The Night Watchmen

What creates value? Rare metals and precious stones command large sums of money. Some people collect art and cars while others just like to amass great fortunes. Most humans seem to value life to the point of wanting it to last forever. Athletes prize championship trophies. I have never been a money or jewelry guy. Cars in the end are really just a mode of transportation. I have always believed that a life should be measured by quality not quantity. I have won championships but at any level sports are really just games. I was going to write about “value” and try to make the argument that material possessions are not the holders of true value. But I am not the one who should decide for all what is truly valuable. So instead, my own personal story about value.

About forty-four years ago when I was twelve years old, I was playing with a sponge ball in the house. On this particular afternoon I was bouncing the ball off the large mirror that was over the fireplace in our living room. My mother was on her way out and she asked me not to play with the ball in the house. I explained to her, in a very condescending way, that this ball was specifically designed for inside play. She did not argue with me or admonish me for my tone, she just said goodbye, turned and went out the door. A short while later one of my throws hit the mirror at a strange angle and the ball dropped straight down on to the mantle. At that moment everything went into slow motion. The ball seemed to slide slowly down the mirror and then, to my horror, it landed directly on top of one of my mother’s favorite possessions, a Hummel figurine of “The Night Watchman”. It wobbled back and forth, then toppled off the mantle, hit the tile fireplace below and broke into many pieces. I was mortified as I pulled the fire screen away and began to collect up its broken parts: the head, three pieces of the base, the legs with shoes attached, the horn, and part of the scarf. I gathered them up and brought them into the kitchen. I could only imagine the hurt and anger my mother was going to feel when she discovered that I had broken one of her few prized possessions with the sponge ball she asked me not to play with in the house.

I feverishly began to glue the broken figurine back together. I managed to fit all the pieces together and put it back on the mantle. From a distance it looked as it always had but I knew it was never going to pass close inspection. For about a week it sat there undetected by my mother. We would sit together watching TV and I would just stare at the figurine. Like the Tell-Tale Heart, it seemed to be calling my mother to it so that she could see that it had been broken. Finally I could not take the guilt anymore and in a private moment I brought the Night Watchman to my mother and confessed to her that I had broken it with the ball. She was obviously hurt that her figurine had been broken and I braced myself for her anger and wrath but it never came. She just shook her head and thanked me for being honest. I felt a strange sense of internal joy. I had hurt and disappointed my mother and yet she still loved me.

Twenty years later my mother passed away and I found myself standing with my brother and four sisters looking down on a dinning room table covered with the mementos of her life. There were coins and pictures, a couple clocks, statues and figurines, some jewelry, and various other trinkets collected in her sixty-five years on this Earth. Some of the objects she bought, some were acquired when others passed away, and some were gifts we had given to her over the years. We decided to pick numbers, then slowly and fairly divide the objects among the six of us. In a very self-serving moment I suggested that before the number selection process began that if anyone had a particular item that carried a special memory they should take it. You see there was one item I simply had to have. It was probably the least valuable item on the table but to me it held the memory of my mother’s love. It was the broken and repaired Night Watchman. So there I stood, waiting for agreement from my siblings concerning that one emotional choice. Upon hearing the affirmative consensus I reached out and took the figurine in my hand. The Night Watchman was now mine to keep. I took it home and placed on my mantle.

Some ten or so years later, I was now living with my girlfriend. I went into the living room only to find that the Night Watchman was gone. I searched for it and then the pieces of it but found nothing. Remembering that a maid had once broken something and was afraid to tell me, I came to the conclusion she had done it again. When I confronted the maid service they swore that the maid was not responsible. We never used that maid service to clean our house again. The whole incident made me very upset and I recounted the story to many people including all my siblings. My eldest sister Kathy, whom for most of my life I considered my second mother, listened to my story and tried to comfort me, but it seemed that a happy ending was not possible. The Night Watchman had simply vanished.

Later that year my family came to the house to celebrate Christmas. We were all opening gifts, one by one, and when my turn came I chose to open a small package from my sister Kathy. I pulled the paper away only to see a new Night Watchman staring up at me. She had researched, found, and purchased a vintage replacement for me. I nervously held it in my hands and with it the comfort of love past and love present.

Over the next few years the relationship with my girlfriend began to deteriorate and we agreed to part ways. We sold the house, divided things we had acquired together and claimed those items that were ours before we were a couple. We even pulled out the Christmas ornaments to find the ones each had owned before we lived together. It was in one of those boxes, to my absolute amazement, that I discovered my mother’s Night Watchman which I thought to be lost forever. We determined that it had been accidentally put away by my girlfriend mistaking it for a Christmas decoration. Even though I felt a small amount of guilt for accusing the maid I could not contain my happiness. Today I have two Night Watchmen.

I have owned nice cars and a beautiful home. I have a ring I wear on my thumb. I have my grandfather’s pocket watch and my father’s firefighters helmet. I have pictures of happy times in my life and the medal I received upon winning my first championship in soccer. I even have baseball cards that I collected when I was ten. But all these things do not compare to my two Night Watchmen. One of them reminds me of my mother’s unconditional love and the other represents the compassionate love of my sister Kathy. Value…priceless.