LEARNING FROM MISTAKES - YES, IT'S TRUE - NO MATTER HOW EXPERIENCED WE ARE, AND THE KNOWLEDGE WE POSSESS, POOP HAPPENS
THERE'S NOTHING AS HUMBLING, AS GETTING STUCK WITH SOMETHING BROKEN, CHIPPED, BADLY REPAIRED, AND AN OUTRIGHT FRAUD
A fellow came into our antique shop, in Bracebridge, one day, to show me a spoon that apparently dated back to the times of Henry VIII. It said so on the plastic box it was displayed in, and there was a note of authenticity pasted on the back. The gentleman was pretty sure it was original, and I concurred to keep him happy. "Yes sir, it is indeed, an original reproduction!" He missed the "reproduction" part, and still wanted to know what it was worth. "Whatever the British gift shop was selling it for last year!"
A rather boisterous lady, brought in a painting she thought I would like to buy. It was quite nice, and it would have been great to have had the opportunity to own the original. "It's a framed print," I told her. "No it's not, and there's the signature and date in the bottom corner," she argued, holding up the picture under glass, with one hand, pointing to the signature with the other. I had to explain what the circle "C" meant, and the fact, that for her to have had an original A.Y. Jackson, would have indeed been something to behold. I still don't think she believed me, but understood why I couldn't come up with the hundred thousand dollars to make the purchase. By the way. You probably knew this, but oil paintings are seldom framed behind glass.
I had another art expert challenge me, on a picture that was printed with a three dimensional affect, to give the impression of raised oil paint and brush strokes. A number of artists permitted this process for mass marketing there work, and I think it may also have been done for some Group of Seven panels, in limited edition, but I will never pay a dime for any of these. I will hold out until my ship comes in, and I come upon an original instead.
I was in a thrift shop one morning, just for a time-killing walk-about, and I saw that a man was studying a rather nice looking art piece, depicting a regional winter scene, probably regional, well framed under glass. He put it down, and after waiting a few moments, to make sure he wasn't coming back for it, I picked it up for closer examination. It was an original pastel, and had been very competently done. The only thing I noticed, which wasn't the end of the world, as far as value, was that the pastel work hadn't been properly sealed, with a finishing spray, to secure it before being framed. When I walked toward the front counter with it, the man accosted me, to explain that he had been looking at it previously, and it was his expert opinion, the art work was only a print. Usually I don't challenge any one like this, out on the free range of the hunt and gather, because it's most often pointless, and most typically, they just want to showboat their experience, in such matters as art identification. This guy refused to be blown-off, and as polite as I could be, he quickly became annoying. "Why would you pay twenty bucks for a cheap print," he asked me, just as I went to lay it on the sales counter. I picked it up again, turned it so he could see what I was about to point out. "Sir, if you look on the glass, you will notice the powder of pastel on the inside, which means, most definitely, it is an original." I sort of think he knew this, and had figured I might re-think the purchase, on his advice of it being a cheap print, and put it back with the other pictures for sale. In this business, these kind of mind-games never stop, so I either try to avoid interaction, or make the feedback gentle and quick.
But you know, in all our bluster and pomposity, we of the antique ilk, make mistakes in judgement, and appraisal, like everybody else. Not as frequent mind-you, but there is nary an antique dealer, who hasn't goofed up in the early goings of their career.
I purchased a really nice pine-top kitchen table, with side-drop leaves, that was perfect for the tiny dining space we had in our first house, on the lower section of Bracebridge's Ontario Street. This was in the mid 1980's. It was an 1880's piece that was rustic and nicely refinished, to highlight its antique value, but a nice fit for the country decor we already had with other furnishing in the house. I purchased it from a reputable dealer, who I also trusted, and she did cut me a deal. It's traditional to offer associate dealers at least a ten percent discount on purchases. This is a quickly fading tradition amongst today's dealers.
I borrowed the company van, after newspaper delivery that week, to pick-up the table, a short drive away. I got a friend to help me unload it, and bring it into the small livingroom, of the turn of the century house. Suzanne was inside directing traffic, and holding our newly arrived son, Andrew, while keeping the dog from sneaking out the door. Alf used to like to leave our abode, and slip through the back-door of my neighbor's house, because the food in their dog's dish, was apparently so much better than what we were serving. Wally Wray, a good natured neighbor / electrician, used to welcome Alf, on those occasions, as "the dog I never wanted." His dog, known as "B.A." liked to eat his meals slowly, enjoying every morsel, while Alf wasn't particularly concerned about etiquette. She just sucked it up, and any treats BA hadn't got to yet.
