Reprinted from May 1994
Once upon a time there was a lovely queen. She was very beautiful, wealthy, talented and young, but alas, she was very unhappy.
Every night just at the stroke of midnight she would turn into a chair maid and her coach into a pumpkin. It was very annoying indeed. She reasoned that if she could be sure of the correct time in advance of the sudden transformation, she might run into the ladies’ room and spare herself a lot of embarrassment.
So, she went to her hubby, the King, and told him of her inconvenience. He was sympathetic to his darling’s problem, so he set up a government grant for a foundation with the purpose of developing an accurate timepiece.
The King gathered men from far and wide who were knowledgeable in the arts of timekeeping: sun dials, sand traps and water wheels. Then he commissioned them to be in the employment of the Queen, who in turn instructed them to proceed with the project in great haste, but not to finish too soon because she would lose the government grant when the goal had been achieved.
Many years passed, and much gold was poured into the foundation fund. Finally, the Queen grew old, and as soon as the King realized this, he immediately announced that the money was about to run out. At that very moment in horological history, all the King’s men announced that they had at last perfected a satisfactory solution.
Then, trembling because they had to walk past all the demonstrators outside the palace court, they were brought before the King.
Upon viewing the timepiece, the King and Queen were very impressed and they simply could not remove their eyes from the miracle before them. Because of the regal pair’s reaction to the timepiece, everyone considered calling the invention a “look,” but they changed the name to “watch” (mostly to meet the needs of this story). After that historic decision, the men who made the watches were called “watchmakers”(and they were forever peeved when anyone referred to them as “independent jewelers.”)
The new invention was also given a trade name, The Smattr, and Smattr Number One was given to the lovely Queen, who explained the name was derived from her interrogation of the watchmakers when they were developing the timepiece. She had asked them “Has it been invented yet?” to which they replied in unison, “No.” Upon hearing this, she queried further demanding, “Well, why not? What’s-the-matter?”
And so, the name stuck.
By and by, the head watchmaker, whose name was Alos, drew up plans for a second Smattr, appropriately named the Smattr Number Two. He made some very slight changes in the balance staff and winding parts, and thereafter, as each new Smattr was assembled, minor changes were made in various parts. By the time Smattr Number five was completed, Smattr Number One was back in the shop for repairs. (A palace rumor was that the Queen had thrown it at the King in a fit of temper.)
Poor Alos. He could not remember which parts fit which watch, and he was most unhappy.
Seeing Alos’ predicament, another scheming watchmaker named Fmar seized the opportunity to make some profit on Smattr parts. He gathered up lots of old wine bottles and started putting parts for each Smattr model inside, taking care to write down everything pertinent on the label. He cautiously stored these bottles in the cellar.
Even with Fmar’s brilliant idea for keeping spare parts, however, none of the watchmakers could ever remember which watch was which. Another watchmaker named Snoz suggested engraving the model number of each Smattr somewhere on the watch so there would be no guesswork. The concept was readily accepted and a team of experts was immediately assembled for the purpose of finding places to hide the model identification.
Some models were identified on the main plate, some under the balance and others under the dial, making it necessary for the watchmaker to remove the entire movement from the case, remove the hands and lift the dial. Later on, some watchmakers decided to keep their movements top secret and stop putting any type of information on the watch at all. It was assumed that these movements were so indestructible that no watchmaker was ever supposed to work on them.
As time went by, the original foundation members dispersed, each going to his own part of the county and setting up his own Smattr company. Each member sought to make his Smattr a little better or a little different form his competitors’. Some tried to reduce the size of the watch, and some tried making theirs more shockproof. One fellow even made a Smattr which could be taken in the water, which was a great advantage to knights who often were pushed into moats filled with water.
While the numbering idea worked well, the watchmakers were not content to let well enough alone, so they made subtle changes on each new Smattr model. This action caused a state of confusion, since the design changes were slight enough that parts from previous models would not interchange with the new models. Fmar, the genius who had been hiding spare parts in wine bottles, prospered because he had been the only one with enough foresight to anticipate breakage and wear problems. (In those days, slaying dragons, and saving damsels in distress was very hard on the watches.)
