Originally published 2/8/17
I continue earnestly in my effort this year to control time, to slow it down to an enjoyable, luxurious pace. So Michael and I have decided to learn how to play the bells. The change bells. You know, the kind that mark time. Don't think that irony is wasted on me. I grew up with a grandfather clock that marked time. I remember when my parents bought it. I don't remember how old I was, likely early elementary school, but I remember the gravity of the purchase. It was a big deal. We lived in a brick ranch, about 2000 square feet, 3 bedrooms, 2 baths (1970-size, mind you), split living room/den, and a dining room. I remember it being roomy, but I think if I went back today, I would be amazed at how small it was. My parents lived there for 32 years. My mom was a school teacher, and my dad worked on the supercomputer at Milliken Textiles. (Remember, it was the 70s, and it took a room the size of a football field to contain what's in my iPhone.) We lived a comfortable life, but it wasn't lavish. My people aren't lavish. They're Scandinavian. My mom doesn't even buy comfy furniture. It's always hard. Anyway, I remember the purchase of this grandfather clock. It was lavish. It was not utilitarian. It would become an heirloom. It was not manhandled. It was handled with a polish cloth. We didn't know how much it cost, but we knew it cost a lot.
The clock, in the picture at right, behind a hard couch at my mom's. That's my brother, Karl, taken this past Christmas. He's holding an old-fashioned camera; he's a dad so he takes lots of pictures at Christmas.
Grandfather clocks mark time. Every 15 minutes, to be exact. And the longer the hour, the longer the chime. The later in the morning, then as the evening grows long, the more chimes. At first, it's kind of annoying. Then you don't hear it. For years. Even when you're sitting right next to it. How does that happen, that we lose track of time when we're sitting next to the chimes?
That clock is important to the life of my family. As a kid, I knew it was an important thing, because it was so different from anything else my mom and dad bought. My dad cared for it tenderly, winding the weights as they needed, carefully lifting them to reset them. That was one chore I was not paid $1 to do. I think it stopped working when I was an adult, and that was reported to me in a weekly call home. It was of grave concern to my mom, and a clockmaker had to be found.
The marking of time by a grandfather clock is somewhat universal, the same four notes played in the same sequence, over and over, 24 times a day.
It is comforting, and it is the sound of home to me. In Breslin Tower at the center of campus, there are the Bentley Bells, or the change bells, as they are known. There are two sets, really. One set is the change bells, 4 bells that are connected to the clock, and which chime on the quarter hour. Since they are connected to the clock, the machinery of which is the size of a Sub-Zero refrigerator, they ring on their own. They play the quarter hour melody that all change bells play. It's how kids on campus know it's time to go home.
The clock looks really little in this picture at left. The bells are in the arched openings above it. Two professors have offices in the tower, just below the clock. Cool.
The other set of 8 bells are played on Thursday nights and Sunday mornings by ringers. (Students take it as a class - they get PE credit for it!) As Michael and I had a tutorial Saturday on how to play them, the change bells rang every 15 minutes. Just imagine, bells that notify kids across a college campus that it's dinnertime are ringing 20 feet above your head. Now that's some nostalgic noise. Still, every time they rang, every 15 minutes, I couldn't help but watch the clockwork, and smile at the 4-note melody that is ingrained in every cell of my body. In 15-minute increments, we learned from Ray Gotko the fine and unexpected art of making a 500 pound bell ring. Like most things in life, it's not as easy as it looks. Ray Gotko is part musician, part engineer, and part monkey. He has built a practice bell so you can see the motion of the bell while learning to pull the sally (the part of the rope you're supposed to pull) and flick the tail (the end of the rope that sends it back up). He has also attached computer sensors to all 8 bells so that you can play a singular bell along with a computer program to practice music. And he recycles old tires as mutes, so you can practice on an actual 500 pound bell without the rest of campus hearing you. I say he's part monkey because he has to replace and remove those mutes by hand several times a week - crawling through the infrastructure of the bell joists and trusses is a mean feat for a man in his, well, 70s?
At left, Ray is holding the sally, and Michael is learning the art of flicking the tail.
Ray warned us that musicians actually have a more difficult time learning bells. I am loosely including myself in the category of musician here, just because I can count to four repeatedly and read music. Bells have nothing to do with either of those.
And, you can't even see the bells. You are pulling a rope out a hole in the ceiling. Even though only a ceiling separates you from the bell, you cannot be in the same room as the bells. When we climbed through the ceiling to look at them, Ray looked at the time, and rushed us back down because it was near a quarter hour, and the change bells were about to ring. And you cannot stand next to them when they ring. That would be what they call, getting your bell rung.
This is what bell music looks like, right. I have no idea how to play that.
You have to feel the bell through the rope, because you can't see it. You have to gently swing it to set it up, which means the bell is up and it is ready to play. But you cannot leave the rope while the bell is set, because the bell could fall, and that would yank the rope and it would fly around the room and take someone's eye out. But the rope looks just the same as it does in the down position. How do you tell? You give the rope a tiny tug: if there's give, it's not up; if it's taught, it's up. Or is it the other way around? Crap. I can't remember.
You always hold the tail of the rope, and you flick it so that the sally - a thick middle part - comes straight down, and you grab it, give it a bounce/tug, and send it back up. In no manner whatsoever do you continue holding onto the sally, or you will get a nasty case of rope burn, or, worse, be taken up to the ceiling, depending on the weight of your bell. Then you have to pull it back down, or it will crack a small piece of wood called a stop that is designed to keep it from going all the way around.
I mean, how do you know all that by holding onto a rope that's coming out of a hole in the ceiling?
For we live by faith, not by sight. 2 Cor 5:7.
I return to the verse this blog is based on...living by faith, not by sight. Playing bells is just like that. Michael even asked Ray what he was supposed to look at - because looking at the ceiling doesn't help; it's actually a hindrance. While playing bells, you listen and you feel, you don't really look. You feel for the bounce in the sally, and imagine the bell coming back to rest in the up position, barely resting at the stop. You trust it. You know it's where it's supposed to be, that it has just enough momentum to make it to the stop but not too much to damage it. The bell we played weighed 500 pounds. When it's pulled inertia increases its weight 3 times. The tower swayed a bit when we rang it.
You listen and you feel. Just like with you know who. G-O-D.
I've been trying to slow down and listen so far this year. Things are speeding up. Isabel's touring colleges. End of school-year plans are being made. But I reminded myself today that it's just the first week of February. We're still in winter. I get to wear sweaters and scarves for another couple months, at least. There's still work to do everyday. There are conversations to have, and silent moments to relish. There are events to attend and conferences to plan. There are cookies to eat and meals to shop for. Everything is, and will be. God is guiding, watching, looking and preparing. He is here, we are here. Just being. Living in faith, feeling the movement of life in each moment.
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