Marking Time, by Rachel Middleton Jensen One day, while living down at the farm, Mother was dusting the furniture with a feather duster and accidentally knocked the old clock off of the bracket shelf in the parlor. It had stood there between the two windows for a long time, and Mother was tired of looking at it. I m glad the old clock is broken at last, she said, It was a nuisance, having to be wound up every night. Now maybe we ll get an eight-day clock to replace it. The clock is on display at the Weber County Daughters of Utah Pioneer Museum in Ogden, UT. When my father came home from town and found what had happened, he looked as sad as though he had lost a friend. Bring me the carriage robe he said, gathering up the pieces that lay where Mother had been dusting. I ran to bring him the robe, and he carefully placed the pieces in it and tied them up. The next day he took it to an old clock repair man, a Scandinavian who excelled in fixing intricate insides of clocks and watches. On the way there Father told me the story of the old family clock, and I recall that he said, This clock has been drowned, burned, hauled three thousand miles by ox-team in a jolting wagon, and now it is shattered and broken into bits; but I still think it will last many years to remind us of your grandparents, William, and Mary Middleton, and the things that happened to them while they owned the clock.
He told me of how his father had purchased the clock from an agent away back in 1838, in a place near Far West, Missouri, when he (Father) was only five years old. At that time the family was preparing to leave with the rest of the Saints for the Rocky Mountains. Both Grandfather and Grandmother had gone through a terrible ordeal, having buried their five little children who had suffered and died from the effects of exposure and hardships of those days. But the following spring, they loaded their worldly possessions into a covered wagon, and along with the Middletons and Butlers, they had started for their long journey. The clock, carefully wrapped, was placed in the wagon with great love and care. Later, while fording the Platte River, the wagon struck a boulder and was upset, whirling most of their possessions down the stream. Among the few things that were retrieved was the clock, which was badly damaged, but never the less continued its way on the long journey. In September 1850, they arrived in Utah, and theirs was the first house built in Brown's Fort. Then the family moved onto a lot, the same lot on which Washington Arms is now located, and there they built a one- room house. That winter, 1851, was a very severe one, and the family moved to West Weber, where Grandfather kept his stock. The following June, the old clock ticked off the death of Grandmother's father, Charles Butler, who, by the way, was the first person to be buried in the Ogden City Cemetery. They now had three more small children besides my father and his sister, and returned once more to their home in Ogden City. One night, while Grandfather was herding his cattle in West Weber and Father was away attending a meeting, the clock on the mantel gave Grandmother no warning of what was about to happen, or if it did, she was too engrossed in tucking the children in their beds and hearing their prayers, to heed its warning. The log room had no door except a make-shift one made out of a wagon canvas. Due to the bitterness of the cold winter night, a fire was roaring in the fireplace, and a spark from the fire ignited the canvas. In a flash it was in flames, shutting off the only way of escape. In trying to rescue the three small children, Grandmother and her daughter Rachel were severely burned, and the other children were so badly burned that they died a few days later.
The old clock was badly scorched and damaged, but no doubt it ticked away some of the grief in Grandmother s heart by its steadfastness and loyalty, and the reassurance that, someday, the family would all be together again. I have heard my oldest brother tell of how he helped Grandmother place the new glass in the clock door, together with a small painting of two girls dressed in evening costume, sitting together, reading a love letter. How I adored that picture. As a child, I was fascinated. by the romance and glamour of the dreams those girls had of absent lovers, which I fancied might some day happen to my sister and me. I would watch Grandfather open the door of the clock, take a large brass key and wind up the heavy iron weights on either side, then turn the hands to make it strike. It truly was the most interesting article in their house with its gauntness in appearance, the striking of its silver bell and the sweet picture of the girls in love. Little did I think, at that time, the clock would become so closely associated with our family in my own home, and that it would be the inspiration for a story. All of the grandchildren enjoyed looking at the clock and it was the center of interest to everyone. Even the Indians, who called frequently, would peek through the window and point to the clock. All the same like sun, tell time, they would say, wonderingly. After the death of Grandmother, Grandfather invited one of my brothers and his bride to come and live with him, which they did, and, as time marched on, the clock ticked off the birth of a great granddaughter, the death of Great Grandmother, and later, it saw Grandfather pass away. He left the old time piece to my father, Charles F. Middleton, and it was carried from its city home to the farm, where it again marked off many changes, births and deaths of loved ones. On New Years Eve, 1903, it was brought back to our new town house and placed over the mantel above the fire grate, a special antique in a special place, where James, my brother, varnished it and did much to restore it to its original appearance. The nightly ritual of my father was always to record the events of the day and record them in his journal, and then wind up the clock.
During its time in the new home it has marked off many eventful occasions, courtships, weddings, marriages, births, and deaths in our family. At last, after the death of my father, the clock was turned in to the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers' Relic Hall, where it can be seen as a silent reminder of other days. The old clock has finished its work and now stands mutely and dependently, waiting upon the present posterity to tell the primitive story - the story of sacrifice, struggle, poverty and self-denial the reminders of a past that will live always, to honor those who have passed on to the Great Beyond. References 1. Published in The Children's Friend, July 1947 2. Middleton History Chapter 1, pg 5 (Marking Time, by Rachel Middleton Jensen). Contributed by Charles F. Middleton Jr.