"THE AUCTION ROLL," AND THE "COLUMNIST ANTIQUE-DEALER" DIDN'T ALWAYS JIVE WITH OPINION
THE POWER OF THE PEN AND THE WEIGHT OF THE AUCTION GAVEL
When I wrote my first antique-related newspaper column, for the newly launched, Bracebridge Examiner, circa the spring of 1978, I hadn't got to the subject of country auctions, before I had to resign the weekly gig, due to the fact I got a better job in the field of local history. I was hired by the Muskoka Board of Education, to head a heritage research project, to be used in a revamped local history component, for public school curriculum. I had a team of two reporter / interviewers, two secretaries to transcribe tape recorded interviews, with local senior citizens (having Muskoka roots), and a technician, to provide photographic assistance, and audio-technical support. It was in the same year that the Bracebridge Historical Society was launched, and I became part of the new board of directors, with the mandate to commence the restoration of Woodchester Villa, the octagonal designed former home of woollen mill founder, Henry Bird. The tape resource project was a huge success, and became a well used heritage resources in all the Muskoka area schools, and the museum would open two years later, on the treed hillside above the Muskoka River, looking down on the south end of the town's main street. I wanted to write about antiques, but suffice, that I had instead, opened a small antique shop in an historic house, at the other end of Manitoba Street, known as Old Mill Antiques. I simply didn't have time to pull it all together. This would come a couple of years down the road, when I took a job with the opposition press.
I hated to give up my first foray into column writing, but it did become the template, for many columns to come, especially when I later joined the staff of Muskoka Publications, as editor of The Herald-Gazette, and assistant editor of The Muskoka Sun, our popular summer season paper. I soon began researching, more fully, antiques, antique shops, and auctions, by what I considered an almost complete immersion in its culture; both as a fledgling antique dealer myself, and feature writer specializing in local history, for numerous publications. I determined, after a few years of attending auctions, and hunting antiques whenever time afforded, and money permitted, that I could entertain myself, by representing the antique profession in print. By about 1983, or in that vicinity, I began writing a weekly column known as "The Auction Roll," which was a lot of fun to put together, and it sort of justified how I could spend a day at a country auction, even though I might have only bought a few small pieces, from the ever-patient auctioneer. I used to bid on a lot of items, at each sale, but never made it all the way to the winning bid. I wasn't shilling for the auctioneer, or otherwise padding the bids; I was just bidding whatever I could afford on that day. It was seldom enough. What made my overviews slightly different, than what most other columnists had written, as overviews to that point, was my profound interest in the social / cultural / historical patina of these rural, regional, environmentally embedded country sales. Back in the late 1970's up to the early 1990's, I tried to attend every outdoor auction in the area. I didn't mind indoor sales, if they were being held on historic properties, or in old barns, but the sales definitely lost some of their inherent charm, when housed in a new structure. I was spellbound by sales conducted in pastures and barnyards, or on the lawns of Victorian era estates, on historic streets, with the ambience of yesteryear, or nature, as an inspirational, somewhat motivational backdrop. I always spent more at these auctions, and I know for fact, I wrote much more when pleased by the setting of these sales. I haven't changed much over the decades. In our region of Ontario, the few auctioneers that work the district, seem to prefer indoor venues, to avoid weather interruptions. What it comes down to, for me, is a reasonably bland succession of auction events; good for the dealers, collectors and home decorators, but somewhat lacking in the character I grew up with, as both a novice dealer, historian and reviewer.
Don't get me wrong. I still love attending auctions, although our district isn't what it used to be, when I was enjoying the early days of my own antique-dealer apprenticeship. I'm really glad that I came up through the ranks, and gathered experience, at this time, because, as I've noted previously, there were more traditional "mom and pop" storefronts, and many more open-air auctions, that were mini carnivals, and social extravaganzas, to a wide-eyed antique hunter, even with his limited resources; but with many, many aspirations to fulfill. I may have been short of cash, and had limited ability to buy the most unique antique pieces, but I didn't waste my time at these sales. I watched, and gosh, did I ever learn! I studied the habits and actions of veteran dealers and savvy collectors, huddling, negotiating with each other, and bidding with just the slightest movements of their eyelids, or nod of the head. I would look back on the crowd, and try to find those who were bidding, and after a dozen or so sales doing the same thing, I could have written a paper on personalized bidding gestures, known of Muskoka country auctions. I borrowed some of their techniques when bidding thereafter. I was surprised how easy it was to connect with the auctioneer, being so subtle and secretive when making bids public.
