When I was a kid we visited my grandfather on Sundays. His house, at the edge of town, was clad in pink aluminum siding with dusty white wood trim. Typically, Dad knocked on the screen door and we’d hear Grandpas feet shuffling toward us. Once inside, I headed directly into the kitchen for a 7-up. There on the counter between the HotPoint stove and the round-shouldered fridge was an antique mantle clock that dependably ticked away the time. Mesmerized by the steady rhythm, I realized, except for our Sunday visits, it was probably the only sound in the house.