NEW YEARS IN MUSKOKA - A CALM AND RESTORATIVE PERIOD FROM BOXING DAY TO NEW YEARS
IT'S NOT LIKE NORMAL RETAIL AROUND THE SHOP - IT'S ACTUALLY QUITE RELAXING
The presents are all opened, the wrapping paper folded and saved-away for next year; the beer sampled, wine reviewed, peanuts enjoyed, carmel corn half consumed, and toys played with, in that joyful, gleeful abandon of a latent childhood. We ate and ate some more, and that included the figgy pudding of which I am not particularly fond. I enjoyed two glasses of the finest brandy-wine, and watched holiday movies until my eyes began to bulge from over-consumption. We had a good family time and went to bed early last night, feeling jolly and contented, that all the efforts to build a fine Christmas celebration, had been well and sensibly invested.
The pre-Christmas demands on any retailer, can be hugely exhausting, and to then have to face the mobs, in some box store and mall openings, for Boxing Day Blow-out sales," is enough to beat the reclaimed spirit out of your body again. We are fortunate, in so many ways, to have a business in a small Ontario town, that has its peaks and valleys like every other retailer, but our Boxing Day to New Year's Eve week, is one of casual, almost recreational commerce. It's the week we traditionally use as a turn-around period, to get ready for the challenges of January and February, two of the most brutal weeks of the year for sales. In the vintages (antique) trade, in the region of the province, known for having a seasonal boom in the summer months, we have all grown up as Muskokans, to not expect retail miracles this time of the year; and to instead, initiate preparations and inventory re-allocations, for the spring and summer boom. It will take us months to do this properly, especially if we have any restorations to carry-out, or re-positioning of store fixtures.
We will experience a small increase in business activity at around March Break, and then again, more solidly at Easter, but it all depends on how long the snow and ice remain across the region. The snow last year, which lasted well past the Easter weekend, kept a lot of cottagers from getting into their properties, and the ice on the lakes slowed down the contractors doing work on island properties. If the snow, on the other hand, doesn't come to usual levels, Muskoka will certainly suffer from the lack of snowmobilers, and this would be a huge loss of income for many local retailers. Some folks who don't snowmobile, and don't care about whether there's a single mile of snowmobile trail built this year, must not be aware how many millions of dollars, this winter recreation spreads through and beyond our region, in the most retail-challenged time of the year. I do hope it snows for the welfare of the millions of folks in this country, who currently have snowmobiles parked on trailers, sitting in side yards; while their owners look longingly at the sky, to see if, at long last, there is a snowflurry coming their way. Last winter, holy smokes, it snowed just about every day. As it turned out, it was a heck of a good retail season, as proportional to the outstanding trails.
The antique trade, at least in this region of South Muskoka, does not, in the general sense, benefit from the snowmobile crowd, although this is not to say, we have never had snowmobilers shopping here, as a direct result of passing through the area. But it would be foolish to think, that just because snowmobilers aren't interested in antiquing while running the trails, that the money they leave here, at restaurants, gas stations, snowmobile repair shops and dealerships, doesn't benefit the entire retail community, as spin-off through the season. It all counts. It's all part of the evolving economy of Muskoka, so I hope for all our sakes, that we get some snow for the balance of the winter season. I might not be a snowmobiler myself, but I do know that this winter recreation is vitally important to the economic welfare of Muskoka, and if it is scaled back on account of weather, all the retail communities will suffer directly or indirectly.
In our shop today, while I sit in the studio making these copious notes, Suzanne is figuring out some layout changes, so that she can build-in a proper sewing work area, near her counter, to allow her more room to fold-out large sections of fabric she's wants to trace, cut-out and sew, for some new projects she's entertaining this winter. This is the perfect time to be working on these changes, and not make it inconvenient for customers, poking through the store. Suzanne, now in her second year of retirement from teaching, is wildly enthusiastic about upcoming sewing challenges, along with her knitting, but we have to work out some space restrictions, which currently fill up quickly with incoming store inventory, awaiting some small repairs, touching-up, research and pricing. Antiques dealers are famous even historic, for their cluttering, and we are textbook in that respect. She's been working on re-purposing vintage wool blankets, that have stains and holes, but enough salvageable blanket to cut into smaller pieces, and make something else for a variety of purposes. Before Christmas Day, she was asked by a customer, whether it was possible to craft a small wool blanket for a doll's cradle. She was able to cut a good portion of wool blanket, from a nice vintage king sized blanket, and with some embroidery around the edges, and sewn decorations, made a lovely little accessory for the cradle. There are hundreds of options to utilize old blankets, that show areas of damage, that can not be otherwise repaired for re-sale. Suzanne will only recycle or throw out vintage fabric, including blankets, when there is no other option, and even then, anything useful is cut off, such as lace trim from old table cloths and good condition satin bindings, from blankets that can't be saved. She has quite a few plans for the blanket portions, such as making next year's winter mitts for sale in the shop; but right now, the challenge is to make a bigger work area to accommodate much larger fabric sections for cutting. The other related problem here, inherent to the antique business, is that when you move one shelf or table in a shop, you orphan a thousand pieces that were on display. Which always means, you have to budget a half day to counter the collateral damage of just one small fixture adjustment. And then there's the "who are you calling stupid," disputes that break out, when the pieces of the jigsaw don't fit the way you imagined, necessitating a quick re-think, and adjustment of plans. Which can really suck the hours out of the day. This is a Sunday afternoon job, because it's too dangerous to have all kinds of free-floating collectables scattered over the floor, and damming-up other formerly open spaces, everywhere and anywhere.
