Muskoka Collecting, Baby Boomers and Where Did The Time Go?

A few vintage records with exceptional graphics.

ALL US BABY BOOMERS EH? WHERE DID THE TIME GO? AND WHO TOOK ALL MY STUFF?

FEELING IS.....WE WANT IT ALL BACK....MAYBE JUST SOME OF IT!

     ONE SATURDAY MORNING, SHORTLY AFTER ANDREW WAS BORN, SUZANNE WAS HOSTING ONE OF HER NEAR-LEGENDARY YARD SALES, AT OUR HOUSE ON LOWER ONTARIO STREET, IN BRACEBRIDGE. SHE USED TO HAVE TWO YARD SALES EVERY SUMMER, AND EACH TOOK TWO WEEKS AT LEAST TO ORGANIZE. EVEN WHEN WE HAD AN ANTIQUE SHOP, IN BRACEBRIDGE, WE STILL HAD TO HAVE YARD SALES, TO UNLOAD A HOUSE-FULL OF EVERYTHING AND THEN SOME. WE USED TO SPEND A LOT OF TIME AND MONEY, ATTENDING AUCTIONS, SO WHAT INEVITABLY HAPPENED, WAS THE GOOD STUFF WENT TO THE SHOP, AND THE JOB-LOT ITEMS, WENT INTO THE HOUSE. WHEN I REFERENCE JOB-LOT, WHAT I MEAN, IS THE PIECES (BOXES AND BOXES) THAT AUCTIONEERS THROW TOGETHER WHEN THEY GET FRUSTRATED, NOT BEING ABLE TO GET OPENING BIDS. IN THIS CASE, YOU DON'T JUST BY ONE KITCHEN POT, BUT ABOUT EIGHT BOXES OF POTS, PANS, ASSORTED LIDS WITHOUT BOTTOMS, AND LOTS OF ODD DISHES AND UTENSILS YOU REALLY DIDN'T WANT. SUZANNE, ON MOST AUCTION DAYS, COULD REDUCE THE COLLECTION BY HALF, SELLING SPECIFIC ITEMS FROM THE BOXES, RIGHT IN THE MIDST OF AUCTIONEERING; REDUCING OUR HOME-BOUND LOAD BY HALF, BEFORE THE END OF THE DAY. SO WHATEVER WAS LEFT OVER, WOULD INEVITABLY MAKE UP HER YARD-SALE COLLECTION. BELIEVE ME, SHE COULD ATTRACT A SIZABLE CROWD. FOR OUR FIRST ONE, THAT SUMMER, WELL, I HAD ONE MAJOR CONCERN. AS IT TURNED OUT, IT WAS A WARRANTED CONCERN. I JUST COULDN'T BELIEVE MY ACTIONS WERE AS A RETROSPECTIVE, INSTEAD OF BEING PROACTIVE; ENOUGH TREPIDATION, TO PUT UP SOME "NO PARKING" SIGNS, BEFORE THE YARD SALE ADVERTISEMENT, WAS SPIKED INTO THE LAWN.
     ABOUT AN HOUR INTO THE SALE, BOTH SIDES OF ONTARIO STREET, DOWN AT LEAST TWELVE HOUSES, WERE JAMMED WITH CARS. SALE-GOERS HAD PARKED ON BOTH SIDES, WHICH WAS ILLEGAL, AND TRAFFIC ON THIS IMPORTANT CONNECTION TO THE WELLINGTON STREET INTERSECTION, WAS DOWN TO A SINGLE LANE, AND EVEN WITH THIS, IT WAS A TIGHT SQUEEZE. PERHAPS YOU HAVE BEEN TO YARD SALES, AND WITNESSED JUST HOW INCONSIDERATE SOME SALE-GOERS CAN BE, PARKING WHEREVER IT SUITS THEM. I WAS STANDING AT THE END OF OUR DRIVEWAY, HELPING A LADY JAM AN OLD WOODEN ARMCHAIR IN HER TRUNK, WHEN I HEARD THE SIRENS. DAMN IT ALL. ONTARIO STREET, WAS A CONVENIENT AND EFFICIENT SHORT CUT, TO THE HIGHWAY 118 CORRIDOR, TO PORT CARLING, AND AS THERE WERE A GREAT MANY ACCIDENTS ON THIS STRETCH, IN THE SUMMER MONTHS, I KNEW HOW IMPORTANT IT WAS, TO GET THOSE EMERGENCY VEHICLES THROUGH THIS AUTOMOBILE GAUNTLET. I DIDN'T HAVE MUCH TIME, OR MUCH LUCK, UNCLOGGING THE ARTERY. I DID MY BEST, AND WAS ABLE TO MOVE OUR VEHICLE OUT OF THE WAY, AND A FEW OTHERS THAT HAD JUST ARRIVED ON THE STREET. WHAT MADE THIS MORE SERIOUS FOR ME, WAS THE FACT, I WAS THE EDITOR OF THE LOCAL NEWSPAPER, AND HAD WRITTEN NUMEROUS EDITORIALS ABOUT THE IDIOTS WHO COMPROMISE FIRE SCENES. THIS CAME FROM MY OWN FIRST HAND KNOWLEDGE, AFTER ATTENDING QUITE A FEW FIRES, AND NOTING HOW BADLY PEOPLE CAN BEHAVE UNDER THE RIGHT CIRCUMSTANCES. I'VE WATCHED MANY FIRE AND ACCIDENT SCENES, CLOGGED-UP BY GAWKERS, WHO HAD ACTUALLY LEFT THEIR VEHICLES IN THE WAY OF FIRST RESPONDERS, TRYING TO GET TO THE SCENE. THIS WAS PLAYING THROUGH MY MIND LIKE A GIANT LOOP, AS THE FIRST OF THE FIRE VEHICLES GOT WEDGED INTO THE THIN OPEN LANE, OF ONTARIO STREET, WITH CARS COMING THE OTHER WAY.
