Pocket Watch

I was looking at an old photograph recently, of four men sitting outdoors, side by side on chairs. On the back of the photo are the names of the men: Frank Chester, my grandfather, along with his brother, his brother-in-law, and his father, my great grandfather John Chester.

The photo was taken in the 19-teens in that unforgiving red-clay country of central Oklahoma, where the younger men farmed. It must have been a warmish day in winter because there are almost no leaves on the scrub oak and blackjack trees, yet only John is wearing a coat. In the background you can glimpse the hard land where they eked out a living. The flat tones of the black and white photograph reflect what their lives must have been like, the same feeling at the beginning of “The Wizard of Oz” which also was shot in black and white.

I had looked at the photo before, but this time, I saw something that I had not noticed earlier, that John is wearing a pocket watch. I could see the watch chain leading from a button hole in his waistcoat to a pocket holding the watch. I could also make out a coin hanging from the chain.

There was nothing unusual about him wearing a pocket watch in those days before wrist watches were common. What is special about that watch is that I have it. My grandfather gave it to my father, and my father gave it to me. The coin is a Quarter Eagle, a $2.50 gold piece, and the initials JC are engraved on the watch cover. The watch still works, and for years, I would wear it on special occasions, for example when my family would go out for Easter Brunch. My young daughters would want to hold it to their ear to hear its loud ticking.

I haven’t carried it in decades, yet it is one of my proudest possessions. It is the only thing I have of my father’s other than his wallet, which my mother gave me when he died. The watch is not only a connection to my father but also to his father, Frank, and to Frank’s father, John, a man born before the Civil War.

Now that I am nearing the end of my life, I realize it is time to decide what will become of the watch. Both of my daughters have retained my surname, so it will certainly go to a Chester next. I have a grandson, so I suppose it will eventually come into his possession. I wonder if he will care, though. After, all, John Chester is his great great great great grandfather, a man he knows nothing about. Also, since he is enraptured by things like computer games and high tech gizmos, a 150-year old watch might be a meaningless antique.

Part of me hopes that he will treasure the watch and appreciate its legacy. On the other hand, I realize it is just an object, just another thing to cart through life. In that sense, it symbolizes the illogical importance we often place on heirlooms and their links to the past. While I get a sense of pleasure from having the watch, I wonder if that really matters. Perhaps I should sell the watch and give the money to my grandson for college—or to buy himself a new watch.