It has become a little fluid and wild in the studio, just now, as son Robert tries out the circa 1954-57 Gibson "GA-9" amplifier, we got him for Christmas. It's a pretty small unit, but wow, what a powerful sound. It's wobbling the pictures on the wall, and I'm trying to figure out how so much bone jarring volume comes out of this briefcase sized amp. Well, as Robert points out, this is the magic of the highly sought after vintage Gibson amps. A lot of superstitious guitar players, believe in the good graces of tubed-amps to play their guitars through, as if by some strange alchemy of spirits, the sound brings back the pure, gorgeous nostalgia of rock 'n roll. Andrew is the point man in our Christmas shopping, when it comes to hustling up vintage guitar-gear for Robert, so we have to credit him in this case, of getting the perfect gift, for us, to then, with some stealth, present to Robert from Santa (Mom and Pop). It's what I've been trying to upgrade, for the past year, to better understand their antiquated music equipment, a part of their everyday business. I should know all this stuff by now; I've been living and listening to their old guitars, amps, drums, banjos and mandolines for about fifteen years now, so there really isn't any excuse for being ignorant about the realities of sound, and what they know to be the "best sound," from the finest equipment ever made. I'm planning to immerse myself in music this coming year, and I have high hopes, a year from now, to be competent enough, to be able to discuss equipment and performance, from a much more informed perspective next year, at this time. This is, at least, my best intention. I've said this before and failed miserably. I tell the boys it's because I'm old and I can't learn new tricks. Then they laugh, and inform me, that my failure is hinged to the fact I am a non-musician, and well, a tad on the lazy side when it comes to learning something out of my field of interest. I'm interested, I know that for sure, but it's true, I don't play an instrument any more, making it a little tougher to immerse in their world, other than as a keen listener. I love music but from an armchair, close enough to the stereo to get a nice, clear sound.
The Christmas period is perfect for working away some of the kinks we bunch-up with, during the retail surge, and then suffer the traditional stresses like everyone else, hustling up presents for friends and family while trying to stave off bankruptcy; and yes, it is a pleasant opportunity to wind-down from what was, a few days earlier, a pretty hectic pace, and I'm sure it's the same for you folks, trying to fit everything into its place, like closing a suitcase with fifty percent too much inside. In between customers, we recline and enjoy the spoils of the season of giving, and so far this morning, I've caught Suzanne in the candy box on three separate occasions, to be met with the rather terse response, "Leave me alone, it's Christmas." I had to remind her that it was actually "Boxing Day," or if she preferred, "The Day After Christmas," which actually means nothing more than a day off by association with a major holiday. I had one banana to her three chocolates, which proves I'm serious about my recently inked New Year's resolution, to reduce my weight, and live healthier than the year before. "What you mean, you lunk-head, truthfully, is that you will sit more, sleep longer, and dodge chores more actively than the year before, to claim you have become healthier because of more relaxation; not recreation." Suzanne confronted me, while at the same time, pulling down my ball cap over my years. She's a real kidder. From a long line of kidders from back there in the wilds of Ufford and Windermere. My father lived to 82 years of age, and I credit this to his regular nightly naps, which he took just after dinner, from my earliest recollections, up to the time the grim reaper caught up with him. Attaining this age was remarkable, considering he used to smoke two packages of cigarettes a day, and drank O'keefe Ale like he was a booze-olympian in training. I can remember one morning, when we were living on Alport Bay, of the broader Lake Muskoka, and hearing him hacking and choking out in the driveway, getting into the car for his daily commute to Building Trades Centre, in Bracebridge. I was on my way outside, to help him, if I could, regain his composure. It was all about heavy smoking, and that jag, which ended by time I hit the driveway, was what finally convinced him to quit altogether. He suffered from several medical afflictions, including gout, and some blood pressure issues, but he really should have died a lot earlier in his life due to excesses. Yet it was probably his nightly or even afternoon naps on Sundays, that bought him some extra time. This was how he handled work stresses, and it certainly seemed to benefit him. I have been doing exactly the same for many years, and it drives Suzanne nuts, because she can't, or won't nap, because she claims it makes her feel worse, when she wakes up. I understand that, because it has happened to me as well; the feeling crappy part, that shouldn't come from having a half hour's nap, but does anyway. She also claims that it would hinder her going to sleep at regular bedtime, if she indulged in a pre-bedtime snooze. I think it's more because I can nod off in the middle of a conversation, and she can't fall asleep easily even at bedtime. I caught her once putting some catnip on my sweater, so that our resident felines would keep me company in my sudden slumber. Her "claws to the chest" torture. Nice eh?
The studio here has a circulation fan, that when employed, has a noise associated, so soft and gentle that it lulls me into a trance-like nap, even while I'm staring at the glowing screen of this laptop. The bad part about this, is that I almost drop the laptop, or erase everything I've written to that point in the day, by hitting the wrong key; or having fallen into slumber with a cup of hot coffee balanced on my knee, subsequently pouring it into my crotch, which is a real sleep disturbing event. Suzanne will occasionally bump my shoulder, when she comes into the studio, just in case I was cheating, by closing my eyes and wandering the nether world. It's not like I do it on purpose, or have a medical issue that initiates slumber without warning. I guess I'm just too relaxed for my own good, or her good, which I think is the more appropriate explanation. I think she would like me to work at a church pew in the back of the store, instead of this comfortable, nicely broken-in studio chair, which she believes, is part of my staying-awake problem. I blame the circulation fan. Did I mention over-work? Naw, I didn't think you would buy that either. Point is, when she catches me in the outreaches of dreamland, at this time of the holiday season, she's not entitled to wake me up unless my pants are on fire, because we agree to cut each other some festive slack, out of respect for Christmas goodwill.