But more than anything else, I found an ever so revealing, social / cultural gold-mine unfurling at each one of these sales, that most observers never fully appreciated; I mean, there was hardly the necessity to over analyze the auction process, of selling off a yard, or building, loaded with antiques, collectables and "this and that." What I experienced however, as a bonus to the actual auction itself, was as little like finding oneself suddenly, in curious character, smack-dab in the middle of a Grandma Moses painting; because of the obviously festive, naive, folkish, rural ambience, that made it all knit tightly together, as a sort of weird character relevance, reflective of the hinterland setting. After years of trying to figure out the Muskoka allure, beyond the fact the region is an internationally known vacation retreat, because of its expansive lakeland opportunities, I was starting to understand something quite different, emerging through the mix of open air, the picturesque landscape, the antique and heritage patina, and the auction electricity, which for us hardcore collectors, is very, very real. The folk heritage I had pondered so many times, as a general Muskoka writer, and historian, became much clearer to me. And the more I studied it, and read about auctions in other locales, including sundry other auctioneer biographies, I knew there was something relevant to my suspicions; the simple, no frills, country auctions, in a variety of amazing natural settings, and the crowd that was attracted, was very much a naive, but life-full painting, to be captured by the folk artist. Yet this was very real and I was in the middle, making copious notes about how my home district, was being exposed as I'd never seen it before. It had evaded me for years. My overviews of local social / cultural characteristics, and heritage, were as hollow as a Hallowe'en pumpkin. Yet at these crowded, vibrant sales, where there was so much socializing, and cultural intercourse, there was every evidence, of the Muskoka identity. These auctions were unveiling something much richer than the auctioneer's purse at the end of the sale. These rurally inspired events, were bringing people of all walks together, and truth be known, only a tiny portion of the hundreds in attendance, were actually dealers or collectors. Turns out, most were just curious sightseers, wanting to join for undetermined reasons, "a happening." I couldn't ignore this as a regional writer, finally coming upon something so ingrained with social / cultural / historical relevance. What was going on at these sales? For most of those early sales I attended, the only way the auctions could have happened, was the result of death. In order for us to get the benefit of all the significant antiques, and collectables up for auction, someone had to expire first, to create the estate circumstance, necessitating dispersal in this fashion. But there was little mourning going on, but a lot of unbridled fascination, with what the subject pieces carried with them, in terms of provenance. There was the aura of providence as well, let me tell you, especially acquiring these antiques, that put us into the inner fold of this particular family's most intimate biography. Whether it was buying an old hat, an overcoat, a hall stand, a writing desk, or bedstead, most of us with any intuition, or deep well of sensitivity, felt a connection to the previous owner(s); and of course, we felt a little weird about hauling the stuff away at the end of the sale. There's always a little bit extra energy at estate sales, that to a few of us, bordered on the outside edge of the paranormal. I've heard veteran antique dealers comment about certain auctions as being "rather spirited affairs," and "it felt like we were being watched by someone, every time we bid."
I soon began creating modest templates for what a future column might represent, and I made a couple of preamble attempts through another column I was writing, entitled "Cold Coffee," which morphed into "From the Bleachers," published weekly in The Herald-Gazette. I thought the new auction-overview column, would be a perfect fit for the Muskoka Sun, which was our popular season paper, under Editor / Muskoka Historian, Bob Boyer, serving the cottage community, and day travellers to the region, from May 24th until Thanksgiving in early October. When I began writing it, I had no expectation, other than to fulfill a long over-due project, I had wanted to work on; based on the premise, readers would be interested in what goes on at auction sales. Having, of course, the optimistic point of view, that the folks I stood and chatted with, at these same country auctions, would appreciate such a detailed review (analysis) of sale occurances, highlights and even listings for upcoming sales. It worked. It had, as an initial impact, a positive reaction from auctioneers in the region, and some antique dealers, liking the fact more of their potential customers, would be reading my weekly column. In the first month, I was treated rather well at auction sales, because of the new exposure, I was assisting with, and I dare say, auctioneers seemed happy with attendance increases. The column was often placed on the same page as auction advertisements. But with all good things, as they say, there is usually a down side. I found it by the quarter season mark, and it was the result, I think, of revealing too much, too soon, about the auction protocol itself. Here's what screwed up a good thing.
