Wednesday, December 16, 2009


My dearest Nora, wherever thou mayst roam,

Recently, it occurred to me that I have not worn a watch regularly since middle school. In high school, it was fashionable in my circle of friends to not particularly have any interest in time, sort of in the Captain America (from Easy Rider), "I'm hip about time," style. However, now that I am advancing in years and have many thoughts of settling down and bringing children into the world, the desire to own a watch that I may someday pass down to my eldest/only son fills me with a sense of...excitement, honestly.

The search for a tasteful, understated, classic-looking watch reminiscent of something from the 1930s or 40s was a difficult and time-consuming endeavour, in which I ultimately settled on a watch styled in such a way that is indicative of a decade or two before my target era. It has sort of an art deco feel, of which I am quite fond. There is a significance here beyond just that of my personal taste. The company for which I was working when the decision came to me to become a doctor was housed in one of the downtown area's oldest buildings. Our storage area (an adjacent building), had not been updated or modernised, and upon entry for the first time, my eyes immediately found the ceiling. It's one of those tray ceilings, made to look like tiling, what with the outline of golden squares and cream-ish coloured centers. The fancy moulding, with its sharp angles, always made me think of the film Metropolis. Despite the state of disrepair of just about everything from the ceiling down, and the multitude of oft-spotted roaches and other assorted vermin, I generally thought of it as a treat to visit...sort of as if I were stepping back in time, which is something I've spent the majority of my life interested in doing. So, yes, the watch instantly reminded me of that building, which has been and shall be forevermore, quite close to my heart.

My father never really had anything meaningful of his own to pass down to me, and in some far corner of my mind, I'm discovering that I wish he had. He did bring home various exciting items from his work, many other 8 year-olds could've proudly proclaimed, as I did, that they were in possession of several flightsuits used by real military pilots? I also was the recipient of several duffel bags, canteens, fatigues, and Lord only knows what else. I cherished these things and still have many of them. Perhaps I will one day give them to my own children, telling them about my father's work.

So, in just a short paragraph written in a matter of minutes, I have realised that my father did indeed pass down something meaningful, and on more than one occasion. Don't I feel a right fool having gone all of this time not realising it?

I'm off, my dear, to ring my father and express my appreciation and future plans for the trinkets he gave to me.

May the grace of He keep you always,

J.O. Morris

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