When she jostles me awake, bringing me back from where I don't want to return, at that precise moment, I remind her, about former neighbors we once had, when we lived in Bracebridge, who fought with each other most of the time, almost as if it was a home style recreation. They were both violators of the law when it came to spousal abuse, that's for sure, but everyone in the vicinity, knew that they had been beating-on each other for decades. According to urban legend, in this part of town, she could administer punishment on her husband, to match anything he could dish out to the contrary. Most of the difficulties were small bananas, that did have quite a bit to do with the over consumption of booze. I remember talking to a fellow who lived right beside the couple, telling me about the Christmas Day, he was watching out the side window, eating breakfast, and watched the husband sneaking around the side of their small bungalow, as if looking for a perpetrator of something or other lurking in the backyard. He was crouched down low, and peering around the back corner, into the yard, as if expecting he could ambush a trespasser. From around the front corner, suddenly and quietly, came his wife, walking slowly and also being slightly bent over, in a stealth move to sneak up on someone. The neighbor had seen events like this before, unfolding around their property, but he started to think there must be something much more sinister going on, around the back of the house, as both husband and wife were focused on this area of the property. He kept getting lower to the ground, looking around the corner, and she got closer with a snowshovel in her one hand. As she got nearer to where her husband was holding vigil, she then put both hands on the shovel, raised it over her head, and only a few feet away, brought it down on his hatted-head with a great thud, knocking him over, face first, onto the ground. Not being satisfied that he had received the message, clear enough, she continued to beat him with the aluminum shovel, as he tried to protect his head, and get up, in order to run away. My friend said, that the assault lasted for about five minutes, and when he finally did manage to get to his feet, and start to stumble and run into the backyard, she was right behind him, making laps around the tiny bungalow, with the shovel still raised in the air. Then somehow, he got another bigger shovel, and started to chase her the opposite way around the house, until finally, he dropped his weapon, at the doorway of the house, ran up a few stairs, opened the door, snuck in and locked the entrance, so she couldn't get back inside. The neighbor went out on his front walk, to see what was happening next door, and there she was, hitting the door with the shovel, while he made faces at her through the front window. I remind Suzanne that I am always watching for her to suddenly take up an interest in snowshovelling, amongst other things that involves tools, she might wish to use as persuaders. And any spin-off desire to keep me awake 24 hours a day, so she won't feel bad when she can't sleep herself. Would Suzanne hunt me down, and thwack me with a shovel over the head, for doing something she didn't approve? Of course not. She threw me out into the yard one night after a party, because she said I was acting like a drunkard; which was the truth considering what I had consumed that night. She's far too subtle and sensible to employ a shovel, when words can accomplish so much more, and leave less bumps as aftermath.
We've actually arrived at a long-negotiated settlement, at least while we are home at Birch Hollow. I don't complain about her knitting needles clashing, in that annoying ticky-tacky way, while she makes acres of knit-ware, watching the television, and she won't throw things at me, including catnip, if by some chance, I am found to be napping in my chair with a cat on my lap. This will change only if I fall asleep in the middle of a conversation, or that I have a headache and the knitting needles sound like hockey sticks slapping at a puck, and need her to cease desist. In the studio, anything goes, so it's best that I don't nod off unless she leaves the building. Her argument is, "if I have to work, so do you." The argument I use, which suggests I am actually in deep thought, when in fact I'm sound asleep, doesn't fly with Suzanne, because I can never explain my great new ideas when she wakes me up. I babble a lot, and can't really come up with anything profound, to offer as a great new idea for the shop or for my blog. Robert tips me off when Suzanne is rounding the corner, of her room, and I ask him with some visible consternation, whether she's got by chance, a shovel in her hand.
A BOXING DAY SKI ADVENTURE - LIKE JAMES BOND MIGHT HAVE ENCOUNTERED, KEEPING ONE SKI LENGTH IN FRONT OF THE BAD GUYS
I was a pretty fair cross country skier in my glorious youth. Not great but adequate enough, to tackle such adventures as traversing Lake Muskoka from our cottage on Alport Bay, to the former Pier 100 Marina and Lakeland Lodge, on Highway 118. I liked the level version of cross country skiing. The only negative I ever had, on the straight-away, was when I wore the wrong ski pants once, and nearly froze my privates to my leg, as the wind picked up, and I wasn't wearing my thermals. But as far as being able to navigate woodland trails, and some challenging downhill runs, I might not have been textbook in terms of my style, but I didn't fall and tumble into the trailside brambles either.
At the time of the late 1970's, I was dating a girl, Gail Smith, who was an experienced downhill and cross country skier. Her father Gord was incredibly agile for his elder age, and used the skis like they were speed skates; and he had absolutely no fear of speed or winding, narrow trails, through the thick hardwoods. When they invited me to come over and ski with them, on an exciting new trail they had been visiting, on a nearby hillside, a short distance from their house, I assumed they recognized my skills were not up to their speed and competence. I thought they knew I was a rookier when it came to challenging trails. The kind of hills I had been traversing to that point were knobs of topography; mere garden variety knolls, without honking big trees in the way. They never once mentioned, that it was a "James Bond" style network, of uphill and downhill trails, that were savagely dangerous to anyone who wasn't an "A" level skier. I was a "C-" at that point, and should never, ever, have attempted to follow these people up the hillside in the first place. The hill was called "the widow maker," which was a pretty fair overview, and would have been useful information before I started sliding down that slope with a devil-may-care attitude for what might happen out of the ordinary.
When you're cutting uphill, sideways, foot by foot, you can be forgiven for not estimating the number of feet between the peak of where you're climbing to, and what the speed will be like, on the way down to the bottom again. Add to this, a wild number of sharp curves, where trees line the trail on both sides. I put on wax, ahead of the adventure, suited to the cold temperature of the day, and what Gail had recommended. I think it was from a can that must have read "super sonic wax - use at your own risk!" The route up to the top of this massive hillside, that you can see from Highway II8, opposite the Ziska Road intersection, was fairly routine, and it was not an integral part of the trail system, as I was to later find out. In other words, I was climbing the easy part of the trail, so much less interesting than the insane route once we skied into the interior.
When we got to what they determined as the starting point, of this winding, downhill odyssey, Gord was the first to take off down the wooded hillside, on the opposite side to where we had just climbed up. So it as an unknown quality and quantity to one of three skiers on that occasion, and that was me. When Gord's toque disappeared around a far bend in the trail, Gail took off, yelling back at me to be careful on the way down. Not wanting to show my fear, or my lack of prowess on these two thin boards with curved tips, I waited until she disappeared around the corner, before inching toward the point of no return. To better appreciate the coming description, it's helpful to recall the Chevy Chase scene in the movie "Christmas Vacation," when he takes to the slopes with a saucer sled, with a special treatment for the bottom, to make it travel even faster. James Bond speed!