Like every other antique and collectable hustler in the big wide world, we are persnickety, impatient, aggressive when need be, staunchly committed to our area of interest, and highly critical of the delivery system, by which our passions to hunt and gather are fueled. Thus, I began writing as a dealer, more than an unbiased auction reviewer with no other vested interest, than getting my work published. It became clear to my auctioneer mates, that I was writing critiques of their work, more than overviews of what each sale represented in antique values, and uniqueness; and more about how maddening it was, to be forced to wait for hours on end, in the hot summer sun, to get the chance to bid on what I interested in acquiring that day. Week after week, I'm told, the critiques got more personal, and even though associate dealers were applauding my insights and appraisals, the auctioneers were beginning to suspect I was a honking big fly in their ointment. I was, you see, telling bidders how to get auctioneers to do what they wanted, and how to make those who moved too slowly, conducting sales, "hurry the hell up". It was my biggest auction objection, because most of the dealers I knew, who were also big spenders, and good customers of the auctioneer, also had stores to run, and time was of the essence. I wasn't suggesting auctioneers should cater entirely to dealers, but rather, to discuss how the order of the sale, could be adjusted to accommodate those of us who had store commitments; but who also beefed up the auctioneer's accounting for the sale. It was just good business to negotiate. Auctioneers didn't like me meddling in their affairs. Apparently, though I'm suspicious of some of the claims, I was even giving away innermost secrets about the profession, that had been explained to me by auctioneer friends over the years of our relationship; who then quickly became my adversaries after less than a full summer of published columns.
I started to feel the heat, when at one auction, in the hamlet of Muskoka Falls, my auctioneer friend, Art Campbell, called me out, literally, when Suzanne (my wife and business partner), showed up an hour after the sale began. From the podium, in the middle of a very large crowd, at the antique-laden auction, Art used the high powered megaphone, with its speaker, to blast me for contradicting my own directive, about bidders arriving at auctions early, for pre-viewing items set out for sale. I had written a great deal that summer, about the fact some auctioneers, and their helpers, purposely cover-up cracks in china and glass, and furniture that has damaged legs or cupboard doors, or otherwise, opt not to represent the article's deficiencies; which should be their practice but is often conveniently ignored. My recommendation to all potential bidders, is to make sure to study all the items of interest, during the preview hour, or so, before the sale is commenced; to find out first hand, what is damaged or missing parts, before it winds up in an assistant's hands, raised to the audience at the time of bidding. So here I was, showing up late, with the sale already in progress. Thus, in his mind, I wasn't a particularly good role model for "savvy, safe buying". There wasn't any way to avoid the public scrutiny, and he used the opportunity to make sure everyone in the audience knew "the columnist,' just got busted, for breaking his own rules of conduct, for cautious, sensible, tutored "auction bidding." It was one of those precious little moments in a writer's life, when all of a sudden, being a public figure really sucks. Suzanne, as has been her usual move on these occasions, of public flogging of her husband, disappeared into the crowd to avoid being detected and associated with the controversial columnist. Who, at that moment, was being brow beaten by a chap in a good-guy white Stetson, way up on the podium. I hate when this happens, and the administrator of revenge, is smiling at the same time as I'm clenching my jaw. As if it's an anecdotal reprimand, but not really. The only comment Suzanne offered, was an opinion in the guise of an assertion. "Bet that made you feel like a tool!" Yes it did! Thanks!
