In the dim haze of a Toronto retirement home, you might find me sitting at a rickety wooden table, sipping a cup of over-brewed chamomile tea. I’m Jacob Stein, though everyone calls me Zayde, a term of endearment that warms my heart like a bowl of matzo ball soup. Now, I must indulge you with a rather curious journey — or shall I say odyssey? — into the world of watch collecting. It’s ironic, you see, because time, I’ve learned, has a tendency to slip away, just like the bits of kugel at the lunch buffet.
It all began when my granddaughter Rachel decided that I was too “wholesome” for my own good. She’s a good girl, that one, always trying to keep me “current,” or whatever the kids say these days. So one sunny afternoon, she burst into my room, all excitement, holding a sleek, black wristwatch. “Zayde! You need to be part of the present!” she chirped, as I squinted at the contraption as if it were a UFO plummeting from the sky.
Now let me tell you, watches have come a long way since my days of winding a simple timepiece that hung by a golden chain in my grandfather’s pocket. Back then, what did we need to mark time? A sundial in the yard, a good schlep to the shul, and your trusty watch was more for show than for accuracy. But here I was confronted with a monstrosity that not only told the time but monitored my heart rate, tracked my sleep, and probably could have ordered a bagel if I programmed it correctly.
After the initial shock, I thought — why not? What’s the harm in exploring this brave new world? So I agreed to attend a local watch collectors' fair that Rachel insisted I would find "fascinating". The whole ordeal felt somewhat ironic, considering that I've spent my whole life feeling quite adept at wasting time rather than collecting it. Nevertheless, I donned my best plaid shirt, threw on my rusty old cardigan, and off we went.
Walking into the fair was like being sucked into a vortex of shiny metal and leather. Collectors, a peculiar bunch — mostly middle-aged men sporting more hair than common sense — gathered around tables piled high with an array of timepieces. I could see the glimmers in their eyes akin to children in a candy store. It was bewildering, really. How could time be so captivating when it slips through our fingers like so much sand?
A vendor with salt-and-pepper hair noticed me — I think he could sense my hesitation. “This one here,” he said, holding out a watch that looked like it had seen more thunderstorm than my old rabbi, “is a vintage Seiko. Perfect for someone with your discerning taste.” Discerning taste! Who did he think he was? It was all I could do not to offer him a brisket sandwich in empathy.
“Jacobi,” Rachel chirped, “You have to try it on!” I felt a mix of desire and precariousness, the way a man might feel trying on a pair of shoes two sizes too small. As the vendor fastened the watch around my wrist, it struck me how little I cared. It was heavy and cold, a far cry from the warmth of my beloved grandfather’s watch.
As I ambled through the rows, I overheard stories shared among the collectors — tales of diving in the ocean with watches that had lasted longer than their owners. "It’s about the craftsmanship," one man insisted, as if he were discussing the artistry of a great Chagall painting. "Every scratch, every blemish has a tale to tell."
Tales, I mused. What tales had my wristwatch told? The time it broke down in the middle of a Yom Kippur service because I’d been sweating more than a chazzer in a sauna, or perhaps the moment I wound it just in time to argue with my wife about whether the kugel should be served warm or cold?
And then I saw it. A beautiful, glimmering Omega Speedmaster that looked like it belonged on the wrist of a man who could afford to take the train to the moon — or perhaps just one who had won an argument with his wife. I felt a pang of longing. The irony, of course, is that this beauty, advertised as a "timepiece of adventure," would do nothing but remind me of the cozy chair I’d sink into at home and the endless reruns of The Golden Girls on my TV.
“But Zayde,” Rachel laughed, noticing my admiration for the Omega, “wouldn’t that be a little extravagant?”
Extravagant, indeed. I’m a simple man, content with my soup and a warm blanket. Yet, a little greed crept in. There I was, suddenly caught up in the wild fray of collecting watches like an unsupervised child in a candy store. But what about my past? The information that hand over the years was richer than any luxury watch?
Fellow collectors began to take notice, and before I knew it, I was engaged in discussions about the intricacies of Swiss movements and the merits of different metals. I was even offered strategies on how to keep my watch from losing its value — as if it were a piece of real estate rather than a tool for telling time. It was clear that these enthusiasts had transformed their relationship with time into a competitive sport. How absurd!
I accidentally found myself bidding on that very Omega. The excitement in the room was palpable. It was as if time itself had paused while I broke through the invisible barrier of my own incredulity. I bought it! The vendors cheered; and for a brief moment, I felt like a king in my own right.
Yet, as I turned to leave the fair clutching my shiny new watch, a wave of regret washed over me. Had I succumbed to the irony? I had an Omega, beautiful and gleaming. Still, there I was, at a stage in life where I had learned that it’s the moments that count, not the objects that mark them. What good is a luxury watch if your greatest story is spending too much time sitting under fluorescent lights, discussing the beauty of craftsmanship?
Back in my apartment, I set the watch on my bedside table alongside a picture of my late wife, Esther, smiling as she handed me a forgotten gift: a watch that barely told time but captured every ounce of joy in her face. I may have gone to a fair with the intention of collecting moments, but I left with something so much heavier — a hefty reminder of how the real treasures of life aren’t confined to the click of a watch or a bid at the fair.
And while my new Omega gleamed unfairly in the sunlight, its face reflecting the passing of seconds, I leaned back, laughing wryly at my own misguided quest. Time had slipped away, but in surrendering to its allure, I reaffirmed that the journey itself — however ironic or misplaced — is what truly matters. And what a journey it was, indeed.