It only took a few moments, before I understood something important, about personal safety, as relates to not being proficient enough on skis, to handle an Olympic cross country ski course. I had no control of the skis, or way to bring down the speed, except to crash into one of the trail-side trees, which would have resulted in serious limb and skull injuries. I tried to abort a dozen or more times, when I'd pass a small, soft looking shrubbery, to cushion my fall. The problem was, the icy trail and the wax I'd used, gave me wings going down that winding, curving hillside, deep in what can only be called, Muskoka bush. I have never been so frightened, as on that fifteen minute decline, around the hilltop like pealing an apple. I was going through evergreen narrows, that were so tight, and the boughs overlapping the trail, that I was getting slapped in the face by a million needles, a few to the groin, careening around sharp curves, just before being dropped into a basin, and going so fast, that I think I passed into the future. There were moments when I had to balance on one ski, going around corners, and other times, when I hit an unexpected bump, and I had no skis on the trail whatsoever. I passed my guardian angel twice, and she said, "Ted, I can't help you on this one," and the devil was waiting for the moment of impact, that would dislodge my soul to carry on down the hill.
All I could do, was try to keep my skis in the grooves laid down by the others, and hope the adventure would wind-down the closer I got to the bottom. That never happened. For gosh sakes, I kept going faster, as if I was being pushed by the winter wind, down that icy slope. There was one point, where I did have to meet up with the Grim Reaper, betting on my demise. I came around a bad corner, and on the short straight-away, there was a log across the trail. I remembered Gail telling me about this, before we started downhill, and how I had to squat down, in full flight, to ski beneath. When you come upon sobering like this, with that kind of warning attached, the question is, thusly, how tight a squeeze will it be to slide below, without removing one's skull. I had little time to weigh this over, before I had to squat as tight as I could, and even then, I felt the brush of its bark hit my toque on the pass underneath. When I looked back, because I was compelled to, I hit another sharp drop in the trail, and around the very next corner, there was a second fallen tree bridging over the ice-run. I don't remember being told about this one, but it required even more dexterity and prowess to stay on my skis. I was too scared to do anything more than pray and duck. Honestly, I felt like James Bond being chased by gunmen skiing behind. I was hit, at the same time, by the bare branches of birches and maples, that encroached over the trail, and thwacked by intrusive cedars that while pretty as a picture, weren't the softest against the flesh when hit at eighty miles per hour. When I finally got to the bottom of the hill, Gord and Gail were waiting, smiling, and preparing, in fact, to head right back up the hill for another run. The only time I fell on the whole downward slide, was when I was stopped at the bottom, and shaking with fright, kissed the snowy old earth.
I declined their invitation to try it all again, mumbling something like (not bloody likely) deciding that it was in the best interest of my future well-being, to never, ever, take cross country skiing to that extreme again. I didn't care what my girlfriend thought of my cowardice, at that moment, or that I never again strapped on skis to companion her anywhere else. I don't think it was the ski incident, that influenced her to seek out a more compatible, athletic, more recreationally savvy mate, but if it had been a condition of our relationship, I would have had to bid her a good life and find a more placid, home-body, not as frightened of downhill slopes as me. Suzanne and I can't get up to much trouble at all, just knitting and reading at Birch Hollow, leaving the death defying ski challenges to the more physically adventurous. Even on a double dog dare, no way!
When we arrived back at Birch Hollow, late in the afternoon of Boxing Day, a few of the local kids were riding their bikes up the street, and I saw folks fixing car engines, sweeping driveways, and one elderly woman, tipping up a huge bag of bird seed, into a verandah feeder. There were lots of dog walkers, parents with strollers, and the smoke hanging in the air, from a neighbor's belching wood stove, it sure smelled a lot like springtime in Muskoka. It was a day when you could walk outdoors without toque and coat, and where you didn't need winter boots or snowshoes to navigate your property or town streets. There were Christmas trees of yesterday, already tossed to curbside, and the inflated Christmas themed figures on area lawns were looking pretty deflated, ready to be boxed up for another year. Business at the shop was pretty fair for a day when most Gravenhurst mainstreet shops were closed, but it was still worth opening, if only to get ready for the busy Saturday we expect, of the more accepted Boxing Day sale country-style. The boys are out with friends tonight, and we have some wine chilling, a few leftover candles, and a heck of a lot of turkey and dressing, so we'll happily stuff ourselves once again, in the spirit of the season. You thought I was going to suggest we were going to have a romantic evening. It doesn't get any more romantic around here, than a quiet house, with good food, no rock 'n roll music, candlelight evening in front of the boob tube, waxing nostalgic about Christmases past.
From The Archives
WHAT NOT TO DO WITH A FIVE HUNDRED POUND CASH REGISTER -
THE CONVERSATION PIECE AT BIRCH HOLLOW ANTIQUES THAT ALMOST KILLED A GUY
DON'T KID YOURSELF. ANTIQUE DEALERS HAVE A LITTLE CARNEY IN THEM. A SMIDGEON OF THE CARNIVAL DNA. THE THREE RING CIRCUS PIZZAZ. ADVOCATES OF THE OCCASIONAL RAZZLE DAZZLE, TO SHOWCASE THEIR TREASURES. IF I HAD THE SKELETON OR THE SHRUNKEN HEAD I'VE BEEN HUNTING FOR AGES, I'D HAVE A GREAT GRAPHIC TO ACCOMPANY THIS BLOG…..AND MAYBE I'D MAKE OUR BOYS A GENEROUS OFFER, TO SHOWCASE IT IN THEIR GRAVENHURST MUSIC SHOP. THROW A COWBOY HAT ON THE SKELETON. PUT A SMALL ONE ON THE SHRUNKEN HEAD, AND NEXT THING YOU KNOW, THERE'S A LINE-UP OF GAWKERS TAKING A GANDER. WE DEALERS LIKE TO IMPRESS OUR CLIENTELE. IT'S AN AN ODD AND OLD PASSION, YOU SEE, TO "OUT-WOW" THE COMPETITION, WITH THE BEST OF THE BEST. MOSTLY, IT'S A SHOW OF "A" QUALITY ANTIQUES. MING VASES AND PAINTINGS BY THE MASTERS. SOMETIMES IT CAN GET KIND OF WEIRD, THIS ATTEMPT TO GET THE ULTIMATE SHOW-STOPPER. I'VE HAD A FEW INTERESTING PIECES OVER THE YEARS, THAT PEAKED CUSTOMERS' CURIOSITY, BUT ONE STICKS IN MY MIND. IT WAS A DANDY. NOT WEIRD. BUT A GREAT LOCAL ANTIQUE TO PLAY WITH.