He regularly updated his inventory with parts for the new models, and when he wasn’t filing parts orders, he was emptying wine bottles (one way or another) to meet the storage demands of his materials system. Fmar was quite a happy fellow.
The Smattr business was thriving. By and by, the King’s nephew graduated from college, where he had played football and majored in art and physical education. Unable to earn a living any other way, he decided to open his own Smattr factory. Using a Small Business Administration loan from his uncle, the nephew hired some smart watchmakers to do the work and made his entry into the complicated watch manufacturing industry.
One of the nephew’s watchmakers, who labored for pennies while his boss made a fortune, invented a sealed barrel for the watch and announced an industry breakthrough: a spring inside that would never break! (It wouldn’t dare, the factory owner being the King’s nephew and all, you know.) Another watchmaker invented a barrel lid without a notch, which made it quite a chore to open. Uncle King especially liked that one, because magic words and ritualistic incantations were necessary to open the barrel. These models were widely distributed throughout the kingdom.
The nephew’s watchmakers made even more subtle changes to the Smattrs. They designed something called a “full plate” and a balance assembly for which no staff would ever be needed. The King’s nephew was really a go-getter, and even Fmar – with all his wine bottles – found it extremely difficult to keep up.
By then, many citizens had taken up the practice of watch making. Some set up their own Smattr repair shops, but so many changes were being made on the new models of Smatts coming on the marketing that even the most conscientious of men could scarcely keep up with the changes. Even Fmar had untold difficulty getting materials for his supply house.
The industry began to degenerate. Things became so bad that any citizen who could tell a screwdriver from his left hand could call himself a watchmaker and set up in the business. As time went by, the citizens who depended on their Smattrs became more impatient and frustrated because they were sometimes required to wait weeks and months for their Smattrs to be repaired. Even when they got them back, quite often they would not run properly. No one can remember why established, trained Smattr repairmen didn’t take steps to put a stop to the botchers and amateurs, but they didn’t.
Things became worse and worse. Those who made their living repairing Smattrs began to earn less and less, and the numbers of those who wanted to enter the repair business dwindled. Even Fmar and his wine bottles suffered.
Then, along came a new inventor. He had created a watch not for the workmanship, not for reliability, not even for beauty, but just for price. All the old Smattr fixers laughed and laughed at him, until they noticed the citizens were not buying new Smattrs. Worse still, they were not having their old Smattrs repaired. When the new watches wore out, the citizens threw them away and bought new ones.
The new inventor became richer and richer, and at their guild meetings, the old timers just kept passing resolutions that the fad should soon pass away. But the plague of “throwaways” did not pass, even though the president of the National Watchmakers Association issued a declaration that it must do so forthwith.
Pretty soon, 58% of the population was wearing throwaway watches. Discouraged watchmakers left the trade in droves. Some went into other fields, some retired, and some just gave up the ghost. The entire industry was panic-stricken over this new fangled throwaway timepiece.
Then a miracle happened. All the watchmakers decided to make things better for their industry. They realized that some people would still purchase the throw-aways, but they also knew that many would prefer to own a Smattr if they could be assured of quality workmanship from the manufacturer and superb, professional service at a fair price from the fixers should a repair ever be needed. They got together and set up some rules and regulations for all of their kind to abide by. They enforced the laws within their own ranks. Examinations were required for new watchmakers coming into the industry. The botchers and amateurs were eliminated from competition and fair prices for first class workmanship were observed by all.
The watchmakers’ loyalty to this new system paid off. Pretty soon, citizens were buying new Smattrs and they were breaking out their old ones, which had been banished to drawers or attics during the throwaway plague. The Smattrs were brought in for repair, and everyone prospered!
The industry was saved! (This really must be a fairy tale. Who would ever believe that a story about watchmakers would ever have a happy ending?)
