world with warmth and life. My grandfather explained that the Spring Equinox is significant in meaning that there is equal day and night; spring is a time when the earth is reborn from its frozen state and awakens. When the frost began to thaw and flowers bloomed, the creatures would come to life. I asked my grandfather if I would ever see one of these creatures, and with a twinkle in his eye he replied that maybe one day when I was older I would see them.
For a long time I believed my grandfather. My mother often said I was “cursed” with a believing heart. I was a bit of an outcast from other kids my age, but I didn’t mind playing alone. My mind was consumed by the idea of fairy tales and magical creatures. As I got older, I was bullied by other children because to them I was odd. Always reading fantasy books and secluding myself. Pretending to battle monsters during recess instead of playing soccer with the other kids. On a few occasions I tackled and punched a few of my peers for taunting me. Even though I was the one being bullied, teachers only seemed to notice my reaction, and thus I was labeled the problem child. My parents were worried and they ended up taking me to a psychiatrist to help me learn to control my emotions. After months of therapy, I no longer believed in fairytales. My therapist helped me understand that my grandfather was merely telling me stories. I began to see the world as it was, a cold prison cell devoid of anything truly magical. The real monsters being my peers.
I was thirteen years old when I confronted my grandfather. I stormed into his den at the back of the house. My grandfather was pleased to see me as usual. My grandfather stood up and walked over to give me a hug, but I pushed him away. I told him how angry I was for him making me believe me that magical creatures were real, and that the stupid cuckoo clock possessed inherent magical qualities. My normally blunt and outspoken grandfather sat in stunned silence as I ripped him apart with my words. I could see in my grandfather’s eyes that he was hurt by my words; his smile was gone, his normally twinkly blue eyes had turned to a stormy grey, and a tear fell down his cheek. My grandfather told me, gesturing to the clock, “ I never lied to you. A time will come when you will see I was telling you the truth.” Enraged by my grandfather’s words I told him that he was old and losing his mind. With a final scream I walked out of the den. Our relationship was never the same. I could never fully look my grandfather in the eyes and I refused to talk to him.
Years later, my grandfather passed away. After a long struggle, my grandfather lost his final battle, Dementia. When first diagnosed, my grandfather slowly began to forget simple things like what year it was or who the current president of the U.S. was. But after a few years, my grandfather took a quick downward spiral and began to forget bigger, more important things, like his wife, children, and grandchildren. He completely forgot who I was; he could no longer remember me as the little girl, with freckles, brown hair in braids, and his same blue eyes. My grandfather who I would have described as a “people person” changed and instead preferred quiet and solitude. Not to mention, his nightmares from the war returned. Eventually, my family made the difficult decision to place my grandfather in a long term care facility, as we couldn’t take care of him anymore. Only an empty shell remained of the strong man that my grandfather was. That fight with my grandfather is the one thing I regret most, because just a few years after I had accused my grandfather of being delusional, he literally and completely lost his mind. Sure, I had acted like a normal preteen, bratty and insensitive, but I couldn’t give myself any excuses for my actions. Even though our falling out was completely erased from his mind, it continued to haunt me.
My grandfather’s funeral took place on a cold, blustery November day. Among the strangers and friends, my family was stitched together in a sea of black. I stared up at the sky during the service, a stormy grey, almost the same shade as my grandfather’s eyes were the night of our falling out. Standing around my grandfather’s polished casket, we said our last goodbyes to him. Our family left the cemetery and headed back to grandfather’s house. My grandmother handed each of the grandchildren a small box. Each of us received a wooden jewelry box made by our grandfather’s own hands. Our entire family then sat in the living room of my grandparent’s house and exchanged stories and memories of my grandfather. Stories like his incredible Donald Duck impression, or the times when he’d deny he wore dentures, and then slyly look at you and quickly clack his dentures together. Everyone was laughing, and I felt absolutely heartbroken at all the good times I’d missed because of my actions. Later, after everyone had said their farewells, my grandmother took me down to my grandfather’s den, a place I hadn’t been for years. My grandmother gave me an envelope, and then she walked away. I tore open the envelope, inside it said:
“I know our relationship has been strained these past years. But I’d like you to have my clock. Out of everyone, you truly were the only one who saw the magic. I promise you will understand. Love, Grandpa”
After reading the note, a cloud of sadness and guilt engulfed me. Even before he died, my grandfather still continued to believe. How could a man who had seen such sorrow, such harsh realities fighting wars, surviving poverty, continue to believe in childish fantasies? I begrudgingly took the clock home with me; I didn’t want another reminder of the broken relationship I had with my grandfather. I placed it on the wall in my teeny apartment. Twice a day the melodic coo of the phoenix, reminded me of my grandfather’s kindness and love, and I remembered how heartless I was to him.
A few months later, I was sleeping when I heard the cuckoo clock strike midnight. But instead of the usual coo of the phoenix a playful melody of tiny bells played. I got up to turn the clock off, when I saw something new. The entire face of the clock was lit up. Bewildered, I stood in stunned silence, when slowly, the figurines began to move. One of the fairies yawned and stretched, as another one of the fairies jumped straight into the air and twirled around, and then the last fairy looked at me and waved. My mouth gaped open; I couldn’t believe it, they were actually alive. Feeling a pinch on my right elbow, I jolted out of my trance. I looked down to see a little green leprechaun grinning with glee and then watched him scamper off. Two grubby little gnomes with red cone hats and white beards emerged from behind the bushes and began picking daisies from the flowerbed. One of the gnomes wandered over to me and handed me a tiny yellow daisy. I took the flower; it was real, and it smelled and felt like an actual flower, even though just minutes before it had been porcelain. Suddenly, I heard a splash. I looked over to see the beautiful blonde mermaid as she dove into the depths of the pond, splashing water in the face of the devious leprechaun trying to catch her tail. Then, a beautiful song silenced the crowd of creatures, who turned their attention towards the house. Within seconds the top circular window of the house opened and outburst the phoenix in a fiery blaze of red and orange feathers. I couldn’t believe it. My grandfather had told me the truth. Magical creatures did exist! For an hour I watched the play of the creatures. Then, the clock struck one. Within seconds the magical creatures stopped and returned to their original frozen stances. Even the tiny sunflower I held that I held in my hand turned back to porcelain. I sat unmoving, thinking about everything my grandfather had taught me.
Since then, every year at midnight on the Spring Equinox I get to enjoy the sight of the fairytale creatures. The creatures come to life to show the happiness and warmth of the earth being reborn once again while the bitter winter fades away. Though the world is a dreadful place with harsh realities and monsters disguised as humans, amongst the ruin and despair something so small, wonderful and magical actually exists. It’s a glimmer of hope that shines amidst the vicious cruelties of reality. It’s like my grandfather, a man that lived through what some regard as the most difficult periods in history, a man who fought wars, fought poverty, and fought for life. A man who had seen true evil and real monsters, fighting for the Allies in World War II. Despite all this he still believed in something as simple and childish as magic and fairy tales. Maybe, it gave him hope for a better world unlike the one he’d lived in? I now understand why he shared his love of fairy tales with me. He wanted to share the magic and the hope with me. He hoped that fairytales would bring me a light amongst the darkness of my own reality, and maybe help me fight off my own inner demons. Through the clock and fairytales my relationship with my grandfather lives on. And so every year when the creatures come to life. . .
It’s almost like I get a piece of my grandfather back.
Her Lady Disdain 
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