I never know what time it is; my cellphone is always at the bottom of my rabbit-hole purse, the clocks are not ubiquitous when needed, and I never wear a watch. Although my guesses are pretty spot-on (but not down-to-the-minute), with two kids and a full-time life, "down-to-the-minute" is often rather important...my NYR is to once and for all, wear a watch. And if there was ever a watch to be worn by me, it is my Grandpa's.
I was close to my mom's dad, Charles Fuhrmann Wolfgang: a dapper and chivalrous man who valued classic cars, delicious food, a good laugh, and yes, precision, as a partner in a commercial architectural firm. He reveled in being the glue of the family, the patriarch, and from the get-go, Grandpa adored me, and I, him. He was my advocate. And in my eyes, he could do no wrong.
Grandpa was 50s American Dream Old School: he had comfortable success, wore fedoras, wing tips, drove Cadillacs, drank scotch-on-the-rocks in high balls, ate a lot of red meat, played golf, and was in some semblance of a fraternity for the entirety of his life.
He married a "scrappy" orphan who grew up in foster care, and she (my grandmother) was the apple of his eye; he gave her everything he thought that she deserved. Grandma wore furs, bouffant Eva Gabor wigs, and had a pristine candy-apple-red Pontiac with a white top that remained preserved in the garage as she never drove. She devoted the entirety of her pink and black art deco bathroom to her Estee Lauder gold-cased lipsticks, scarves, hair pins and rollers. They existed in a Mad Men, man-of-the-house era: she got to go shopping as much as she wanted, as long as dinner was on the table at 6 and the house was spotless. She happily made him the king of his suburban castle. And they were quite a match.
When he passed away, I read an excerpt from Hemingway's last (incomplete) novel/memoir, and then (melodramatically) fled the church. My kindred spirit was gone, and I was on my own in every way; I always was, but I have never felt more alone than I did in that moment, in that church. I moved to New York City shortly afterward.
His watch: a sort-of tacky, rectangular all-gold Longines that still works; the back of the face smells like my grandparents' bathroom: hints of my Grandmother's pink soap are detectable years later, as his watch was never been worn by anyone but himself... It's strange to have tactile last traces of his life, encapsulated within my hands.