As a reporter and editor, I used to get critiqued all the time, both good and bad, for what I had written that particular week; but then I always had my hard and fast notebook references to recall, and I was always meticulous with my record keeping. I could prove I was right with the information, I used in the subject story. Editorial writing however, puts fact and opinion in a sort of crazy quilt context, that may read well, but potentially have a lot of holes in it, when held to the light of scrutiny. As long as I was overviewing the antiques and collectable pieces sold during sales, I was within the bounds of decency. As soon as I offered an opinion that wasn't shared by the auctioneers, or too intimate and critical to be of advantage to their small businesses, I became a pesky liability; best seen as a bidder not as a writer. They liked my money, just not my opinions. I was offended initially, by their retorts, often made in public, and loudly so, but I did come to appreciate, that I was in fact, coaching bidders to out-fox them, and actually, spend less at their sales, by being frugal buyers. Obviously to the auctioneers, it was much less a column supporting their work, and more the "how-to" text, about "buying more with less!" The conflict they pointed out, to the Herald-Gazette business manager, was the fact I was an active antique dealer, with a mission statement, to help all antique dealers and collectors especially, beat the auctioneers of their rightful profits. I was, you see, exposing them in the press, by revealing some (not all) of the tricks of the trade. I wasn't actually doing anything terribly wrong, but close enough to the line, to force a reconsideration of the column's value in the first place. If I couldn't provide tips to auction-goers, who were numerous, what good would it be, to only satisfy the reading interests of the four, or five, local auctioneers; who very much enjoyed status quo when conducting their auctions.
The real crunch for me, came when Colonel Jim Gray, of Huntsville, who was a really nice guy, became infuriated when I wrote a column about the importation of bed bugs, and reasons why you shouldn't buy certain furniture pieces at auctions, such as used sofas and mattresses. What I made clear in the column, was that there was always the potential of hitch-hiking bed bugs, and other insect infestations, on and in upholstered furniture, and bedding. The list of potential contaminations is a long one, and it does require due diligence on a buyer's part, to avoid creating serious household problems for themselves and family. I didn't tell them not to buy these articles, but rather to make thorough inspections first, and ask auction helpers for specifics, about where the items came from, and how they had been stored elsewhere. Nothing I wrote about in that column, was anything particularly insightful, from what is just normal procedure, for anyone concerned about the qualities and quantities of used furnishings, (they wish to haul home) regardless of the age. Well sir, Jim was furious with me, and I suppose the only good thing about the day he came to the front desk, of our Bracebridge office, was that I was somewhere else. He pulled all of his advertising from the paper, which was a big blow to us, and suggested he wouldn't grace our paper with another ad - EVER! He was true to his word. I felt bad about this, because I liked Jim, and I always considered him one of the best auctioneers in the region. I didn't even feel comfortable going to his sales after this episode, because I was worried he'd spot me in the crowd, and use his loud speaker, to chastise the auction columnist for the happenstance pleasure of the audience. I won't ever agree that Jim was right, regarding his opinion I shouldn't have written about pestilence, and its transport via used furnitures, the way I did. But arguably, I should also have made it crystal clear, that auctioneers do their best, call it due diligence if you want, to check for these infestations, before putting them up for auction. He never apologized for his comments about my character flaws, which couldn't be printed, and I never apologized to him. I probably should have, because I did come to understand, in later years, that the auctioneers in our region, were pretty much forced to sell these pieces for estates, alongside the more attractive antiques of which I was interested; so yes, a doom-saying guy like me, could have caused a considerable downturn to their business economies. If in fact, my advisories had caused bidders, to back away from these upholstered pieces and mattresses. It's still a hot issue even today, as bed bugs get into more homes and apartments every year, because of a lack of due diligence. Choice of vehicles for transport? Your guess is as good as mine!
It was my best read column of any I'd ever written, but the auctioneers were taking issue, all the way to the publisher's office, and although I wasn't asked to pull the weekly features, I thought the best for all concerns, was to just bury it with all the other good ideas that were dangerously ahead of the curve. Our company couldn't withstand advertisers pulling out, and who knows how bad it might have got, down the road another year, if I had started poking at associate antique dealers, critiquing their apparent secret business practices. I do that now, but then, well I'm the writer / publisher, and I'd have to fire myself as a blogger.
More on Muskoka auctions yet to come.
REASONS WHY BEING A SMART ASS WITH AN AUCTIONEER IS……WELL, STUPID AND DANGEROUS
THE RIGHT TO BE A BUFFOON, VERSUS EVER WINNING A BID AT AN AUCTION
BACK IN THE EARLY 1980'S, I BEGAN WRITING A REGULAR "CURRENT EVENT" COLUMN FOR THE LOCAL PRESS, CALLED "THE AUCTION ROLL," WHICH RAN IN THE "MUSKOKA SUN" I BELIEVE. I WAS PROUD OF THAT WEEKLY EDITORIAL PIECE, AND IT GAVE ME QUITE A BIT OF LATITUDE, AND A LITTLE EXTRA PRESTIGE AT AUCTIONS, IN OUR DISTRICT (MUSKOKA, ONTARIO).
