Hello gents, Steve here.
The first picture is of the automatic component of my beloved Waltham Incabloc, purchased second-hand in the mid-1990s from a retro market in South Yarra, Australia. By then, this fella was already old, which didn't bother me at all. He looked perfect on my wrist. From that day on I knew he would be a defining part of who I wanted to be.
As the years rolled by, this beautiful piece became an integral part of me. I felt wrong without him. He never kept particularly good time, but that wasn't the point. For twenty years I wound him religiously, three turns per night before bed, much to the bemusement of girlfriends. I later learned that this was not completely necessary, but I don't regret it.
From time to time somebody would complement me on Waltham. This made me feel good, and that here was a person worth knowing. Such people were few and far between.
I often wondered who had previously owned him, where he had been, what he had seen, why he ended up at the place I found him. I always imagined he had been taken off the wrist of a dead man by a grieving relative and sold as part of a deceased estate. I'll never know.
He accompanied me through many phases of my life: high times gigging with the band, heady days as a young man flying free in the big city, my Tuesday morning radio show, my horrendous teacher training year, the first blush of love, marriage, the birth of my flame haired daughter, early fatherhood, depression, divorce, confusion, eventual renewal, uncertainty, depression again, and beyond.
Throughout all this, like a true friend, my trusty Waltham never left me. He never once judged, nor sneered.
Then, recently, he failed. He stopped once, revived, stopped again, and then again. Then finally, he died. The repair guy, someone I trusted, told me he wasn't worth saving, that he was a good watch but not a great watch, and that he had probably had his day.
I thought he was a great watch.
Anyway, after a few moments thought, I looked past the repair guy's hand, down into the display case, and saw a 1950s Cyma Navystar. My Cyma is quite beautiful, a real gent, and I suspect he will see me through until my last breath. He is a little like Waltham, but not quite; more like a cousin than a brother. He defines the new me, which is much like the old me, but maybe a little wiser and nicer. Hopefully.
I wonder what we will go through together, Cyma and I, and who will complement him.
But I do intend to always keep Waltham close by.
The first picture is of the automatic component of my beloved Waltham Incabloc, purchased second-hand in the mid-1990s from a retro market in South Yarra, Australia. By then, this fella was already old, which didn't bother me at all. He looked perfect on my wrist. From that day on I knew he would be a defining part of who I wanted to be.
As the years rolled by, this beautiful piece became an integral part of me. I felt wrong without him. He never kept particularly good time, but that wasn't the point. For twenty years I wound him religiously, three turns per night before bed, much to the bemusement of girlfriends. I later learned that this was not completely necessary, but I don't regret it.
From time to time somebody would complement me on Waltham. This made me feel good, and that here was a person worth knowing. Such people were few and far between.
I often wondered who had previously owned him, where he had been, what he had seen, why he ended up at the place I found him. I always imagined he had been taken off the wrist of a dead man by a grieving relative and sold as part of a deceased estate. I'll never know.
He accompanied me through many phases of my life: high times gigging with the band, heady days as a young man flying free in the big city, my Tuesday morning radio show, my horrendous teacher training year, the first blush of love, marriage, the birth of my flame haired daughter, early fatherhood, depression, divorce, confusion, eventual renewal, uncertainty, depression again, and beyond.
Throughout all this, like a true friend, my trusty Waltham never left me. He never once judged, nor sneered.
Then, recently, he failed. He stopped once, revived, stopped again, and then again. Then finally, he died. The repair guy, someone I trusted, told me he wasn't worth saving, that he was a good watch but not a great watch, and that he had probably had his day.
I thought he was a great watch.
Anyway, after a few moments thought, I looked past the repair guy's hand, down into the display case, and saw a 1950s Cyma Navystar. My Cyma is quite beautiful, a real gent, and I suspect he will see me through until my last breath. He is a little like Waltham, but not quite; more like a cousin than a brother. He defines the new me, which is much like the old me, but maybe a little wiser and nicer. Hopefully.
I wonder what we will go through together, Cyma and I, and who will complement him.
But I do intend to always keep Waltham close by.
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