A LOCAL BUSINESSMAN CAME IN ONE DAY, WITH A COUPLE OF PHOTOGRAPHS OF A LARGE VINTAGE PIECE, HE WANTED TO SELL.TO ME SPECIFICALLY, BECAUSE I HAD THE SPACE IT REQUIRED, AND AS HE POINTED OUT, "A GOOD CEMENT FLOOR," FOR IT TO SIT ON. THAT PEAKED MY CURIOSITY. IT WAS A HUGE CASH REGISTER, WHICH I BELIEVE WAS A NATIONAL (CAN'T BE SURE NOW), THAT WAS ATTACHED TO A SUBSTANTIAL WOODEN CABINET, THAT LOOKED LIKE A VICTROLA BASE. THERE WERE DRAWERS IN THE FRONT OF THE CABINET, AND WHEN YOU HIT A CERTAIN COMBINATION OF KEYS, THE APPROPRIATE ONE OPENED. IT WAS A MAGNIFICENT PIECE, AND I BOUGHT IT SIGHT-UNSEEN. WHEN IT WAS DELIVERED, ON A TROLLEY, I WAS SPEECHLESS. I SAT IT BESIDE MY SALES DESK, AND AS FAR AS I WAS CONCERNED, IT WAS THE MOST INTERESTING ANTIQUE PIECE I HAD OWNED, TO THAT POINT IN MY CAREER AS A DEALER.
BARRY MARSHALL, AND HIS ASSISTANT RON YEOMAN, HAD MOVED IT WITHOUT ANY FUSS WHATSOEVER, DOWN THE SINGLE FLIGHT OF STAIRS IN THE SHOP, AND POSITIONED IT PERFECTLY FOR MAXIMUM VISIBILITY. EVEN FROM THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, CUSTOMERS COULD SEE THE HUGE OAK AND BRASS CASH REGISTER. BARRY DID WARN ME, THAT IT WOULD TAKE A TROLLY, AND SEVERAL WEIGHT-LIFTERS TO GET IT OUT OF THE BASEMENT, IF AND WHEN IT SOLD. HE SHOWED ME HOW IT ALL WORKED, AND HOW EACH OF THE DRAWERS HAD A DIFFERENT CODE, AND A BELL BEFORE IT OPENED. ONE OF THE TRICKS, WAS TO AVOID GETTING HIT IN THE GROIN AREA, WHEN THAT PARTICULAR DRAWER SHOT-OUT OF THE MAIN CABINET. I SUPPOSE QUITE A FEW LADS FOUND OUT THE HARD WAY, WHY IT WAS NECESSARY TO STAND BACK A TAD, WHEN PLAYING WITH THOSE DRAWERS. IT HAPPENED TO A COUPLE OF MEMBERS OF THE BIRCH HOLLOW "LIAR'S CLUB," (LITERARY AND POLITICAL DEBATING SOCIETY) EVEN AFTER I WARNED THEM TO BE CAREFUL ABOUT MID-ZONE DRAWER OPENINGS. THE DRAWERS ONCE HELD INVOICES, AND THEY WERE LIKE A VERTICAL FILING CABINET.
WHAT WAS SPECTACULAR ABOUT THIS PIECE, WAS ITS ALMOST PRISTINE CONDITION. IT WORKED LIKE A CHARM. IT WAS A LATE 1900'S CASH REGISTER, IF I REMEMBER CORRECTLY, AND IT JUST COMMANDED PEOPLE TO TAP AT IT, WHILE WAITING FOR ME TO RING UP A PURCHASE AT THE SALES COUNTER. NO I DIDN'T USE IT. I HAD AN OLD TIN BOX WITH A RECEIPT BOOK. KIDS AND THEIR PARENTS SPENT SOME QUALITY TIME, PLAYING WITH THAT AMAZING TECHNOLOGY OF YESTERYEAR. FOR A LONG TIME I DIDN'T WANT TO SELL IT. I DON'T REMEMBER PRECISELY WHAT I PAID FOR IT, BUT IT HAD BEEN A BARGAIN, I CAN TELL YOU THAT MUCH. BUT THEN, AS USUALLY HAPPENS IN THIS CRAZY BUSINESS, WE WENT THROUGH A ROUGH PATCH, AND IT SIMPLY BECAME NECESSARY TO OFFER IT FOR SALE. I STARTED HIGH. AND THAT'S EXACTLY THE PRICE IT SOLD FOR, AND ALTHOUGH IT TOOK ABOUT SIX MONTHS TO PAY OFF, IT HAD BEEN A PROFITABLE PURCHASE ON MY PART.
SUZANNE WASN'T SURE I'D MAKE A DIME OFF IT, BUT I PROVED HER WRONG. I LOVE DOING THAT. BESIDES, AS DEALERS, WE ARE WELL AWARE, SHOW-STOPPER PIECES, CAN ACTUALLY HELP SELL OTHER THINGS. POTENTIAL BUYERS WILL FEEL THAT ANYONE WHO WOULD HAVE A WONDERFUL PIECE LIKE THE CASH REGISTER, OBVIOUSLY KNOWS ANTIQUES VERY WELL. I'M NOT EVEN SURE, ANY MORE, WHAT THE ASKING PRICE WAS, BUT I'M PRETTY CONFIDENT IT WENT FOR ABOUT TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLARS, WHICH GAVE ME A SOLID MARK-UP FROM THE PURCHASE PRICE.
