Wrist watches as life and art

A watch designed after Chagall's work. I MIGHT concede to owning one...if I could conceive of paying for it. See the story about it here.

I have never really liked watches. I only grudgingly wear one, and only because I'm a tiny bit obsessive about being on time. But I disliked them so much when I was a child that I refused to learn to tell time for years. I was about nine years old before I admitted to my mother that I actually had been able to tell time for about six years at that point. I just found the entire idea, I think, of living by the hour to be ludicrous. And yes, I guess they had their hands full with me.

As I got older, I found that watches were also impractical for much of my life. I spent a lot of time tucking my watch someplace safe when I went to ride a horse because I knew the watch would be ruined if, a) I came off in the mud, or, b) I had to bathe the horse after the ride, quite a common thing except in the middle of winter. And then I discovered plastic watches.

Oh, for joy!  Three bucks at the local convenience store/gas station (UK residents, read 2 quid and petrol station), they lasted several months, and who cared? Toss it, buy a new one.

Before that, though, I had--I shamefacedly admit--gotten into a novelty watch phase. If the watch was weird, would buy it. Before a trip to Paris, I bought a really fun (and plastic!) watch that had a vibrant parrot head cover that flipped open to reveal the watch face beneath. As I have small wrists, it was probably the first thing about me anyone saw.

On the plane to Paris, I noticed in the "buy me" magazine a lovely thing called a Rock Watch. The works were by some respected watchmaker, and the face was a bit of pink quartz, I believe. I really liked it but decided I could buy one cheaper in Paris.

Fast-forward to four days later. My husband and I were sitting in a little Alsatian restaurant on the Rue St. Germain. We were sitting on the glassed-in porch. A mother, her little girl of about seven and the grandmother were seated a few tables away, also on the porch.

Throughout my meal, the little girl stared at me. When the trio was finished, the little girl bounded over to me and stood beside the table, staring at MY WATCH.

The mother hurried over. "Non, non, Sandrine," she said, followed by rapid gentle scolding in French. I don't speak French, except for phrasebook French. But we communicated  partly in English, partly in German and a bit in French. The little girl was in love with my watch. I asked if I might make a present of it. The mother said no, no, it was too extravagant. I said it wasn't, that I had paid no more than ten dollars for it in Miami and I was happy for the child to have it as she so adored it. Besides, I thought, it would give me an excuse to buy the Rock Watch.

So the mother relented, I put my watch on the little girl's wrist, and off the trio went up the street.

Shortly, the little girl was back, this time outside the window, blowing me kisses. Certainly, that was worth ten bucks.

I never did get a Rock Watch. We were busy seeing things. When we finally got to Bon Marche, I refused to spend that much on a blasted watch; the one in the airplane catalog had been cheaper, as it turned out.

But I did decide that someday, I would write a story about Sandrine. This is not that story. It will be fiction, and it will have a very lovely, totally natural character named Sandrine, not unlike Madeleine...but nicer.