     I DID THE ONLY THING I COULD, WHICH WASN'T VERY MUCH......BUT I WAS ABLE TO GET DOWN TO THE END OF THE STREET, TO STOP ONCOMING VEHICLES. THE FIREMEN NODDED THANKS, BUT I'M SURE THEY WERE MUMBLING TO THEMSELVES ABOUT THE A..HOLE WHO WAS HAVING THE YARD SALE. THEY ALL GOT THROUGH BUT THERE'S NO DENYING IT COST THEM PRECIOUS MINUTES, CAUSED BY MY WIFE'S YARD SALE POPULARITY, AND THE FACT THAT I HADN'T PUT UP NO-PARKING SIGNS, ON THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF THE ROAD. FORTUNATELY, IT WASN'T AN ACCIDENT, OR SERIOUS HOUSE OR APARTMENT FIRE. A COUPLE OF KIDS HAD STARTED A GRASS FIRE A COUPLE OF BLOCKS OVER. I FELT STUPID ABOUT IT, BUT AT LEAST I DIDN'T HAVE TO LIVE WITH THE REALITY, OUR YARD SALE, COST A FAMILY THEIR HOME.
     WHEN I ARRIVED BACK AT THE HOUSE, THERE WERE STILL HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE RUMMAGING AROUND OUR YARD.....WHICH I REALLY HATE BY THE WAY, AND AS I ROUNDED THE CORNER OF THE HOUSE, I BUMPED INTO A LADY CARRYING MY GOLF CLUBS. "EXCUSE ME MISS," I SAID WITH SOME FEARFUL ANTICIPATION, SUZANNE HAD LOST HER MARBLES. "THOSE ARE MY GOLF CLUBS." "NOT ANY MORE, BUDDY; I JUST BOUGHT THEM OFF THAT NICE LADY OVER THERE." "THEY WEREN'T FOR SALE; SO JUST HANG ON UNTIL I ASK MY WIFE," I STATED, MAKING SURE SHE DIDN'T MOVE OUT OF THE DRIVEWAY. "DID YOU SELL MY GOLF CLUBS," I ASKED MY GRINNING BRIDE. "GOT FIFTY BUCKS FOR THEM," SHE RETORTED, CHEERILY, FOLDING UP MONEY FROM YET ANOTHER BACKYARD SALE. "WELL THAT'S JUST GREAT, CONSIDERING THERE'S A HUNDRED BUCKS WORTH OF BOOZE IN THE BAG." "THE LADY WILL GIVE IT BACK TO YOU," SHE ANSWERED, HAVING NO INTEREST IN MY CRUSHED FEELINGS, OR THE FACT I HAD A PLAY DATE THE NEXT DAY WITH MY GOLF BUDDIES. SHE ALWAYS HATED THAT, BECAUSE SUNDAY WAS SUPPOSED TO BE OUR "TOGETHERNESS DAY." THE LADY WAS KIND ENOUGH, TO ALLOW ME TO RESCUE MY LIQUID COURAGE, AND SOME OF MY OLD SCORECARDS THAT CLEARLY SHOWED I COULD PAR LOCAL COURSES. THE THING ABOUT THE CLUBS, NOT THAT THEY WERE PARTICULARLY SPECIAL, WAS THAT ALL THE PIECES HAD BEEN PURCHASED SEPARATELY TO SUIT MY PLAYING QUIRKS. AND, AT LEAST HALF, WERE GIVEN TO ME BY FORMER GIRL FRIENDS. GEEZ, DO YOU THINK THERE WAS MORE BEHIND SELLING THE CLUBS THAN JUST A QUICK PROFIT? WELL, SHORT OF PLAYING A FEW GAMES OF GOLF WITH SON ROBERT, AT THE LOCAL KOA COURSE, HERE IN GRAVENHURST, I STOPPED GOLFING ALTOGETHER BECAUSE OF THAT YARD SALE INCIDENT. AH, I WAS PRETTY MUCH AT THE END ANYWAY, AND GREEN FEES WERE KILLING ALL THE FUN. WITH THE COST OF LOST BALLS, AND THE FACT I WOULD LOSE FOUR EACH GAME, IT WAS GETTING HARDER AND HARDER TO JUSTIFY THE COST. WE WERE UP FIFTY BUCKS AFTERALL.

