By Eric Galatas About a year ago, I drove from the foot of the Rocky Mountains to the Gulf of Mexico in a turn-of-the-century classic with an odometer topping 180,000 miles. I made the trip after my mom said she was going to put her grandfather’s clock out on the curb if neither of her sons wanted it. She had made similar overtures years before about her piano. After downsizing, Mom said they needed the space, so the piano had to go. I had personally helped move that instrument - made of heavy, solid wood and stuffed with a ton of metal strings and god knows what - more than once, it’s an upright beast. I don’t play piano, so the idea of moving it into my small apartment in Denver was a non-starter. When neither of us spoke up to claim the piano, I could tell her feelings were a little hurt.
She bought the grandfather’s clock brand new when we were living in Germany, before the divorce. I think she paid around $1200 for it back in 1978 with her first paycheck working as a nurse at Landstuhl (the hospital of choice for soldiers injured while projecting American power from Europe). I was nine years old, my brother was seven. I remember mom telling us that - along with a set of hand-made Belgian furniture, also purchased at relatively low local prices - the clock was a kind of investment. It’s a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. Mahogany wood panels, beveled glass windows, a stately face. I loved hearing its chimes on lazy weekend afternoons or in the middle of the night, marking how much time had gone by. The clock hasn’t worked since 1981, when my dad is alleged to have stolen its pewter weights in an act of spite. The brass replacements mom’s new partner found several years later never got the clock to tick right again. The divorce judge had ruled that, because we kids were set to live with mom, she was to keep all the furniture. But when we arrived with a moving truck, the Belgian furniture and the clock’s weights were already gone. Dad produced a bill of sale, co-signed by one of his friends, for the sofa and chairs. It was dated before the divorce was finalized, at a price far below market value. About a year later, my brother and I were surprised to see the same furniture in our dad’s new living room. That was the year I stopped visiting and even talking to him (until I decided at the age of 18 that I was a grownup, what happened was between the two of them, and reconnected). So in early 2021, four decades later, when mom said the grandfather’s clock had to go, I felt somewhat cornered. By now, it had been transported from Germany to Illinois, to Louisiana, and to no fewer than five addresses on Galveston Island. The clock had become what my brother described as an albatross, which would end up strapped to my own neck if I somehow managed to bring it home. I didn’t disagree. But I told mom that if my brother didn’t object, I would gladly take the clock. I assumed that shipping it to Colorado would cost some coin, but the logistics seemed straight forward. I started saving cardboard, packing bubbles and newspaper. Turns out the U.S. Postal Service, and every other major delivery outfit, would not ship anything as tall as a grandfather’s clock. And the few specialists who said they could wanted thousands of dollars. So I needed a plan B. I went online to book a U-Haul truck, but the expense was still really steep. Scrolling down, I discovered that renting a trailer one-way was very reasonable. I’ve never owned a pick-up truck, or any vehicle intended to tow anything. But according to the ‘99 Camry’s manual, its towing capacity was technically sufficient. I am the third official owner of what has become a very weather-worn vehicle (the sun, at a mile above sea level, is unforgiving on clear-coat sealants and leather seats), and while I have diligently changed the oil and essential belts, the auto shop told me several issues would need to be addressed before I could safely tow a thousand pound trailer, even if it was only carrying a 70 pound clock. I ended up spending about two grand to install a trailer hitch, replace broken struts and repair other essential pieces of infrastructure. I convinced my frugal self that the expense was worth it, in part because the mechanic reminded me that this particular make and model was likely to go another 200,000 miles. I booked the smallest trailer on offer to be picked up in Galveston in October, when my brother and I had planned a short visit. Because I was bringing a small amount of marijuana for personal use out of Colorado - where it’s legal - and into hostile lands, I decided I would follow all traffic laws. Including speed limits. Traffic leaving Colorado and across Kansas tends to be pretty tame. People drive fast, but they usually pass on the left, and most return to the slower lanes. Even in Oklahoma, which has its share of muscle trucks, the highways are fairly uneventful. As soon as you cross the Texas border, all bets are off. I grew up driving in Houston, and instinct tends to take over when I’m back in the Lone Star State. The driving culture was decidedly aggro when I got my permit back in the 1980s, and it seems to have metastasized in the decades since. It’s largely understood that the only way to survive Texas highways is to drive as fast as you can, and be prepared to use your vehicle as a bludgeon to keep from being boxed into the slow lanes of gridlock and despair. A few years back on I-35 between Dallas and Austin, I’m convinced our vehicle would have been obliterated if I hadn’t braked a split second before one Texas nihilist seized the lane we were occupying. My new driving strategy was put to the test as soon as I reached North Texas. SUVs, pick up trucks and sports cars cruising well above 100 miles per hour would sneak up in a flash from any corner of the freeway, practically begging you to either outgain, join, or blunt their efforts. After checking my rising testosterone levels, I took a deep breath, and bowed out of the race. The transformation