The Cuckoo Clock in My Grandmother’s Living Room

A quiet living room, a cuckoo clock, and the grandmother who taught me how stories keep love alive across generations

Some people inherit jewelry or furniture from their grandparents.
What I inherited instead were stories told in my grandmother’s living room, while Southern gospel played softly and a cuckoo clock interrupted us every fifteen minutes.
It was there that I first learned how memory keeps love alive long after the people we love are gone.

When I think about my grandmothers, I often say that I was blessed with two extraordinary women.

One was my soulmate.

The other was my playmate.

The one who was my playmate might surprise people if they had only known her casually. She was not naturally bubbly or outwardly joyful. In many ways she carried a quiet seriousness about her, a thoughtful melancholy that seemed to follow her through life.

Life had given her reasons for that.

She lost my grandfather when she was still in her thirties. My father was only ten years old when it happened. She never remarried, and although she carried on with strength and dignity, I think part of her heart always remained with him.

But every once in a while, something beautiful would happen.

She would relax.

She would laugh.

She would play.

And when she did, she came completely alive.

One of my favorite memories of her is at a playground. There was a giant shoe there that children could climb inside. Most adults would stand nearby and watch the children play.

Not my grandmother.

She climbed right up beside it with us.

Someone took a picture of her standing there with a playful grin on her face, and when I look at that picture now I realize something. In that moment she wasn’t thinking about life’s losses or responsibilities.

She was simply playing.

Those were the moments I loved most.

Most of our visits with her, though, happened in a much quieter place.

Her living room.

If I walked into that room today, I could still feel it. Many afternoons we would sit together there drinking tea while the conversation slowly unfolded. Sometimes it was just everyday family talk. Other times she would bring out her photo albums.

That was when things became magical.

She would open the albums page by page, telling the stories behind the pictures. We would laugh about relatives, remember old family moments, and ask questions about people we had never met.

That was how I came to know my grandfather.

I never met him. He had died when my father was just a boy. But I was hungry to know who he was, so I asked my grandmother questions about their life together.

She loved those questions.

She told me about the farmhouse in Nebraska they had been preparing to renovate when he died. When she spoke about those years, something in her face softened.

I didn’t understand it when I was young.

But I see it now.

Those were the years when she had been happiest.

Remembering them seemed to bring her back there for a little while.

There was almost always music playing in that living room too.

My grandmother loved music. She didn’t play instruments like my other grandmother did, although every once in a while she would pick up a harmonica and play a little tune. Mostly she loved to listen.

Her stereo was one of the most important pieces of furniture in the room.

Whenever we came to visit, she often had music playing softly in the background. It was always Southern gospel or old hymns. Sometimes it might be a recording of classic hymns, sometimes newer versions sung by artists who loved those old songs.

The music seemed to belong to the room just as much as the furniture did.

And then there was the cuckoo clock.

It hung on the wall and had a habit of interrupting whatever we were doing.

Every fifteen minutes it would announce itself.

Cuckoo.

Cuckoo.

Sometimes it was charming. Sometimes it was a little annoying, especially when it chimed right in the middle of a story. And if someone was spending the night at her house, she would stop the clock so it wouldn’t wake us during the night.

But the truth is, that clock became part of the rhythm of being there.

Time moved forward.

Stories moved backward.

And somehow both things happened in that living room at the same time.

My grandmother cared deeply about preserving family history. She had saved old documents from earlier generations, including citizenship papers from ancestors who had come to America. She even made copies for the grandchildren so that each of us would have them.

Looking back now, I realize she was doing something very intentional.

She was making sure the stories would continue after she was gone.

Years later, when I was living in Turkey, my family let me know that she was not doing well. She had endured so much loss in her life. She had outlived my father, which I know had been incredibly hard for her.

And yet she remained strong.

She simply kept going.

When the news came that she had passed away, my family asked each of us to share a favorite memory of her for the funeral.

Since I couldn’t travel back from Turkey, I sent my story to my cousin and asked him to read it for me.

It was the story that captured my grandmother perfectly.

Everyone in our family knew that it was not wise to leave Christmas presents at her house too early.

She was curious.

Very curious.

One Thanksgiving, my aunt and uncle decided to take the risk anyway. They lived several hours away and thought they would save themselves a trip later by bringing her Christmas gift early.

It was a large box.

Beautifully wrapped.

After everyone had gone home that evening, my grandmother sat in her recliner looking at that package.

Then she noticed something dangerous.

A tiny tear in the wrapping paper.

She later told us exactly what she thought.

Well, there’s already a tear there. If I just move it a little bit, maybe I can see what’s inside.

Of course curiosity rarely stops with just a peek.

The tear grew.

And grew.

Until eventually the entire package was open.

Inside was something she absolutely loved. It was one of those blanket sleepers where you could slip your feet inside and zip it all the way up to your neck. Her little house had only a floor furnace, and parts of it could get quite chilly.

So she tried it on.

She sat in her recliner, zipped up nice and cozy, perfectly content.

And that was exactly when the phone rang.

Now this was before cell phones. The phone was on the wall.

Which meant she had to get up to answer it.

But there was a problem.

She was completely zipped inside the blanket.

She tried to unzip it.

The zipper stuck.

The phone kept ringing.

She wrestled with the zipper, finally managed to answer the phone, and by the time she did she was completely out of breath.

Her daughter immediately asked what was wrong.

And that was when my grandmother had to confess that she had opened her own Christmas present early, tried it on, and gotten stuck inside it before the holiday had even arrived.

The entire family laughed about that story for years.

And that is the story my cousin read at her funeral.

Because in that one moment you could see everything about her.

Her curiosity.

Her playfulness.

Her honesty.

Now when I think about my grandmother, I don’t feel heavy grief.

I feel something gentler.

A quiet fondness.

Sometimes I imagine walking back into that living room again. Sitting down for another afternoon visit. Having a cup of tea while she pulls out the photo albums and begins telling the stories one more time.

Soft gospel music playing in the background.

And somewhere on the wall, that cuckoo clock interrupts the conversation.

Cuckoo.

Cuckoo.

A small reminder that time keeps moving forward.

But that living room was one of the first places I learned something important.

Stories keep people alive.

If this story resonated with you, I’d love for you to join me here.

Deronda Aiken

Helping you find joy in unexpected places…
because joy doesn’t disappear, it just waits to be notice