WE GOT RID OF STUFF.....AND NOW WE WANT IT BACK; WHY? IT'S THE WORK OF NOSTALGIA IN ALL ITS MYSTERIOUS FORMS

   After I'd finished my first cup of coffee, of the half dozen I need before writing these blogs,  Suzanne asked me if I could help her on Sunday, clear some dishes from the bottom cupboards in her kitchen. When she references her kitchen, it always has to do with her perception, that there is too much unseen clutter. As I am a "visual clutter" kind of guy, what goes on in the cupboard, is none of my concern. But when she brings it up, most of the time, I'm able to get a jump on the situation....which, by the way, always saves me from doing something that will inevitably, well-up tears in her eyes. You see, the clutter becomes from the fact we have hoarded things, left to us, from our respective family homes. When we settled estates, most of the settling part, was hauling these materials home, simply because we couldn't face selling the wares, giving them away, or hauling them to the landfill site. "I want to bring out the dishes from under the counter, so I can take them into the shop!" Now this may not be a warning shot over the bow, in your house, but it is in ours. "Say, correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't those the dishes from the house," meaning her parents' homestead in Windermere. "Yes, they're the dishes mother used every day; but we just got them with groceries at the old A&P....so they're not valuable or anything." When you hear this from a baby boomer "significant other," watch out! "You're not selling the dishes dear.....because they're going to be given to a future daughter-in-law, remember?" Baby boomers have to be frequently reminded, how crappy they'll feel, when they get rid of all their nostalgic markers, of youth, and then devote years, visiting shops like ours, to buy it all back. So whether she will give the dishes away to a future family member, or not, is less important than the very reason we hauled them home in the first place. It was a feeling of some security doing so....as if we could keep some of those memories alive for our own comfort. This has been the case, and Suzanne still uses her mother's cookbook regularly, and a lot of the bowls and utensils, right down to the rolling pin that had belonged to her grandmother. I have two of the paintings that hung in our Bracebridge apartment, when I was a kid, which came with us north, when we left Burlingtion in the mid 1960's. I can still visualize that livingroom, back at Anne Nagy's apartment, up on Harris Crescent, whenever I sit back from my desk, and look up at the work of an artist named "Looksooner," and the autumn scene by William Cranley, the Toronto landscape artist, who gave the framed original to my mother in the 1940's....when she worked as his assistant at the Ontario College of Art, I believe. I was only tempted once, to sell these heirloom paintings, and it was in the early 1990's, when, quite frankly, we were doing that deficit financing thing, month after month after month. Suzanne refused, on that occasion, to let them leave the house. Just as I felt today, had she insisted on selling her mother's dishes.....for about the tenth time this past year. "We don't sell heirlooms," I tell her, and yet, a month from now, she will try to sneak this past me once again. So either the boys will have to find mates soon, or I'm going to have to insist we start using those dishes daily....as we should, to justify the clutter they apparently create.