MY AUCTIONEER FRIEND, ART CAMPBELL, WOULD ACTUALLY STOP THE AUCTION MIDSTREAM, TO ANNOUNCE TO THE AUDIENCE THAT "MR. CURRIE (SCOOP) HAS NOW ENTERED THE BUILDING," OR "YOU WRITERS ARE ALL THE SAME……YOU COME LATE AND LEAVE EARLY, AND THE BIG NEWS ALWAYS HAPPENS, EITHER BEFORE OR AFTER." ART AND I HAD LOTS OF AUCTION DEBATES, OFTEN AT THE FRONT COUNTER OF OUR ANTIQUE SHOP, ON BRACEBRIDGE'S MANITOBA STREET. ART WAS A GOOD SPORT, AND HE COULD TAKE ALL KINDS OF FRIENDLY RIBBING. SUZANNE USED TO HATE THAT I WAS BEING SINGLED-OUT AT THESE SALES, BECAUSE SHE THOUGHT ART WAS TAKING SOME CHEAP SHOTS, BECAUSE HE HAD THE PUBLIC ADDRESS SYSTEM, AND I ONLY HAD FACIAL EXPRESSIONS TO SEND BACK TO THE CROWD. I USED TO RAG ON HIM, ALMOST WEEKLY IN PRINT, ABOUT THE DELAYS OF HIS AND OTHER AUCTIONS; WHEN INSTEAD OF "LOTS" THEY WOULD SELL ITEMS, LIKE CHINA CUPS AND SAUCERS "ON CHOICE." OBVIOUSLY HE FOUND THAT YOU COULD MAKE MORE MONEY SELLING "ON CHOICE," VERSUS HAVING TWENTY-FIVE CUPS AND MATCHING SAUCERS SELLING TOGETHER TO ONE SUCCESSFUL BIDDER. SELLING ON CHOICE, FOR DOZENS OF ITEMS, THAT THE ESTATE OWNER POSSESSED, IN SMALL COLLECTIONS, DROVE A LOT OF US ANTIQUE DEALERS NUTS. SOME OF US HAD TO HIRE STAFF TO COVER OUR SHOPS WHILE AT THE SALES. SUZANNE WOULD RUN OUR MAIN STREET BUSINESS, WHILE I ATTENDED THE AUCTIONS. SO I'D TAKE SOME FRUSTRATION OUT ON ART, VIA THE COLUMN, BUT REALLY, ALL THE AUCTIONEERS SERVING THE AREA WERE DOING PRETTY MUCH THE SAME THING. DEPENDING HOW MANY COLLECTIONS THE PERSON HAD, IT COULD ADD TWO HOURS ONTO A SALE. SOME WOULD START AT 10:00 A.M. AND GO UNTIL 7:00 P.M. MY PLEA TO HIM, WAS THAT BUYERS WERE GETTING FED-UP AND LEAVING THE SALE ENTIRELY, WHICH KIND OF DEFEATED THE PURPOSE OF SELLING "ON CHOICE," AS A MEANS OF GENERATING MORE VALUE FOR THE ESTATE…..OR SALE HOST. THE LAST THING AN AUCTIONEER WANTS TO SEE, OTHER THAN STORM CLOUDS FOR AN OUTDOOR SALE, IS THE AUCTION FAITHFUL (DEALERS IN THAT MIX), DRIVING AWAY WITHOUT A FULL LOAD LASHED ONTO THEIR TRUCKS, OR HANGING OUT OF THEIR VANS.