In a bid to block the dog from getting out the side door, and into my neighbor's yard, I made a goaltender's block of the net, (doorway), and my partner on the other end, stumbled back, sending the table up on his end, and then down with a crash, on mine. Suzanne watched the moment of impact, when it slammed back down onto the floor, nearly sending both table-movers onto their arses. When the table banged down hard on the floor, all the filler that had been used to disguise new sunken screws, popped out of the holes on impact. There were probably thirty pencil-eraser diameter, plaster plugs, either sitting on the pine table-top, or rolling all over the tile floor. Beneath, the new screws gave every appearance of having been in those holes no longer than a matter of weeks, not decades as one might have expected of such an antique table. Pissed-off, you bet! Here's why!
Antique dealers have an obligation to indicate the percentage of alterations made to pieces, from quilts to furniture, they're offering for sale. Articles, that by necessity (and I understand the need for restoration) have in some way, materially, or physically, been altered, repaired, or restored. "Fudged" comes to mind. I probably would have bought the table regardless, but damn-it, she had a responsibility, to make it known to the buyer, that there had been a new table-top installed on the nicely spindled legs and stretchers. Sure, I should have asked the right questions, and known by looking beneath the top, that something wasn't quite cricket with the ages of the bottom and top; one showing evidence of three or four different colors of stain and paint, versus the top that appeared to be reclaimed, or cut newer wood. The filler hadn't even fully dried, and was probably stained and varnished before it had properly set, limiting its ability to adhere to the wood itself. And, for one thing, I would never have used new screws. Most dealers, who play around at restorations, and refinishing, like to arm themselves with period hardware, including square nails and vintage screws. I might have felt a little better, if beneath the plugs, there were period nails or screws to fasten down the top. It might still have been a replacement top, but Suzanne wouldn't have yelled at me for buying a fraud; or what is referred to as a "Frankenstein," meaning a put together piece that is a composite of leftovers from other broken furnishings. In the case of this highly functional drop leaf table, the degree of restoration, was at least fifty percent of the whole, when, for antique value, anything beyond twenty-five percent, seriously diminishes the insurable antique value. The dealer should have declared this on the price sticker. No exceptions. This piece had been refinished for her, because she made this part clear before I made the purchase. It's one thing to refinish, and re-varnish, but quite another to replace an entire table-top, and not admit it. I never dealt with her shop again. We used the table for the next three years, and then sold it from our backyard, during a mega lawn sale. We did not advertise it, or identify it as an antique table, but rather as a nice rustic piece that was highly functional, and perfect for a small kitchen. I lost money in the economics of the original transaction, but because we used it for those three years, it was worth the difference between purchase and selling price.
No experienced dealer wants to admit they bought a broken, altered, or reproduction piece. Yet there isn't a single dealer or collector out there, in this big wide world, who at some point, hasn't goofed up and done just that! It's a danger of being over confident, which does come naturally with age and experience in this storied profession. Call it getting "cocky," we like to present an image of ourselves, and our businesses, that shows we are experts in our field. This is the problem of "generalist" dealers, who dabble in just about anything old. Those collectors who have tight specialities, that they've been pursuing for many years, are far less likely to make mistakes with identification and acquisition. Generalists can go most of their professional careers, having a high degree of potential they'll screw-up, because they are only too willing to get out of their comfort zones, to take advantage of a big deal they've suddenly uncovered on their travels. Suzanne and I, are just as susceptible, to making bad decisions, and walking away from a shop or sale, with something less than what we thought, at the time of purchase. We don't talk (or write) about this too often, because anything that makes us look average, or commonplace, detracts from the image we like to present of ourselves; especially the astute and expert character, that is hard to maintain, if it's known you buy, and then fob-off, frauds and reproductions as originals.
