Pamplin Avenue 02

Once we get past infancy and into early childhood I’m into territory that’s increasingly familiar. One incident is so fresh in my mind it is as if it happened only a few years ago. Mom and Dad promised Jack a Mickey Mouse watch if he learned to tell time before his fifth birthday, which was then about a month away. Of course he jumped on what he recognized as a golden opportunity, Mickey Mouse watches being the cat’s ass of the day. I was also excited, thinking that that was a piece of cake. Even at a little more than three an a half years old I had the attitude that anything Jack could do I could do better. And a lot faster.

So, that very day, a Saturday as Mom and I remembered in a conversation sometime in the early 1980s, I started learning time on a large wooden play clock with movable hands (similar to today’s Playschool clock). Believe me, the look of scorn on Jack’s face is still fresh in my mind as I concentrated on memorizing the numbers and their respective positions. Incidentally, I was reading and counting by that time.

Early Sunday afternoon Mom and Dad began quizzing Jack to encourage him and determine his progress. After a few questions it was obvious he was headed in the right direction but didn’t quite have it down. Especially with the numbers indicated by the clock’s small hand. Naturally, after he finished I jumped up and boldly announced that I knew how to tell time and they should ask me. That claim was greeted by no little skepticism by my parents and outright daggers from my justly irritated older brother. But my mother persuaded Dad to relent, saying that I should be given a chance too.

They began with the easy part, moving the big hand for the hours. Those I knew perfectly, even when they jumped around the clock face trying to confuse me. Then they got tough, switching to the minute hand. What number is this? They would move the hand. What number is that? Again the hand would change. Every time I had the correct response.

My father, growing increasingly impatient, then had me do both together, hour hand and minute hand. He was determined to prove that I really didn’t know how to tell time. Even as a small child I realized my father was growing angrier and angrier at each correct answer I gave. I thought I must be doing something wrong. They asked me every combination they could but I had the right answer each time. Finally, they both had to admit that there could be no mistake. I certainly did know how to tell time.

About 40 some-odd years later Mom related that story to me, marveling that Dad was furious because he had to buy two watches and not one. Never once did he acknowledge that I had done something praiseworthy. On Jack’s fifth birthday he received the coveted Mickey Mouse watch. As I did on my fourth birthday a little over two months later. But even then, despite my joy, I knew our rewards were not quite the same. I certainly remember the confusion and bewilderment I felt, even as Dad was browbeating me for accurately telling time. It was an experience to be repeated many times in my life.