The keeper of the clock

EVART — It seems a simple matter these days, keeping track of time. After all, we have digital this and digital that, clocks that chime, jiggle, talk, and probably walk. On the bottom right corner of many computer screens, we are quickly reminded of the time, the date, and many other things we either have never needed to know or couldn’t understand even if we could figure out what they try to tell us.

Aloha Hodges is the unofficial keeper of the time at the Evart Library and Museum.

It’s true.

One recent day she came to the second floor window briefly, and a witness saw her glance out just as briefly, then put a clock in the window. Shortly thereafter, someone came to the front door and let patrons into the library.

The question was, how is it that lady places the clock in the window just before someone else opens the door. Is that the special signal?

Well, not at all. Asked about being the keeper of the clock, Hodges simply said that there had been a time change some time before. No one noticed for a bit that the clock in the window was an hour ahead. Or, then again, was it an hour behind?

So she checked, and she set, and she went to the window and put the clock back where it belonged.

Belonged? In the window. It seems that for many years there was a large clock at the street corner location where the library and museum both live. Over those many years after it was no longer part of the structure, a good many people told the ladies of the library that they really missed it.

Solution. Put a clock in that southeast window, for those driving by or walking past to use as their time reference. Most didn’t seem to mind it being an hour early or was it an hour late for a bit.

And the keeper of the clock didn’t mind resetting it once again so it would be right. Nor did she hesitate to set it back so she could be setting it ahead for picture taking time.

Such is the life in a small town, where people talk and people laugh, and take time to set clocks and keep the flavor of not having such a hurried pace that you can’t accommodate those on the outside who happen to glance your way.