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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