The birth of a legend.
For those of you who are unaware of how this watch brand got it's name, have I got a story for you.
Many centuries ago, in the deep, dark wilderness of Pennsylvania, a watchmaker sat down to dinner in his handbuilt, drafty mansion-sized cabin. He was a widower, having lost his wife after she was devoured by starving macrosquirrels while cutting wood for fuel. She had given birth to a baby boy only the day before (those were hard times), so the man was left to raise his progeny as best he could. He set about establishing himself in his profession by making fine timepieces for all the denizens of the forest. Using only native materials such as wood, dirt, rocks, sap, bear scat, bees, water, and indians, he soon gained a reputation as a master craftsman who was environmentally aware.
As the young boy grew, he became more than a son to his father. As soon as he feet would support him, he was tasked with being cook, maid, salesman, assistant, stepladder, and servant to the man from whose loins he had sprung.
One fine day the boy was engaged in serving his father and their nearest neighbor, a grizzled old hillbilly name of Gristley Adams on account of his love of stripping down to his altogether and wallowing in deer gristle. As the young boy, whose own name was Walter, set out the silver chargers and crystal goblets for high brunch, his father and Gristley sat huddled at the table pouring over names for the watch company they had agreed to form as a joint partnership. The father would make the watches and Gristley would do other stuff.
They could not agree on a name. The discussion became more and more heated as they dismissed one suggestion after another. Walter tread lightly as he brought dish after dish to the table and set it before the ravenous men. Grits, goodly yella' corn, true beluga caviar, cherry pop-tarts, coca-cola, sweet tea, fudge pops and more he lay on the marble table-top. Leaving the men to their meal and their discussion, Walt slunk away to slurp his cold gruel in the cramped little crawlspace beneath the outhouse.
Meanwhile, in the formal dining room, Walt's father, gorging himself on beans, realized with dawning shame that no meat had been set out for his grizzled guest. Knocking over his chair as he stood, he drew in a great, shuddering breath and screamed, "WALT! HAM!"
Legend has it that at that very moment the tintinnabulation of a thousand bells sounded through the woods, and an apparition of a lightbulb appeared above the old man's head.
Unfortunately, the sound and the vision scared him quite literally to death and he fell face first into his plate of franks and beans. Walt kicked out the grizzled old perv, took the company in a fresh new direction, and the rest is, as they say, history.
It pleases me so to be able to spread truth throughout the world.
The above is a watch. A Waltham watch. It's for ladies. It's very nice. Stainless steel all over with a nice peachy face and a shiny jewel that most likely is not a Diamonoid but a real, and real small, hunk o' carbon that sat for eons beneath the earth, was subject to unimaginable heat and pressure, was uprooted by shoeless, toothless peasants in some third world hellhole, traveled via air to Brussels or Amsterdam, and finally was stuck on a watch face. Kind of a bummer.
Watch works great, and appears to have been worn hardly at all. The crystal is pristine.
Neat.
Many centuries ago, in the deep, dark wilderness of Pennsylvania, a watchmaker sat down to dinner in his handbuilt, drafty mansion-sized cabin. He was a widower, having lost his wife after she was devoured by starving macrosquirrels while cutting wood for fuel. She had given birth to a baby boy only the day before (those were hard times), so the man was left to raise his progeny as best he could. He set about establishing himself in his profession by making fine timepieces for all the denizens of the forest. Using only native materials such as wood, dirt, rocks, sap, bear scat, bees, water, and indians, he soon gained a reputation as a master craftsman who was environmentally aware.
As the young boy grew, he became more than a son to his father. As soon as he feet would support him, he was tasked with being cook, maid, salesman, assistant, stepladder, and servant to the man from whose loins he had sprung.
One fine day the boy was engaged in serving his father and their nearest neighbor, a grizzled old hillbilly name of Gristley Adams on account of his love of stripping down to his altogether and wallowing in deer gristle. As the young boy, whose own name was Walter, set out the silver chargers and crystal goblets for high brunch, his father and Gristley sat huddled at the table pouring over names for the watch company they had agreed to form as a joint partnership. The father would make the watches and Gristley would do other stuff.
They could not agree on a name. The discussion became more and more heated as they dismissed one suggestion after another. Walter tread lightly as he brought dish after dish to the table and set it before the ravenous men. Grits, goodly yella' corn, true beluga caviar, cherry pop-tarts, coca-cola, sweet tea, fudge pops and more he lay on the marble table-top. Leaving the men to their meal and their discussion, Walt slunk away to slurp his cold gruel in the cramped little crawlspace beneath the outhouse.
Meanwhile, in the formal dining room, Walt's father, gorging himself on beans, realized with dawning shame that no meat had been set out for his grizzled guest. Knocking over his chair as he stood, he drew in a great, shuddering breath and screamed, "WALT! HAM!"
Legend has it that at that very moment the tintinnabulation of a thousand bells sounded through the woods, and an apparition of a lightbulb appeared above the old man's head.
Unfortunately, the sound and the vision scared him quite literally to death and he fell face first into his plate of franks and beans. Walt kicked out the grizzled old perv, took the company in a fresh new direction, and the rest is, as they say, history.
It pleases me so to be able to spread truth throughout the world.
The above is a watch. A Waltham watch. It's for ladies. It's very nice. Stainless steel all over with a nice peachy face and a shiny jewel that most likely is not a Diamonoid but a real, and real small, hunk o' carbon that sat for eons beneath the earth, was subject to unimaginable heat and pressure, was uprooted by shoeless, toothless peasants in some third world hellhole, traveled via air to Brussels or Amsterdam, and finally was stuck on a watch face. Kind of a bummer.
Watch works great, and appears to have been worn hardly at all. The crystal is pristine.
Neat.
The saga continues...
The watch at which you are looking is a Waltham. It's gold and it's round. The bracelet is sort of low-grade two-toney and looks like a buncha bees in a conga line. It's for ladies, though there's no law that forbids men to wear it. Well, actually, in my home state of Alabama, there probably is a law forbidding men to wear girly watches, but our lawmakers are a buncha good ol' boy hicks and hillbillies who think Bull Connor is a role model, so that's no surprise.
More to the point, the watch is in great shape. No scratches on the crystal or face and works well.
It's nice, just kind of bland.
Kind of like Canada.
I'm joking. So take off, hoser.
More to the point, the watch is in great shape. No scratches on the crystal or face and works well.
It's nice, just kind of bland.
Kind of like Canada.
I'm joking. So take off, hoser.