I WROTE A NUMBER OF COLUMNS ABOUT AUCTION SALE HECKLERS. THESE CHARACTERS, WITHOUT KNOWING IT, GAVE ME A LOT OF THINGS TO WRITE ABOUT, AND THESE WERE SOME OF MY MOST POPULAR COLUMNS, ACCORDING TO READER SURVEYS. MY FAVORITE STORY, INVOLVED MY OLD FRIEND, AUCTIONEER LES RUTLEDGE, OF GRAVENHURST, AND MY FIRST DAYS FOLLOWING THE AUCTION CIRCUIT HERE IN MUSKOKA. I DIDN'T KNOW LES THAT WELL, EXCEPT FOR OUR NEWSPAPER ASSOCIATION. WE HANDLED HIS WEEKLY AUCTION ADVERTISEMENTS FOR THE HERALD-GAZETTE. SO I'D MEET UP WITH HIM AT THE HERALD-GAZETTE FRONT DESK, WHERE HE WOULD BE, ON MOST MONDAY MORNINGS, EMBROILED IN AN ARGUMENT WITH OUR CLASSIFIED CLERK……A CHEERFUL GERMAN WOMAN, NAMED IRENE, WHO ENJOYED SPARRING WITH LES…..AND I KIND OF THINK, THERE WAS SOME PLEASURE ON HER PART, GETTING HIM SO PISSED-OFF, HE'D TIP HIS BIG STETSON BACK ON HIS HEAD, AND START GROWLING LIKE A HUNGRY SPRING BEAR (WANTING TO TAKE A BITE OUT OF SOMETHING OR SOMEONE). I DON'T KNOW HOW MANY TIMES I STEPPED IN BETWEEN THE TWO OF THEM, BEFORE ANYONE SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUSTED. IF LES STARTED ROTATING HIS CANE TIP, INTO THE CARPET, SUCH THAT THERE WAS SMOKE RISING, IT WAS TIME TO DEFUSE THE STAND-OFF. ALL OF US TOOK TURNS EASING THE NEGOTIATIONS AT THE FRONT DESK, BUT HONESTLY, THE BACK AND FORTH DIGS WERE REAL-LIFE COMEDY. THEY BOTH HAD KIND OF A DARK SENSE OF HUMOR ANYWAY, AND I THINK LES NEEDED TO EXERCISE A LITTLE EMOTIONAL STRETCHING, FIRST THING ON A MONDAY MORNING. BY THE WAY, LES ALWAYS GOT HIS DISCOUNT, IF THERE HAPPENED TO BE AN ERROR IN THE AD COPY, WHICH OCCURRED WAY MORE OFTEN THAN IT SHOULD HAVE…..ESPECIALLY CONSIDERING LES WAS A GOOD CUSTOMER, AND PAID DEARLY FOR HIS NOTICES. I DON'T KNOW WHY, BUT OUR LAYOUT STAFF SCREWED UP HIS AD WEEK AFTER WEEK. THANK GOD HE NEVER GOT LOOSE IN THE BACK OF THE SHOP.
LES WAS QUITE ELDERLY AT THIS TIME. HE WAS A SUBSTANTIAL HUMAN BEING, AND HE WAS NOTORIOUSLY SHORT OF PATIENCE AS AN AUCTIONEER. HE AND I GOT ALONG GREAT, AND MANY TIMES, HE'D FIGURE OUT THAT SUZANNE AND I WEREN'T WINNING MANY BIDS, ON THINGS LIKE HOUSEHOLD FURNITURE (AS NEWLYWEDS WE DIDN'T HAVE MUCH MONEY TO SPEND ON HOUSEHOLD ITEMS). EVERY NOW AND AGAIN, LES WOULD TAKE MY BID, AFTER A FEW MINUTES OF BACK AND FORTH INCREMENTS, AND ALL OF A SUDDEN, HE'D STOP THE SALE AND ANNOUNCE, "SOLD TO MY NEWSPAPER FRIEND, MR. CURRIE." WELL, AN AUCTIONEER ISN'T REALLY SUPPOSED TO DO THINGS LIKE THAT, BUT IT WAS A KIND GESTURE, AND YOU KNOW, WE STILL HAVE QUITE A FEW OF THOSE PIECES LEFT HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW. I THINK ABOUT LES A LOT, THESE DAYS, ESPECIALLY WRITING THESE BIOGRAPHICAL COLUMNS. HE IS IMBEDDED IN MY PYSCHE, OF WHAT IT HAS MEANT BEING INVOLVED IN THE ANTIQUE TRADE FOR ALL OF THESE YEARS. HE WAS ONE OF MY EARLY TUTORS, BUT WOULD HAVE SCOFFED RATHER GRUMPILY, AT THIS KIND OF UNEXPECTED CREDIT, IF I HAD EVER ANNOUNCED THIS DURING AN AUCTION HIATUS. HE'D HAVE BEEN EMBARRASSED AND YOU DIDN'T WANT TO DO THIS TO LES. HE WASN'T A TOUCHY-FEELING KIND OF GUY. NO HUGS. JUST HARDY SLAPS ON THE BACK, AND A FEW LAUGHS ABOUT THE WILD WAYS OF THE GOOD OLD DAYS. WHEN YOU ATTENDED A LES RUTLEDGE AUCTION, ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN. HE WAS A SCRAPPY GUY, AND EVEN THOUGH HE WAS SLOW MOVING, OVER-WEIGHT, AND QUITE ELDERLY, HE WAS STILL A MOUNTAIN OF A MAN. HE HAD A WAY WITH WORDS THAT WOULD HAVE MADE ANY WORDSMITH ENVIOUS. I WATCHED HIM VERBALLY UNDRESS, AND THEN BOTTLE-UP, DOZENS OF LOUD MOUTHS, AND PROBLEM PATRONS, IN THE YEARS WHEN I WAS A REGULAR AUCTION GROUPIE.
THE GUY JUST WOULDN'T SHUT UP - AND THAT REALLY ANNOYED LES
