I was an engineer for thirty-eight years. Bridges, mostly — the kind you drive over without thinking twice. But the project that kept me awake at night was never a bridge. It was a clock.
I started designing it in 2012, the year I retired. The idea was simple: a mechanical clock made entirely from hand-carved wood. No metal screws. No plastic. Just maple, walnut, and cherry, fitted together so precisely that the only thing holding it together is geometry and patience.
Over the following twelve years I carved every gear by hand — 47 individual pieces. I built the escapement mechanism from scratch, redesigning it four times before I got the tolerances right. My wife Margaret used to bring me tea in the workshop and say I was building something that would outlast both of us. She was right. She passed in 2021, and I kept going.
The clock face is painted. The gear train works. What remains is the chime assembly — twelve tiny hammers that need to strike twelve tiny bells in sequence. My hands shake now. Not badly, but badly enough. I can hold a pencil, but I can no longer trust myself with a carving knife at that level of precision.
I have complete technical drawings. I have the wood already selected and partially shaped. I have notes on every decision I made and why. What I need is someone with patient hands and a love of making things the slow way.
Harold isn't looking for a master craftsman — he's looking for someone careful, curious, and willing to learn. He will teach you everything.
Harold spent 38 years designing infrastructure across British Columbia. He is a widower, a grandfather of three, and a man who believes that the most meaningful things in life are built slowly, by hand. He is willing to meet in person, correspond by letter, or video call — whatever suits his successor best. He has been told he makes excellent tea.
Tell Harold a little about yourself. He reads every message personally.
Harold will receive your message shortly. He typically replies within a few days. Thank you for caring about this clock.