How to Prepare for a New Year
I still look forward to the winding of hearts at the beginning of each year.
People rummage in drawers and pockets for weeks, as they do with anything seldom used, to find the keys that fit their hearts. Some have to make new ones as their hearts change. Some keys lost keys are never found. These days I usually come across mine high on the bookshelf or under the bed of one of my kids.
The most difficult part is knowing when to stop winding. You want just the right amount of compression in the spring — enough to keep your heart running all year but not so much that the works seize up.
My grandfather worked at a lumberyard until he owned it. He knew his way around any machine or tool, saw how things fit together and worked on each other. He had a large heart, one of the largest I’ve ever known, and he used to let us help him wind it. I remember my small hands turning the big brass key, how hard my brother and I had to push toward the end as the spring grew tight with a year’s worth of tension.
When we wound as far as we could, he would give it a couple of turns himself until it was just right, and then he’d let us put an ear to his chest to hear the ticking. “You did that,” he would say, his voice coming into us warm and round from the inside. He helped us wind our hearts for the year, too, taught us how to feel when it was enough, how to respect a mechanism. And then he would take my brother and I fishing, or let us win at checkers, or take us down to Georgie’s store for candy and pinball.
At night, after my grandparents’ house was quiet, I would hold my breath. If I put my ear against the pillow and laid very still, I could make out the quick rhythm of my little mechanism unwinding. “You did that,” I would say to myself.
My grandfather’s heart was too big, or, more likely, he wore it out early with use. I was in college wondering about the mind when I heard that his heart wouldn’t start back up. I put my key in my car and drove way too fast to help put him, gone still, in the ground.
The field that remembers his name and time is far from here, from most things, and quiet except for what would make noise on its own anyway. I put my ear to the grass, thinking I might pick up his ticking. But all I heard was my own tired and slower sound.
Don’t forget to wind your heart this year, if you haven't already. Have someone help if you can. Get still so you can hear yourself running. You did that. Let's all keep going.