Les Rutledge was a later years auctioneer. I believe he had been a railway man before this, and was known as a hard living, hard playing chap, who dearly loved and defended his family. I remember once, at a senior league fastball game, in Bracebridge, when I was a kid, sitting next to Les in the bleachers. I didn't know who he was, but by golly, was he loud and aggressive. I was sitting next to several young men, who were yelling at a number of opposition players, and specifically, one player on the Gravenhurst team. One of the player's was his son, Keith, and when the name calling continued, especially referencing the "Rutledge" name, in a most adverse fashion, Les pushed his Stetson back for a better view, huffed and puffed a little, tapped one of the spectators on the shoulder, and said something like, "The fellow you're calling a bum, happens to be my son," he said. "Why don't you go from around the backstop here, and say that to his face when he comes in off the field……I'm sure he would be willing to talk to you about it." His words were gentle, in comparison to the volume of smoke coming out of his ears, and the red sparks in his eyes, as if an inferno was engaged in his soul. "Maybe you're a better player than he is……so what are you doing sitting up here in the bleachers son?"
One of the first auctions I took Suzanne to, was here in Gravenhurst, where Les was not only well known, but revered in his circle of acquaintances. It was an outdoor sale to settle an estate, and there were some interesting antique furnishings, we wanted for our future house, still a few years away. As it usually happens to me, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I found myself beside a loud mouth wearing a ball cap off to the side of his head. If I hadn't heard a word he said, before this, I would have thought he was going to do exactly what he did to Les. He looked the part of a blurt-for-a-laugh heckler. But still, as is my tradition, I just ignored the warning signs, and it wasn't long before this total goof, started making smart-ass comments about every auction item, Les was dealing with, and even taking pot shots at some of the bidders themselves. If we could have blamed it on alcohol, possibly he could have been removed with justification. It's not that Les wasn't used to critical comments from the cheap seats, but not every time he went to sell something else. The guy was a sort of "Foster Hewitt," type, of the former "Hockey Night in Canada" broadcasts, who felt compelled to provide the play by play. On this day, Les tried to keep his focus. It was hot, and he was getting tired with the work it was taking, to get through the large quantity of sale items. Having some background with Les, and knowing some of the warning signs…..like the sound of a rattlesnake before it strikes, I told Suzanne that we were going to have to move our pile of purchases, and get away from this guy quickly. The apocalypse was imminent.
You could tell Les was annoyed. Several of the helpers that day, were trying to cool things down, and let the mouthpiece know, he was being rude to the other bidders, because of his constant interruptions. His comments were just dumb. It was obvious all he wanted to do was get a laugh from the audience. Some times he did get his moment of glory, when two or three of his cronies, in the cluster of people near the podium, laughed out loud. If he had actually been asking sensible questions, or making reasonable suggestions, instead of the verbal horseplay, that was getting real tiresome by the halfway point of the sale……I'm pretty sure Les would have preferred to let it all pass. Then it happened. All those who knew Les intimately, inhaled and held their breath, for what seemed to be an eternity. He had a look of jagged stone, that was quite frightening, even from a distance. All eyes were fixed on his movements on the platform.
