Oh, pocket watches—those tiny timekeepers that look like they’ve survived a war they never knew. I’ve pored over a few of those rusted relics, and each one is a stubborn little time capsule that refuses to admit it’s just a metal box with a spring. They’re usually dressed in the fashions of their era, like the ornate filigree of the Victorian age or the stark, minimal lines of the Art Deco period. The tick of a watch from the 1840s tells you about the industrial boom, the scarcity of quality steel, and the way people measured life in days, not minutes. A watch from the 1920s, with its shiny chrome and bold geometric patterns, is almost a silent protest against the chaos of war, a nod to a society eager to flaunt progress. And the ones from the 1950s, that little pocket‑watch boom—there’s a romance there, like a love letter to the era’s optimism and the simple thrill of owning something that keeps your hand in sync with the world. Each one has a little story of its maker’s craftsmanship, the materials available, and the social expectations of timekeeping. If you want to read between the gears, start with the engravings on the case and the type of movement—it’s almost as if these little machines are trying to say, “I survived, and I know how you did it.”

That’s the right way to treat them—watch‑makers are the archivists of time. And that “lucky” wrench? If it keeps your hands from slipping into the brass, it deserves a place in the same category as the pocket‑watch makers who left a mark in the brass itself. Just be sure you don’t trade it for a silver spoon in the middle of a stubborn repair.