     She did sneak some of her treasures into our former store, at a time when we really did need the money, and I have regretted the incident ever since. I will say, however, that sons Andrew and Robert helped buy some of these items back, in the past five years, which would be great if only we had a working phonograph. To help us over a large financial hump, back in about 1993-4, Suzanne pulled out some of her favorite 1960's and 70's records, she had enjoyed as a teenager. Actually, she was still listening to them in the days when we started dating, but wouldn't put them on the stereo, if I came over for dinner. I don't know why she thought I wouldn't like the Beach Boys, or the Dave Clark Five, but it might have had something to do with my interest in heavy metal, at least on the car radio. At home, my records were pretty tame, unless you consider Grank Funk or Nazareth hitting out of the ball park. So she set up a record rack in the shop, and within two weeks, we had made about five hundred dollars, which was mind-blowing, considering old vinyl was much less desirable than it is today. She sold off some gems, admittedly, but for her "money" was more important, than the clutter of record stacks, home to resident spiders, in the hall cupboard. I could understand this. I wasn't big on records anyway, even my own, which I gladly offered for sale, as a show of solidarity. Then came the regrets, once the boys turned on to vinyl collecting themselves. Suzanne had ten times more records than I had, when we got married, and yes, I did have small ABBA collection, which I turned to, every time a girl dumped me; which back then was frequent. Those and Kansas records, which let me bleed my emotions, with a gentle dignity. If I was drowning my sorrows, I relied on "Yes," and "Nazareth."
     As an insider in the collectable game, I would say that vintage vinyl for us, is one of the clearest indicators, that baby boomers have those lingering regrets, about getting rid of their intimate, feel good records. We here them, numerous times each week, talk about the records they had as teenagers, and if they're not actually buying some of them back, they're at least pausing by the bins, to take a wee look inside....as the rest of their party wanders into the connected "antiques" wing. What is heard most often, from these baby boomer patrons, is "my mother gave them to the kid next door, when I left for college," and "can you believe it....she threw them out, because she thought I was past the stage of listening to records."  There are a hundred more statements, of similar content, these folks use as an excuse, why they lost remnant keepsakes of their former lives. About one in twenty-five of these baby boomers, always the males, will buy some of these old and dear records again, for a second time around. We do not see a lot of baby boomer women, having this same issue, although they will support their spouses, if they are buying vintage vinyl. They just don't seem to want them for personal use, on vinyl, but may have other family homestead interests, they find in the antique component of our combined shop. If it wasn't for the baby boomers today, and their interest in getting back some childhood memories, via antiques and collectables, we would have a much different business today. We shop the same way, and say pretty much the same things, when out and around, hunting for antiques. "My grandmother had a yellow mixing bowl just like that one," Suzanne will remind me, as we pass by a restored harvest table, or a bowl placed seductively, on the counter of a grand old hoosier cupboard. "Then you should have this one," I will respond, out of habit, only to hear her mumble, "It's extravagant for us, right now; if it's here the next time we come down, I'll buy it then." Of course, the next time will be the same as the first time. "I want it, but we can't really afford it." If I had the proverbial "nickel" for every time that was said in our family, I could own one of those lakefront Muskoka cottages you read about, with a three slip boathouse.
     Robert just came into the studio for a coffee, and we got talking about this allure of nostalgia, and how even as a "twenty-something," like the baby-boomers, he had toys and keepsakes from his childhood, he regretted getting rid of; or selling off through our several shops. Our house was once colorfully brimmed with Ninja Turtle memorabilia, and you couldn't walk from the livingroom sofa, to the bedroom, without tripping over Hot Wheels cars and trucks, and sliding over the million Pogs they used to play with.....and did I mention the miles of Lego pieces.....great for bare feet in the middle of the night. Oh boy, the Lego. Somewhere in our house, are boxes and boxes of Lego. Robert still has model boxes in his cupboard, from when he was twelve years of age, and below those, are at least a dozen huge boxes of hockey and baseball cards, he intends to give to his children one day. We have kept all their stuffed toys, and favorite games, but the Hot Wheels were swallowed up by the old sandbox at the back of the house. They were ordered not to take them outside, but you know, from having been a kid yourself, what parental authority really means, when they're not looking. Apparently Suzanne and I were blind to ninety percent of their broken promises, and it becomes clear, every time we work in the gardens at Birch Hollow.....and find yet another rusted Hot Wheel, that wasn't supposed to leave the house.