This time, he stopped the bidding on an item up for auction, initially because he couldn't concentrate on the cadence any longer, because of the jerk's constant chattering. I watched him push his trademark Stetson back on his head, wipe the sweat off his forehead, stop to pull up his trousers, regain a firm grasp of the cane in his hand, and saw that first powerful, confrontational step off the small riser, that elevated him for the sale. He walked through the audience, that parted very swiftly to let him pass (these were the regulars, who had seen this before), and with cane elevated to jousting level, he approached the trouble-maker. With body language alone, he let this tool know, his outbursts would no longer be tolerated. He was almost nose to nose, and the chap was as white as his Stetson. The guy couldn't even blink, he was so scared, looking at this huge chunk of humanity, who with his cane, made what many of us believed, was a threat to cause bodily discomfort …….if he spoke just one more word during the rest of the sale. I don't remember what he said, because most of us were sure Les was going to knock him onto the ground. But he was quite tactful, and never raised the cane to striking position, and most of the crowd applauded him, when all was said and done. Les was a minor folk hero around here, because of this ingrained tough love characteristic. When he turned around to go back to the podium, to finish the sale, people were slapping him on the back. "Way to go Les…..that'll teach him." The scrawny chap was lucky that day, Les was in a relatively good mood. Me thinks he would have had an unmistakable wood grain imprinted upon his forehead, from the auctioneer's cane, had he offered one more auction critique…..when nose to nose in the scrum of bidders, moving close to catch all the impending drama about to unfold. Maybe there were some people disappointed that day, he hadn't fulfilled their fantasy, by creaming the loudmouth, then and there. But it was the Les Rutledge I knew, from many misadventures at the Herald-Gazette front desk. I can remember walking into the office one morning, and finding the clerk in tears. When I asked what was wrong, she said, "I just heard Les died yesterday." Funny thing that! Her Monday morning adversary, had expired, and she was going to miss their little over-the-counter debates, about billing rates. We were all shocked that day, because he was just one of those colorful characters you run into, who captures your attention……and not always for the best reasons. Les was always kind to Suzanne and I, as was his son Wayne, who would later take over his father's auction tradition. Wayne was a fascinating guy as well, and I'd like to share some stories of our relationship with him, in the next several blogs.
The point is, if you're going to be a court jester, go and find a location where there isn't an auction ongoing. It's just plain stupid to heckle the auctioneer, who inevitably has the authority to stop the bidding, if he so chooses, and offer no other apology than…."I'm sorry, I didn't see (or hear) your bid." Well sir, the heckler never won a single item in that day's bidding. Les had a good memory too, so there wasn't much chance he was ever going to win a bid, at any of his future auctions either. I've been at dozens and dozens of sales, where these penny-for-your-thoughts showboats, feel they have to entertain the audience, by bellowing their comedic one-liners…..which after a couple of hours, stir nothing more than angry grumbling, and threats of bodily harm. If you are genuinely interested in securing items from the auction, by placing the winning bids, then it is imperative, to mind your manners. Having a pissed-off auctioneer, pretty much guarantees that the going won't be fruitful that day. Not every auctioneer, who is heckled, tackles the perpetrator as aggressively as the good Mr. Rutledge. Many just prefer to issue a casual warning, or to pause for a gentle word with the intrusive bidder; but honestly, short of being on a hockey rink, I've never witnessed anything as powerfully informative, as the afternoon, Les Rutledge pounded down hard, off that wooden podium, to set the record straight……about what he felt was fair comment, and what he believed was insulting to his reputation as a country auctioneer. He had spunk that's for sure.
Please join me tomorrow, for a look at the work of his multi-talented son, Wayne Rutledge, a former professional hockey player, a glazier, and a hell of an auctioneer. Thanks for dropping by today for a visit. Lots more to come, if you can stand all the excitement and good humor of the "lighter side of antique hunting." See you again soon. Cheers.
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