THE CASH REGISTER HAD ONCE BEEN OWNED BY BRACEBRIDGE'S MUSKOKA GARAGE, ON MANITOBA STREET, AND AS SOON AS MY FATHER-IN-LAW, NORM STRIPP, CAME INTO THE SHOP, HE FELL STRANGELY SILENT, FOR HIM, SEEING WHAT HE HAD LEANED-ON FOR SO MANY YEARS, IN THE "OLD DAYS" HANGING AROUND THE FORMER GARAGE. HE COULDN'T BELIEVE IT WAS STILL IN ONE PIECE. HE HADN'T SEEN IT IN ABOUT FORTY OR SO YEARS, AND ASSUMED IT WAS LONG GONE. SO WHEN HE WAS PLAYING WITH THE KEYS, AND BEFORE I COULD WARN HIM ABOUT THE CONSEQUENCES, HE PUNCHED THE KEYS, DID A LITTLE DANCE BACK, AND WATCHED THE DRAWER COME WHIPPING OUT, GROIN-HIGH. "YOU SEE, I REMEMBER IT DOING THAT," HE SMIRKED. "I LOT OF GUYS GOT TAKEN IN MY THAT GAG, LET ME TELL YOU. MORE THAN A FEW GOT THEIR OWN BELLS RUNG."
I DON'T THINK THERE HAS BEEN ANOTHER PIECE IN OUR COLLECTION, THAT ATTRACTED SO MUCH ATTENTION, FOR THE YEAR OR SO WE OWNED THE CASH REGISTER. I WAS SAD TO SEE IT GO, TO BE HONEST, BUT THE MONEY WAS NICE TOO. THE ONLY GLITCH WAS ITS REMOVAL. WHEN THE YOUNG MAN CAME TO PICK UP THE CASH REGISTER, HE BROUGHT AN ELDERLY GERMAN CHAP, AND DID I MENTION THE GLOVES. THEY DID HAVE PROTECTIVE GLOVES. NOTHING ELSE. NO WEIGHT-LIFTERS, NO CART, AND NO SUITABLE VEHICLE, IF AND WHEN WE DID ACTUALLY RAISE IT FROM THE BASEMENT.
BUT WHAT THEY DID HAVE ON THEIR SIDE, OR SO THEY THOUGHT, WAS THAT KIND OF MISGUIDED, TESTOSTERONE DRIVEN, "MANLY MAN" APPROACH, BELIEVING THEY COULD RAISE THIS TITANIC PIECE UP THOSE STAIRS, BY WILLPOWER ALONE. LOTS OF BLUSTER AND BACK SLAPPING, AND DISPLAYS OF MUSCLES, SOME A LITTLE INVERTED FROM THE DAYS WHEN THEY FANCIED KICKING SAND IN THE FACES OF WEAKLINGS. GADS, I KNEW WE WERE SCREWED THE MOMENT I SAW ALF AND RALPH (FROM GREEN ACRES), PLANNING TO DEAD-LIFT THE UNIT UP THE STAIRS. A FEW OF THE LIAR'S CLUB, IN THE SHOP THAT MORNING, EXPRESSED GRAVE CONCERN ABOUT THE MAGNITUDE OF THE PROJECT, AND THAT BEING TOP-HEAVY, WAS GOING TO MAKE IT AS AWKWARD AS IT WAS OUTRAGEOUSLY HEAVY. THE GERMAN FELLOW WAS VERY ADAMANT THAT IT COULD BE DONE BY OLD FASHIONED "GUMPTION," AND GOD WILLING, PROPORTIONAL LEVERAGE. OKAY. WELL, IT WAS AFTER ALL, THEIR RESPONSIBILITY TO REMOVE THE UNIT FROM THE STORE. THEY DIDN'T PAY ME TO HAUL IT AWAY. SO I LET THEM CALL THE SHOTS.
NOW IT'S IMPORTANT TO UNDERSTAND A COUPLE OF DETAILS THAT WILL BETTER ILLUSTRATE THE SCENE, UNFOLDING HERE, IN THIS MANITOBA STREET BASEMENT-SHOP. IT WAS ABOUT NOON, ON A SATURDAY. ONE OF OUR BUSY DAYS. WE HAD ABOUT TWENTY CUSTOMERS IN THE SHOP AT THE TIME, SO I WASN'T ABLE TO DEVOTE MY TIME TO JUST ONE PROJECT. SO THE LIAR'S CLUB CRONIES, HELPED THE TWOSOME SLIDE THE CASH REGISTER THE LENGTH OF THE ROOM, UP TO THE BASE OF THE STAIRS. AT THE POINT THEY WERE SETTING ABOUT TO LIFT IT UP ONTO THE FIRST STAIR, IN THE PROGRESSION OF ABOUT TWELVE STEPS, I CAME AROUND THE COUNTER TO HELP OUT. ONE MUST ALSO APPRECIATE, THE CASH REGISTER WAS ABOUT TEN INCHES LESS THAN THE WIDE OF THE ACTUAL STAIRCASE. THIS MEANT ABOUT FIVE INCHES ON EACH SIDE TO GET OUR HANDS IN TO GUIDE IT UP THE STAIRS. THIS SHOULD HAVE CAUSED INITIAL CONCERN, BUT THE ELDER FELLOW WAS LATE FOR WORK, AND DIDN'T HAVE A LOT OF PATIENCE FOR THE JOB AT HAND. FAIR ENOUGH.
