Watching over me (revised)

In 1970 I saved my allowance for nearly a year to buy a wristwatch.

My step-father encouraged me to save money for things I really wanted. If it was a worthy cause, he would match whatever I put aside. He suggested a watch because I was learning time by hour and minute hands.

When we left the house one morning after I'd saved enough money, I was excited. Snuggled in my light-blue, down parka, I pulled the fur-lined hood over my chestnut-colored hair and clambered after him into the family's metallic blue Chevy station wagon for the three-minute trip into town. I was so happy I could scarcely breathe. The chill February air of eastern Washington State bit my nose, but I didn't mind.

I kicked snow along the sidewalk as we walked to Chelan's only jeweler's shop, mysterious in dim light. A bell pinged above the door as it shut behind us. My step-father told the man behind the counter that I could tell time and that I wanted to buy my first wristwatch. The owner smiled at me, pointed to a clock on the wall and asked me to perform. Although shy and nervous and afraid I'd get it wrong, he smiled and said I was worthy--or some such thing.

I looked at an array of beautiful watches: some with diamonds, some with thin gold bands and dainty chains that dangled from the wrist. But I didn't have enough money for those. I settled for a Timex with a round face, clear numbers, and a ridged, black fabric wristband.

To be honest, I wasn't that thrilled with it. The watch wasn't fancy or pretty like the opulent adornments worn by movie stars. But it grew on me. I loved to hold it under my ear and hear it's tiny ticking heart. It was mine, bought by saving allowances and sacrificing candy, and I became quite proud of it. I wore it everywhere.

In 1971, my third-grade class sent a letter to President Richard Nixon along with a handcrafted gift from our Mrs. Pingrey. He (or someone) wrote back, and my classmates became news fodder. Our photograph was printed in the Chelan Daily Mirror newspaper. I gasped when I saw my picture, not because it was me, but because my little watch was visible on my wrist.

That summer, my family and I vacationed at Yachats, Oregon on the Pacific Ocean. It was a fairly long trip with five people stuffed into a station wagon bursting with suitcases and bedding. We spent about a week there in a rustic beach side cabin, playing in the sand and surf, looking for wild strawberries, and catching net-fulls of smelt. As fast as my mother fried, we gobbled them hot, right out of the pan.

I couldn't find my wristwatch when we got home. I looked everywhere. I was afraid to ask my step-father and mother for help because I didn't want to get yelled at and called irresponsible. So I quietly mourned, and prayed, and hoped no one would notice my empty wrist.

School started in September with chilly mornings and warm afternoons. It was too warm to carry my thick parka, so I wore my light jacket. One morning I jammed my chilly hands into my pockets on the way to school. I stopped in my tracks. My fingers closed around the familiar fabric band and felt the smooth face of my beloved, long-lost friend. Little bits of sand clung to it. I must have put it there for safekeeping when building sandcastles and the wind chilled me. I didn't know why I'd missed it being there before. I wound the watch to start it anew and set the time.

On walk home after school I went into a copse off a side road at the top of a hill where a spreading elm tree stood. It was a special tree. We buried a bird there once. I walked to it often and spoke to Jesus about my little girl troubles.

I stood under thick, spreading branches with yellowing leaves. No bird to bury, no troubles to tell Him. My right hand fingered the watch on my left wrist. My eyes closed and I thanked Him.

God was with me, as always. He gave my watch back to me.

When I walked home, I imagined that He held my hand, the one with the watch on the wrist.