My biggest error in judgement, came at an Art Campbell auction, when I decided that I knew as much as Suzanne did about vintage fabrics, and especially heritage quilts. It was an early spring auction, held outdoors, and gosh it was miserable out there in the muck and falling snow. It wasn't a very good sale in terms of antique and collectable availability, but because it was the first one of the season, the groupies had shown up for the social intercourse, even if not actually intending to bid on anything. Suzanne had stayed home that afternoon, with sons Andrew and Robert, leaving me to judge the quality of about ten vintage quilts coming up for sale. I did look at them, but as one might expect of a guy like me, I never unfolded them, to check for rips, or stains that couldn't be removed without replacing fabric; not an easy thing to match by the way, for the restorer. For a guy who bellows all the time about performing due diligence in such affairs, I screwed up to the exponent of ten.
I had been bidding on quite a few pieces that day, but everything that I was interested in, was edging up beyond what I could pay, and expect a small profit in our Bracebridge shop. So yes, I was getting frustrated, and usually, it would have been Suzanne tapping me on the shoulder, to take a "time out,' away from the bidding. Being frustrated at an auction is never good. It always costs you money you might not have otherwise spent, if cooler heads had prevailed. It's easy to make bidding competitive like a baseball or hockey game, and seeing as I played both sports, well, you get the message. Instead of pulling an opponent's sweater over their head, to then apply some thwacks to the noggin, I was using my bidding number as retaliation for getting in my face. Not a good combination of emotion and money.
I wound up, that afternoon, becoming known as the "Quilt Man," because I bought every one put up for sale, and even the bags of fabric that were piled in the same section of the auction inventory. To my credit, I thought Suzanne would appreciate the foresight, that I bought the aged fabric, in case it was needed as replacement blocks for the subject quilts. This would have been a far smarter move, if I had taken the time to closely inspect the quilts, and the bags of fabric remnants, before bidding a king's ransom to make them mine. As we would find out later, after Suzanne was able to look them over, at home, much of the material, on the quilts and in the bags, was simply stated, "rotten." When I asked her how rotten, she called me to come closer, while she rubbed one of the quilted blocks, and I was able to watch it disintegrate into dust, falling onto the tops of my shoes. On every one of those quilts, there were upwards of half of the blocks, especially certain colors, that did the same when stressed by her fingers. In other words, to save the quilts I had purchased, and get any money back on re-sale, Suzanne (who does restore quilts professionally), would have to invest hundreds of hours on the collection I'd brought home. Therefore, no profit was likely to be made from the quilts, based on the number of hours that would have to be committed to restorations. Even half the fabric in the bags, was of the same deteriorating constitution. If you are a quilter, and know a lot about vintage fabrics, you will then appreciate, that certain colors and compositions of material, can decline faster than others, under the right circumstances even just age. The damage to the quilts did not come from being kept in a damp environment, or exposed to more heat or direct sunlight than appearances initially suggested. There wasn't a fading issue whatsoever, or evidence of water exposure. As it turned out, there were eight to ten colors on the crazy quilts, and some others that were tied, that showed most degeneration of integrity. The quilts had otherwise been fine, but a closer inspection would have shown, even a rookie fabric buyer like me, that there was more work to restore these, than would be profitable down the road. Suzanne was able to get our investment back, and compensation for at least half of the hours she put into restoration. I never bought quilts by myself after this point. I hated myself for making this error in judgement, but it was just one of many similar learning experiences, I had to get past in order to maintain the profession I wanted to pursue, in the decades to come.
It is a sickening feeling, honestly, to arrive home from an antique sale, or auction, with a piece of china, that has, under much closer scrutiny, of lamplight and magnification, a hairline fracture, or chip otherwise undetected. For all intents a purposes, they are valueless ornaments, that a dealer would be unable to sell. Here's when I fully endorse re-purposing as something pretty to put flowers in, or pencils at the front counter. There's a lot of self-loathing that goes on behind the scenes in antique shops across the land. We get burned, and we learn how to rebound. It's also true, that it is tradition, going back centuries, to pass off what are known as "dogs" (not our pets) to someone else unsuspecting, in order to get money back. While you can't hide the fact a flow-blue plate has a hairline fracture, invisible to you at the time of purchase, but very clear under a shop light, you can fob-off a bastardized pine drop-leaf table, and yes, I was up close and personal to this transaction. Almost got poked in the eye from blown-up plaster plugs.
More antique buying mistakes coming up in this week's blog series.
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.
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