SO THE IDEA WAS THIS. THE GERMAN BLOKE, WAS AT THE FRONT, WITH THE STAIRS AT HIS BACK. NOW THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY NO HUMAN WAY, TO DEAD LIFT THE CASH REGISTER IN THIS FASHION. WHEN WE TRIED TO POINT THIS OUT, THE CO-ORDINATOR OF THE JUMBO LIFT, SHOT BACK, "JUST PUSH LADS, PUSH!" I THOUGHT LIFT WAS THE WORD WE WERE WAITING FOR, NOT PUSH. SO BY JESUS, WE TRIED OUR BEST, FROM THE BACK SIDE, TO GET THAT UNIT UP ON THE FIRST STAIR. WE DID IT! WE PUSHED. AND PUSHED. IT WAS A MAGNIFICENT SHOW OF STRENGTH AND ENDURANCE. HERE'S A POINT AS WELL. WITH A TROLLY, WE WOULD HAVE BEEN UP THE STAIRS, AND OUT THE DOOR, IN THE SAME TIME IT TOOK US TO MAKE IT UP TO THE FIRST STEP. THIS IS WHEN THINGS GOT INTERESTING. WE GOT TO A POINT WITH THE LEAN OF THE UNIT, AS TOP HEAVY AS A CAR ON STILTS, THAT IT SIMPLY BECAME TOO MUCH FOR THE OLDTIMER ON THE STAIRS. GRADUALLY, THE GUY LOST HIS ABILITY TO KEEP IT UPRIGHT. WE HAD ALMOST NO SAY IN THE MATTER, BECAUSE THERE WAS LITTLE WAY OF BALANCING THE PIECE ONCE IT PASSED THE THRESHOLD, GRAVITY DOING THE REST.
I'D NEVER SEEN A GROWN MAN CRY LIKE THAT BEFORE. IT CAME OVER GRADUALLY, SO THERE WASN'T A BIG BANG OR ANYTHING. BUT THE FULL WEIGHT OF THE CASH REGISTER LANDED IN HIS CROTCH. NOT JUST THAT, BUT APPARENTLY HE WAS HITTING THE RIGHT BUTTONS, BECAUSE THE DRAWERS WERE SMASHING HIS LEGS LIKE HAMMERS. I THOUGHT THE GUY'S HEAD WAS GOING TO EXPLODE. SO WHAT TO DO NOW. THERE WAS NO MORE THAN FIVE INCHES OF CLEARANCE ON EACH SIDE, TO TRY AND GRAB THE FRONT OF THE WOODEN BASE. MOST OF US COULDN'T GET OUR ARMS IN FAR ENOUGH TO GRAB ANYTHING. THIS GUY, BENEATH THE UNIT, WAS SINGING LIKE A CANARY, AND IT WASN'T PRETTY. IT WAS GOOD HE'D ALREADY RAISED A FAMILY, BECAUSE HE WAS DEFINITELY GETTING A CHEAP NEUTERING. SO THEN ADD ON, THE FACT, THAT I'VE GOT ABOUT TWENTY PEOPLE WHO WANT TO EXIT THE SHOP, AND TWO KIDS WHO WERE COMPLAINING THEY HAD TO PEE, AND THIS GERMAN GENTLEMAN GETTING CRUSHED ON THE STAIRS. NOW WHEN THE GUY WAS YELLING AT US, IT WAS AS IF HE'D SUCKED BACK A WHACK OF HELIUM, AND IT TOOK US A LOT OF GUMPTION, AS HE SAID EARLIER, TO AVOID LAUGHING ABOUT THE STAIR IMPASSE.
SO HERE WAS THE EMERGENCY PLAN. WE NEEDED TO GET ONE OF THE LIAR'S CLUB MEMBERS, OVER THAT REGISTER, AND THE GUY TRAPPED BENEATH, TO HELP LIFT IT BACK OFF HIS, WELL, PRIVATE PARTS. THE PROBLEM OF COURSE, WAS THAT IN ORDER TO DO THIS, WAS GOING TO REQUIRE ONE OF US, ADDING TO THE WEIGHT OF THE UNIT ON THE GUY'S GROIN. WE HAD TO CRAWL UP AND OVER THE UNIT TO HELP HIM OUT. THE SMALLEST GUY WEIGHED ABOUT TWO HUNDRED POUNDS, AND WITH THE WEIGHT OF THE CASH REGISTER AND STAND, THAT WOULD HAVE MEANT THE VICTIM THUSLY, COULD HAVE PUT THE FAMILY JEWELS IN A VERY THIN ENVELOPE, FROM THAT POINT IN HIS LIFE. THANKFULLY, JUST AS WE TOYED WITH THIS PLAN, A MOUNTAIN OF A MAN CAME THROUGH THE STORE DOOR, AS IF BY THE GRACE OF GOD. IN ONLY SECONDS, THE CASH REGISTER WAS UPRIGHT AGAIN, AND DOWN OFF THAT FIRST PRECARIOUS STEP. AND WHILE THERE WAS AN UNDIGNIFIED MASSAGING OF THE GROIN, AND A LOT OF WHEEZING, THE RESCUE HAD BEEN SUCCESSFUL WITH MINIMAL PHYSICAL DAMAGE DONE. OF COURSE THERE WAS A LITTLE PRIDE THING THAT DIDN'T FARE SO WELL BUT I'M TOLD THAT OUTSIDE OF A FEW BRUISES, THAT WERE NEVER REVEALED, THANK GOODNESS, THE GUY SURVIVED; THE TWOSOME REMAINED FRIENDS FOR SOME TIME TO COME.
