Feminism and Religion

Hickory, dickory, dock,
The mouse ran up the clock;
The clock struck one,
And down he run,
Hickory, dickory, dock.

Someone’s been watching that mouse with the suction-cup feet. From her mouth to our ears.

You all know my story, at least the popular version of it. I was an only daughter, the princess (so to speak) of the house until Mama died. Then Papa, who couldn’t seem to manage anything, much less a busy household, went out and got married again and brought Stepmother and her two ugly daughters into the house…and the princess was promptly reduced to servitude.

One of the things Mama brought to Papa when they married was her longcase clock, which she had inherited from (yes) her grandfather. That clock is ten feet tall, and it stood in our grand parlor until Stepmother moved it into the hall beside the stairs. Now it stands outside my bedroom under the stairs. (It’s my own little corner and I have my own little chair there.) I’ve been looking at that clock all my life. Although it, and our household, ran smooth as the day is long while Mama was alive, it doesn’t always go bong on the regular hours anymore. And when it strikes, something weird often happens. Like, one time when it struck eight, I heard this invisible chorus start singing about going into the woods and being happy ever after. Like, one time when it struck two, three mice came dancing out of it, and when it struck three, they went blind and I had to lead them to their hole in the wall. And one time when it struck twelve, the front door flew open and this beam of light came shooting down from the sky and shone down the hall the lit up the clock’s face. But it was twelve midnight, not twelve noon! The face changes, too. Sometimes it’s smiling, sometimes it has eyes that follow the hands around, and sometimes frowns. And on Sundays, when Stepmother gets her lazy daughters out of bed and I have to help them get dressed (forget about bathing!) and then they all go to the new church, well, that big old clock looks like it’s shaking its head. Continue reading “Who’s In That Clock? by Barbara Ardinger”