I killed it today. It wasn't really something that I did on purpose, but nonetheless, the deed was done by my own hand.

Sometimes you just don't realize that you are doing something until it is done and then you are left with naught but regrets. I don't really know if this exactly fits that mold or description, but I still am compelled to go on.

I must start by saying, it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been up so late last night. I don't even know why I was up late; I just couldn't sleep. It was one of those dry and hot electric heat evenings when it seems I just can't get comfortable. I miss the cool late summer evenings when I could leave all the windows open and feel the cool breeze rush through the house and softly rustle the curtains. I guess I will have to wait until next year on that one. As for last night, it was too hot to be under the bed covers and I feel too exposed to sleep without cover, unless of course I am fully dressed and on a couch somewhere. But I haven't done that in quite some time, thank goodness.

I am getting to that age when I get stiff just thinking about a night on an uneven surface. Not that I am old mind you, but the time has come to say so long to the days in which I could sleep sideways in a chair or on a cold tile floor. I'd be afraid I'd catch the pleurisy or even worse. But that's a story for another time. Right now, I am not mourning the loss of my youthful back and neck elasticity, but a loss of another sort.

I finally drifted off to sleep around midnight to the dull and steady tick, tick, tick that still stays in my head today — not because of its sound but due to its absence. Like a tell-tale heart in reverse. While my attorney has advised me that it might be more wise to keep silent on these and other similar matters, I feel that the time has come to talk. I slept a period of time that may have measured five hours but felt like 45 minutes and then I was awakened by the clanging fire engine sound of my old wind-up alarm clock.

I must tell you that the two-bell clock is one of the best for a sound sleeper, but I was in one of those sleep modes that aren't easy to overcome. As I rolled over with some effort, I reached for the clock to turn it off. However, in my sleep filled mind, it continued its clamor of ceaseless bell ringing, making my very skull vibrate. Taking the more difficult option, I reached for my lamp with the nearest arm and realized that it was a bit short for the job at hand — my arm, that is, not the lamp. Then I opted for a more sinister approach.

I knocked the clock to the floor. It continued to jingle as it fell and then suddenly struck the floor with a jolt and, with one last piteous dying gasp (ding in this case), it died. I arose quickly when I realized what had happened and picked up its lifeless body from the floor and swept salty tears from my eyes. You see, this was no ordinary clock. It was an old Big Ben yard sale special with big old tarnished twin bells sitting jauntily on top, like a pair of misplaced caps. Of course I had to wind it every day, but I never had to worry about the power going off

or some other unforeseen mishap delaying my waking. But those days are no more. After I had splashed a few gallons of water on my face and had two cups of coffee, I held a brief funeral service prior to opening it up with a screw driver to see what ticked its tock. Think of it as an autopsy by an unqualified physician. Better yet, just don't think about it. Inside I found a jumble of parts and a big spring that looked like it should be somewhere else. Having absolutely no clock sense about me at all, I stuffed all the parts back in as best I could and proceeded to place my old friend in the basement junk box. There he still lays, right next to last year's deceased fishing reel, that last-forever socket wrench I bought about three years ago and several broken knives and other devices that have lost their purpose but not their value to me. It's just one of those things that it is difficult to replace. If your digital alarm clock dies, you can just go down to the store and buy another. But if your antique two-bell kicks the bucket, you don't have many options. I bet the new ones are made in Taiwan or China or some other sinister overseas sweatshop market. I don't want to wake up with a clock made by slave labor. I want a good, old fashioned piece of Americana — a clock that weighs five or six pounds for no apparent reason other than the back must be a quarter-inch thick (until you open it up and see all those metal parts spilling everywhere).

As for the box of things in the basement, you might say it is the graveyard of my life. I suppose we all have our skeletons hidden away somewhere, don't we?

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