THE NEXT WEEKEND, MOVERS CAME WITH A TROLLY, AND WITHIN FIVE MINUTES, THE CASH REGISTER WAS HEADING TO ITS NEW HOME. EVER SINCE, I'VE TRIED TO AVOID PURCHASING ITEMS LIKE THE CASH REGISTER, FOR SOME PRETTY OBVIOUS REASONS. ANTIQUE DEALERS TEND TO BE GOOD AT RETROSPECTIVES, BUT NOT SO GOOD AT "IN THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT" DECISION MAKING. EVERY GIRL I DATED, AND THE ONE GAL I MARRIED, ALWAYS FIGURED I HAD SOME SORT OF UNDIAGNOSED DISABILITY WITH PERCEPTION. I COULDN'T UNDERSTAND THEIR ASSESSMENT. I'D BEEN A HOCKEY GOALIE, A BASEBALL FIELDER, AND A GOLFER, ALL REQUIRING FINELY TUNED PERCEPTION. "THEN WHY CAN'T YOU SEE THAT THE FLAT-TO-THE-WALL PINE CUPBOARD YOU JUST BOUGHT, WON'T FIT INTO MY VOLKSWAGON (BEETLE)," MY GIRLFRIEND WOULD YELL OUT IN FRUSTRATION, AT THE CONCLUSION OF MANY AUCTION SALES. MOST OF THE TIME SHE DIDN'T EVEN KNOW WHAT I'D PURCHASED, UNTIL I ASKED HER TO HELP ME CARRY IT TO THE CAR. "ARE YOU NUTS TED," SHE'D BLURT. "IT WON'T FIT IN MY CAR. NO WAY." IT'S TRUE. I FREQUENTLY ASKED IF SHE WOULD DRIVE ME TO THESE AUCTIONS, IN HER NICE LITTLE ORANGE CAR. I CAN'T TELL YOU HOW MANY TIMES WE DROVE HOME WITH HUGE PIECES HANGING OUT THE WINDOWS, AND THE FAMILIAR SOUND OF A DOMESTIC IN PROGRESS. SHE ALWAYS STARTED WITH THE SAME INTRODUCTION, THAT WAS ALMOST MUSICAL TO MY EARS. "YOU STUPID, STUPID MAN. YOU'RE DRIVING ME INSANE." I COULD RESPOND TO THAT, BY SAYING, "BUT I LOVE YOU….DOES THAT COUNT FOR ANYTHING?" "IF YOU LOVED ME, YOU CREEP, YOU WOULDN'T BUY ALL THIS STUFF AND JAM IT INTO MY CAR." IN ALL FAIRNESS, I COULDN'T LOAD IT IN MY CAR. I DIDN'T HAVE ONE.
THE FINAL STRAW, WAS WHEN I WAS LOADING IN A TIDY LITTLE VICTORIAN LOVE SEAT…..NOW TRY TO IMAGINE WHAT THAT WOULD LOOK LIKE IN A BEETLE, AND I HEARD A SOUND THAT BROKE HER HEART. BROKE MINE TOO. "TED, YOU JUST PUSHED THE LEG THROUGH THE CEILING," SHE SAID, HER RED FACE NOW MATCHING HER RED HAIR. SHE WAS RIGHT. THERE WAS AN "L" SHAPED TEAR IN THE FABRIC OF THE CAR'S CEILING, THAT I'M PRETTY SURE HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH MY VICTORIAN ANTIQUE. I DON'T KNOW HOW MANY ANTIQUE DEALERS FOUND THEMSELVES IN SIMILAR SITUATIONS, DURING THEIR YEARS DATING, BUT I'VE GOT TO TELL YOU, IT WAS A GAME CHANGER FOR ME. "YOU'RE JUST INSANE. I CAN'T DEAL WITH YOU ANY MORE," SHE YELLED AT ME, AS WE STARTED TO GET A BIGGER CROWD AROUND US, THAN THE AUCTIONEER WHO WAS STILL SELLING STUFF. "I'LL MAKE IT UP TO YOU DEAR," I SAID, NODDING AND WAVING OFF THE GALLERY. "MAKE IT UP, MAKE IT UP….I'LL TELL YOU HOW YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE IT UP," SHE MUMBLED, GETTING IN THE CAR, AND SLAMMING THE DOOR SO HARD I COULD TASTE THE METAL CHIPS FLYING OFF. YOU KNOW, SHE NEVER DID TELL ME HOW I WAS GOING TO MAKE IT UP TO HER. BUT IT WASN'T LONG AFTER, THAT SHE GAVE ME "THE PROVERBIAL HEAVE-HO," OR AT LEAST THAT'S WHAT MY MATES TOLD ME IT'S CALLED, WHEN A GIRL HITS YOU IN THE HEAD WITH A SPENT WINE BOTTLE. I DESERVED WHAT I GOT. DID IT CHANGE ME? I'M NOT GOING TO ASK MY WIFE THAT QUESTION, BECAUSE FRANKLY, IT ONLY MAKES HER MAD TO RECALL MY PAST INDISCRETIONS, WITH THE SHIPPING AND HANDLING OF REALLY BIG ANTIQUE ITEMS, I THOUGHT WOULD FIT IN THE VAN.
I SUPPOSE IT WAS MY FAULT THE GERMAN CHAP WAS NEARLY NEUTERED THAT DAY ON OUR SHOP STAIRS. I SHOULD HAVE INSISTED, FOR SAFETY REASONS, THAT A TROLLY BE EMPLOYED TO REMOVE THE CASH REGISTER. OH WELL, RETROSPECTIVES ARE WHAT THEY ARE AFTER ALL. CAN'T CHANGE WHAT IS NOW IN THE BIRCH HOLLOW HISTORY BOOK.
"YOU JUST GET CARRIED AWAY," SUZANNE SAID TO ME ONE DAY, AT A LOCAL AUCTION IN BRACEBRIDGE, WHEN I WAS TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO GET THE HOOSIER CUPBOARD INTO THE VAN, WITHOUT HAVING TO DISMANTLE IT FIRST. AS SUZANNE REALLY WANTED THAT PIECE FOR HER KITCHEN, WELL SIR, SHE SPIT ON HER HANDS, PULLED UP HER SLEEVES, AND BY GOLLY, THAT CUPBOARD WAS SHOVED SO FAR INTO THE VAN IT PUSHED THE FRONT SEATS UP TO THE DASHBOARD. "THAT'S HOW IT'S DONE, TED," SHE SAID WITH A WINK. THIS GAL IS A KEEPER, I CHORTLED TO MYSELF. "WE'RE GOING TO DO GREAT THINGS IN THIS BUSINESS."
THANKS FOR JOINING TODAY'S ANTIQUE HUNTING BLOG.
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