One morning a week or so ago, I woke up and looked at the clock/radio next to my bed to see what time it was. The digital numbers read 5:05 a.m. so I knew it was 4:45 a.m.

I knew because my clock is 20 minutes fast. I pulled the sheet up hoping to get a little more sleep, but instead I began thinking about this ridiculous clock situation and how it got started. I sat up again, and this time I was laughing.

It began one night a couple of years ago when the electricity went off during a rain storm and my clock had to be reset when the power came back on. I’d done this several times over the years and there was never a problem, I’d simply push down one button and hold it until the right hour came up then I’d push another button and hold it for the correct minute.

On that particular day, it didn’t work. The minute button refused to do its duty even after many attempts throughout the day. I finally gave up and I’ve been subtracting 20 minutes ever since.

I bought this clock/radio 20 years ago for its simplicity. One button gives me an hour of soft music to lull me to sleep before it turns itself off. In the morning, that same button turns the radio back on. There is also an alarm button, but I haven’t used that one since I retired.

This little clock/radio has been watching over me through the years as I slept or tossed and turned. I refuse to replace it now that it has one flaw. That would be like deserting an old friend because he’s broken an arm.

Fully awake after mulling this over, I got out of bed and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. As I sat down to enjoy it and get myself in gear for the day ahead, I began thinking about other things in my life that I’ve been holding onto over the years. I don’t mean family heirlooms or priceless treasures or things that add to the décor, but small inanimate objects that have no rewarding function at all other than to hang around collecting dust. Yet I just can’t bring myself to get rid of them.

There’s a three-inch porcelain Buddha — I don’t know from where it came or when, but I assume someone gave it to me as a gift for I can think of no reason why I would have purchased it myself. But there it sits, holding court on a shelf in a bookcase at the end of the hallway for more years than I can remember.

In the front room, nestled in between family pictures, there is a small wooden pelican carved out of what I think is teakwood. If memory serves me right, it was given to me by a young man who worked in my department at The Sacramento Union — and I left there in 1979!

Then there’s a souvenir mug given to me by a gentleman friend when I flew to San Diego to attend a gala event with him at a swanky seafood restaurant. I have absolutely no idea where that gentleman friend is today or if the restaurant is still in existence, but the mug still stands proudly on a desk next to my computer. Its only function is to occasionally hold a pen or pencil.

On my bedroom dresser is a slender white vase containing one red rose bud. These items have absolutely no tie-in to my color scheme. I don’t know where either of them came from or even if they arrived at the same time, all I know is they’ve been there for a long, long time and I occasionally pick them up and wipe the dust off of them.

There is also a little box containing earrings — not matched sets, just one earring of what once was a set. I keep them there thinking the mate will one day show up. I don’t know why I keep them, for I seldom wear earrings anymore and when I do they are more up-to-date fashionwise than those in the box. I’ve often thought of giving them to someone who is into crafts, but it hasn’t gone beyond the thinking stage yet.

I could go on and on about other things I’ve been holding onto just because I can’t let go of them. I’m also sure that if I got rid of all them it would free up some space in my apartment, but that probably won’t ever happen. Call it overly sentimental. I’ll just leave them for my kids to dispose of after I’m gone.

I have a feeling many of you understand my feelings and can relate to this without my taking time to say more. Speaking of time, I must end this now, for I’m expecting a friend to stop by around 1 p.m. and my clock/radio tells me it’s 12:31 p.m. minus 20 minutes.


Sacramento resident Joey Franklin, retired from more than three decades of full-time work in the newspaper business, now writes a monthly column for Spectrum.