It chimes and I’m a young boy sleeping on the floor of my grandparents Monticello home. The green shag carpet covered with sleeping bags, sheets, whatever stuffed animal I brought along for vacation, and 2 brothers quarantined to the room farthest from their 2 sisters, as everyone in the house tried for a restful night.
The home is quiet, save for the consistent ringing of the grandfather clock in the family room near the hallway leading through rows of family pictures on the wall.
Every summer we visited that old home built when my dad was just a small child. My grandfather and his father built the house, and he built the clock, too, which now chimes in my Nashville home decades after those summer vacations.
It still has that consistent chime, a charming sound that takes me back to my childhood every time.