     I just happened to mention, to the wee (six foot) lad, if he remembered the time, he decided to stop his brother from taking any more Lego out of the toy box. "How could I forget that dad...., you had to pull me out," he quipped. This was the short version. The longer version, was that a fight had been brewing all day, about certain Lego pieces that Robert felt Andrew was hoarding. Andrew was indeed a hoarder (and still is), but he was also a brilliant Lego builder. I had just given them a wooden container, with a lid, that had been used previously to store spuds. I had purchased it at an estate sale, thinking it would make a good toy box. It was fairly big, but when all the Lego was stored inside, there was only about an inch of open space left at the top. On this rainy Saturday, there was a pretty big hollow in the box, because both lads had engaged large-scale building projects, so they had their own piles on the floor. Robert believed Andrew was unfairly harvesting Lego he didn't really need, so he got up, and lodged his behind into the mouth of the box. As it turned out, he kind of folded-up inside the box instead, so that all that was left at the top, were his feet, head and flailing arms. So Andrew, being quite a charitable bloke, took the opportunity to close the lid, banging his brother repeatedly on the back of the head. The kid could have suffocated, in that compromised position, and if it hadn't been for the sound of the lid hitting his head, we wouldn't have even checked it out. "Why didn't you tell us your brother was in trouble," Suzanne asked Andrew, who, by the way, never stopped building with his Lego pieces. "Wobert (as he called his brother) was bothering me," he answered, which we sort of understood, knowing that Robert liked to torment him, by knocking over his creations. "I told him not to sit on the box mom, but he wouldn't listen to me," he said. "But leaving him in there was dangerous, Andrew," Suzanne remind him, while extricating son number two from the wooden container. "I knew he was still alive," he quipped, while Suzanne checked the big scratches on Robert's back, caused by the rough wood lining the interior. This is when the parent stands and looks in disgust, shakes their head, and tries to imagine what the next misadventure will look like, up close and personal. Robert was unpredictable in this way, and when we heard Andrew crying, it generally meant, Robert had run out of patience. I don't know how many Hot Wheels Andrew took to the head, but they were always thrown by his brother....overhand, and right on the mark. A strike according to the umpire.
     As of yet, Robert hasn't sought out that old toy box, though I'm glad to say he would no longer fit inside. But he agreed with me, that he has experienced a lot of nostalgia recently, especially about his small collection of electronic games, his favorite being the first "Game-boy" he got for Christmas, amongst several he upgraded to, over the years. If you were to ask him about selling those, at the shop, he'd be outraged, that we could suggest such a thing. And we are not the kind of parents, who would ever give his keepsakes to neighbors, or flog them at a yard sale. I remind him that my mother Merle, gave away my stuff, the week I went off to university. When I got home a month later, I found my room bare, and when I asked her if we had been robbed, all she could do was give me crap about being a hoarder. She gave all my accumulated relics to needy neighborhood kids....of which I was okay with, generally, except my circa 1968-69 Munro table-hockey game I really loved. While I have acquired many of those special pieces back, I'm still looking for the hockey game, which had all the expansion teams included, up to 1970. I even had the names of my favorite players scratched onto the metal players....which devalued the game by market standards, but made it more endearing and collectable to me; because it represented such a huge chunk of childhood play-time. It had been a Christmas present, at a time, when our family could only just afford food on the table, so this also made it particularly memorable for me. I just couldn't believe my mother tried to make me feel guilty, for having too many toys.....that they bought me! Honestly, I didn't. So I vowed with our boys, to never toss out their childhood possessions, because you never know....how much fun grandkids will have, doing the Ninja Turtle thing all over again.
     I had this weird thought the other night, in between crappy television programs, about the keepsake I'd ask for, if I was seriously ill, and wanted something, anything, to feel a little more secure and connected to old family values. This of course, falls well behind the connectedness to family members in real life. But if after they left me to my own devices, and God's will, and I could have one item, what would it be? Amongst about a trillion pieces, I chose a beat-up stuffed, blue Hippo, that belonged to Robert, as a wee lad, that he called, with great affection, "Nommis." As every kid has a favorite cuddly toy, he couldn't go to sleep, unless it was tucked into bed with him. It was the toy I grabbed for myself, the night Robert was in the hospital, (Suzanne at his side), following a sudden seizure a few hours earlier. Outside of our old cat Smokey, curled into my legs, I buried my head into Nommis' fat belly, that night, and it was the only way I got to sleep at all. It was the first thing I looked at, when I woke up, hearing the phone ring. It was Suzanne, and Robert was cleared to come home. It hadn't been anything serious. But even today, I have the battle-weary Nommis, sitting in the chair across from me, looking longingly for a big hug. I wait till no one is looking. It's an example of why we hang onto this stuff....as low and behold, it does have a modern day appreciation, even though my mother thought I was done with all my worldly possession, of what had been a happy childhood. When he finally gets his own place....I'm not sure how I'm going to break it to him, that Nommis has to stay.
     Thanks for joining me today. It has been a sincere pleasure. Please join me again, for a little more of this nostalgic rambling, down a familiar old road, in a familiar old town, in a familiar old neighborhood we once, with misty-eyed affection, used to call home.