was significant. I found balm in the act of bending to accommodate the racers. If someone wanted to pass on the right, I’d slow down to give them easier access into the lane. If someone was barreling toward me like a bull from an onramp, I’d move over to let them onto the highway unchallenged. Instead of white-knuckling my way for hours in a convoy of dare devils, the journey became something akin to what I imagine square dancing might be like for those who know the steps. I was generous, I accommodated, and marveled at the display of primates piloting one and two ton land rockets jockeying for dominance. I can’t tell you how much more enjoyable those six or so hours became as I drove through the mix of freight-loaded rural interstate, and Dallas’ and Houston’s sprawling monuments to petro-state capitalism. I managed to reach Huntsville in time to watch my favorite football team at a chain outlet specializing in chicken wings and satellite-delivered sporting events. When I told my new friends at the bar about my driving strategy, their faces dropped in disbelief, and even horror. It was as if I had confessed to attempting suicide for the past 250 miles. On loading day, U-Haul informed me that the smallest trailer was no longer available at the Galveston location. Because I really did not want a larger one at the same price, I had to drive to Texas City. After the trailer was secured to my new hitch, I was astonished by how much the car’s essence changed. I was relieved that the Camry could actually drag what to most eyes looks like a dwarf trailer, but the car clearly struggled, especially when starting out from zero. While shrimp boiled on Mom’s deck out back, my brother and I set up a single-sized air mattress in the trailer’s bed (about two thirds inflated, to avoid a trampoline effect I’d been warned about while acquiring straps at the hardware store). We lifted the grandfather’s clock from its living room perch, made it out the front door and through the white vinyl picket fence’s gate, and laid it down on the mattress. This is not something you should do with a functioning clock, by the way, it messes up the works and the chimes can drop off. After documenting the event with a selfie, I had a strange intimation. I told my brother how the long wooden clock lying on its back looked a little like a casket. It felt like I had accidentally caught a glimpse of mom’s death. We covered the clock with moving blankets. Then my brother, who is far more mechanically inclined than I, expertly strapped it in. Turns out my experiment on the trip down was good preparation for the drive back hauling a half-ton trailer with a four-cylinder engine. Accommodation is essential when it’s all you can do to reach the minimum highway speed before the on-ramp comes to an end. Just south of Houston, I began to notice a few other drivers who seemed to be taking a similar approach. A tiny minority among the swarm, they were slowing down to let people onto the freeway, moving into slower lanes to give more track to the racers. If driving culture could evolve, would early stages of mutation look something like this? I decided to take a smoke when the Dallas skyline came into view. Just then, an Austin band I had been introduced to while living in the city back in the 20th century popped up in my phone’s music shuffle. I cranked up the bluetooth speaker cradled near the speedometer. As Poi Dog Pondering’s “Circle Around the Sun” played, me, the Camry, the trailer and the clock threaded the needle from I-45 to I-35 in the shadow of downtown’s formidable skyscrapers. And I found myself smack in the center of memory lane. I was transported back some 30 plus years: when I drove into the city from Galveston headed for college; meeting lifelong friends and amazing professors; that beautiful journalist girlfriend; misadventures on and around the professional stage. My ghost is everywhere here It hangs on every tree Lingering with every flower and leaf, Smell of scent and sight and sound These are calling cards from another time. Familiar days and forgotten phases Like water trickle down, down, down Time is an ocean, and I'm set to swim And I'm tumbled by her. My current gig allows me to work from anyplace with an internet connection, so I took my time getting the clock back home. I’d work in the morning, file my story, then hit the road until nightfall when I’d pull into any motel near the interstate with a big enough parking lot. With the car’s new weight, what might normally take 17-18 hours ended up taking three days. After arriving safely back in Denver, my better half and I carried the clock upstairs, where it stands today, directly across from our bedroom door. It’s the first thing I see when I greet the day. When the Denver U-Haul technician finally released the car from the trailer, the relief was visceral. With the strength of a stallion, the car glided across pavement and potholes like they were pillows of clouds. If that Camry wanted to, I actually believe it could have taken flight that day. For Christmas, I ordered one of those canvas prints of the photo I snapped in Galveston, me and my brother as bookends, the clock in the trailer bed between us. I even opted for an expensive wooden frame. My brother and I got a text from mom thanking whoever sent the picture. She said it made her cry, called it a bonafide treasure, and said she couldn’t stop looking at it. I said it was a gift from both her boys, adding it would take up a lot less space than the grandfather’s clock. She immediately texted back, “But not in my heart.”
2 Comments
PHYLLIS GALATAS
10/25/2022 03:50:54 pm
OMG! I finally got around to reading this litany! WOW!! It left me stunned. So many memories, good and not so good. So MANY memories. I have fallen in love with you...again. Thank you for the many gifts you have given me over the years.
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Son #1
10/26/2022 02:12:23 pm
Love you too mom.
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