Clifford

Clifford E. Whalen rang the bells in the Tower for 60 years. He started when he was a young teen. As a senior citizen Clifford was the only person to ring the bells. On Sunday he climbed the 73 steps to ring hymns before worship. On Christmas he played “Happy Birthday.” On patriotic holidays he rang “America.” He noted the rhythm of village life.

By the last twenty or more of his 86 years he had, by choice, become the kind of small town recluse whom everyone knows about, but few really know. After his old house, two blocks from the Presbyterian Church, had become uninhabitable due to neglect, he slept on a pew in the church, and he cooked meals— that often included a lot of onions— in the church’s kitchen. He had keys to both areas of the large building, because he was paid to be sexton of the church and custodian of the library.

Several times a week, Clifford rode his three-speed bicycle the eight miles to Watertown, returning with plastic bags swinging from the handlebars. Some of his trips were to attend ballet recitals, concerts, or plays, especially if local people were in them. In inclement weather, often Sackets Harbor residents would stop along the road to load his bike into their cars and give him a ride home. He was always gracious. In good weather he rode all around Jefferson County and even as far as Kingston, Ontario.

Clifford was born in Sackets Harbor February 1, 1915. He had two brothers, three sisters, and an extended family around the village. As a boy he operated the manual pump in the church organ on Sundays. He visited the Hay Memorial Library in the Tower extension— he may have even done his homework upstairs, if he wasn’t too shy— and graduated high school in 1932. Wasting no time, Clifford graduated from the Dexter Teachers Training Class in 1933 and taught at District No. 9 school for three years. He graduated from Oswego Normal School in 1938 and taught for three more years at Stone Schoolhouse No. 17, on Route 3, outside of Sackets Harbor. He also worked for a time in the personnel department at Fort Drum.

Outside of work, Clifford raised canaries from eggs and propagated African violets and other garden plants to give away.  He excelled at cutting silhouettes of family members from black paper.  At some point he gave up driving his car in concern for the environment. His green Studebaker convertible sat in the garage of his big house for years, unused.

In later years, Clifford became a mix of indispensable and troubling. He cleaned, mowed, raked, and shoveled around the church building, visiting with anyone walking by with a little time on their hands. He locked the church after Session meetings and Sunday worship services.  A former pastor said that he, himself, never locked up, but, if he forgot something and came back 15 minutes later, the door would always be locked.  He didn’t know where Clifford was or how he knew when people left. At that time, most church meetings were in people’s homes, and there was no office for the pastor, so Clifford had the building to himself during the week.  He started keeping extra vacuum cleaners and plastic bags of things under the front pews.  Over time there were more and more.  You could see them during the week, but on Sunday morning they were always gone.  Maybe he stashed them in the tower, since, during the years that he played the bells, no one else went into the tower. When the librarian opened up after a cold night, she was startled to find Clifford asleep on the carpeted floor behind the check-out desk. Thereafter, the library board changed the lock and paid Clifford only for outside work.

One day, Clifford collapsed while walking on the sidewalk along Broad Street. The ambulance was called, against his protestations, and it was determined that he had suffered a mild stroke or heart attack. Worried that Clifford would collapse while climbing up to play the bells, church Elders changed the lock on the tower. Then, they helped him with the paperwork to move into a subsidized living apartment in Harbour Heights, a scant five minute walk from the church. Clifford declared Harbour Heights to be the nicest place he had lived. Clifford continued his walking, biking, and greeting people until his death in September 2001.

For a few years, no one played the bells.  Since no one but Clifford had played them in so long, there was a mystique that no one else would know how.  It was only after a new pastor was called for the church, someone who had no experiences with Clifford, but an interest in hearing the bells, that they were played again. Rev. Cynthia Walton recovered some of Clifford’s music, added many more pieces and revived chiming.

A plaque to Clifford can be found at the base of the tower, in the Church’s vestibule.

Some information from obituary in Watertown Daily Times, September 25, 2001