I'VE BEEN CALLED WORSE, BUT NEVER ONCE A "STORY COLLECTOR" - AND I'M NOT SURE HOW TO TAKE IT!
THE ONLY THING IS, I THINK MY WIFE IS ABSOLUTELY CORRECT! INSTEAD OF STORIES, THEY'RE REALLY STASHED AWAY MEMORIES
I know a number of collectors, who are embarrassed to admit being consumed by their excesses, and will kid about turning into hoarders. I've known hoarders who never once confessed that they had some problems with their obsession to collect and keep more stuff than proportional to the space in which they dwelled. I'm not sure about this, but I think you're not quite a hoarder, if you admit openly you possess a lot of stuff. Well then get this! My wife and business partner believes, without doubt, that I am, without doubt, a hoarder of epic proportion! But it's not about collecting material things. I have a lot of those items, for sure. What she assesses however, is that I stock-pile stories, or "memories." How is that considered "hoarding." Suzanne replies, "I don't really mean you hoard them, because you are always sharing them, either in newspaper columns, or on the blog; and in conversation. I think you are just a story collector, but not really in print." She's correct about one aspect of this claim. I don't collect print stories that I have written. About ten years ago, I cleansed my physical archives of all paper clippings, from my newspaper days, because I felt they were an anchor to creativity; a burden to overcome before I could move on with future projects. Writers can get weird like this, so this was my period of eccentricity. I recycled three van loads in fact. So collecting stories in my mind works pretty good, thus far, and there's no real danger of them catching fire, and burning our house down. I might one day spontaneously combust, someone finding smoke coming out of my empty running shoes, but nothing else around me will be disturbed. It will just smell like an electric radiator with a layer of dust on it! The release valve, and sense of purpose to this collection of stories, is the fact I can put them into print for the benefit of readers, and then I move on to the next story, and on and on I go. I do not possess them in print, for any longer than it takes to read a copy of a paper in which one of my columns appeared. Then I pass it on to other reader who ventures into our shop. I like sharing these stories, as I have a lot to spare. I've been doing this for a majority of my life, as a sincere appreciation for what I have enjoyed in life, and hasn't cost me a dime. As for the stories collected in cyberspace? That's different. I never run them off into hard copy. I sort of like Suzanne's assessment, and afterall, she does know me pretty well if anybody does. I am contemplative a lot at home; I guess getting ready to share the very next story in the vast reserve of my story collection. I can't imagine not having them to draw on, and I suppose, it's what keeps me writing daily.
There are lots of people, customers, friends, and possibly some of you folks, reading this blog today, who assume that in order to be an antique dealer, of any significant history and rank, whatsoever, one must be financially very well off. Maybe even a millionaire. If you play in the big leagues of antiques, it's generally accepted opinion, the value of inventory and personal holdings, on their own, could qualify the successful dealer as a person of considerable wealth. True enough, there are many extremely successful antique dealers, who are both rich in sales, and in antique investment. And, as well, there are a bunch of us hard core antique lovers, who will never make it to the millionaire dealers' club, but it doesn't mean we aren't hustlers, and as well, major contributors to the goodwill of the profession. I don't feel at all disadvantaged because I can't whip out a thousand bucks for a clock I want for the store, or ten thousand dollars, to buy a nice abstract painting I found, bargain-priced at a going-out-of-business sale, at a city gallery.
As I've written about many times before, in this blog, and in many antique columns for speciality publications, I am proudly of the ilk of antique and collectable scroungers. I operate on a tight budget, and this has been the common thread in my biography, as an antique hunter and dealer, for as far back as I can recall. I don't feel disadvantaged or hard-done-by, and as far as the lack of big bucks, and anything identifiable as "reckless abandon," it has never seemed a very big obstacle, to the daily hustling-up of stuff for the shop, or for our personal collection. The business realities for me, have always depended on frugality, and when you spend more than three decades doing this collecting thing, it just becomes part of day to day life, trying to stretch every dollar and still fill the shop with interesting and unique items. As I love the profession, and decided early in life that I would make a career out of it, there really hasn't been any other option, than to get by with less. The "scrounger" aspect, of my hunt and gather practices, which goes all the way back to childhood, is so deeply imbedded today, that I'd probably go nuts, if, all of a sudden, Suzanne, my accountant, handed me ten thousand dollars to spend at an auction or estate sale. I'd come back with all kinds of crap, including magic beans. I'm used to scrounging and it makes me happy, to ferret out a good deal on some interesting antique or collectable piece. It has made the business of hustling antiques much more adventurous and fulfilling; than if I just whipped out a wad of bills, every time something old interested me. Having to budget, to get more for less, and still keep our customers happy, is what fuels every single adventure, whether that means poking through flea markets, yard sales, thrift and charity shops, and even at auctions. I'm experienced enough, as is Suzanne, my business partner, that we know how and where to make these finds as a matter of routine; and are well travelled enough, to economize in all ways of business operation. We don't travel widely or wildly, thousands of miles each week, trying to make the big scores, like some folks I know in the profession. Our efficiency as dealers, is that we can keep costs down, especially travel expenses. It affords us the opportunity to sell what we find out there, at lower prices than our competitors, who either pay too much for their inventory, or want too much mark-up to compensate. Going into this new eocnomic downturn, in our country, I'm glad we have remained frugal, because extravagance and recessionary times, only go together if you're in that higher income bracket, resilient to the inner calamity of financial storms. We operate at home and in the shop, by the rules of modest proportion. Which simply means, we'll get by with less, and be thankful to be without major debt; even if sales slump, we have allowed for this well in advance. We're preparing for it right now, because it's obvious to us, having survived numerous downturns in thirty years, that next winter is going to be recessionary in nature, whether governing politicians wish to admit it or not.
The reason for this weighty opening explanation, of why I have always been the "poster boy" of "Professional Frugality in the Antique Trade," and the portrait below the dictionary definition of "Scrounger," is to explain why I have to go way, way back to my days scrounging in Burlington, my original home town. Charles Dickens might well have written me into one of his manuscripts, had we been around at the same time in history; maybe I would have made it into the story of "Oliver Twist," or "The Old Curiosity Shop." Suzanne reminded me that I am a model of "Old Joe," the second hand dealer, in Dickens' story, "A Christmas Carol," and as I love all the characters Dickens ever created, I feel rather honored to be seen in this antique light. But it came from somewhere. I can't believe I was born a "scrounger," or the apprentice "cheapskate." Yet, my mother, God rest her soul, would say the opposite if she was sitting beside me now. I couldn't go to school in Burlington, without finding something to jam into my pocket for posterity. I couldn't go to the Burlington Arena, without the fringe benefits of hauling home partial rolls of hockey tape, broken hockey sticks, pucks shot over the boards, lost and found mitts, toques and scarves, damaged hockey equipment, single skates, laces, and hockey programs tossed in the garbage, after junior games on Saturday afternoons. Even around the neighborhood, of Harris Crescent, I could load thirty or forty small items into the pockets of my windbreaker, and pants, and look surprisingly thin, when trying to sneak it all past the sentry, my mother, and safely into my bedroom. I just couldn't let this neat stuff go unattended, even if, by definition, it really was someone else's trash; or the remnants of an accident scene down along the lakeshore, that I might have come upon, on the way to and from Lakeshore Public School. I was the mirror image of "a hoarder," by the age of six. Was it a mental illness? Gosh, I don't know, but if it was, it still is, except, I must have recovered a bit; I don't accumulate quite the volume of stuff, as I did a quarter century ago, when I was probably at my peak of hoarding.
As I noted earlier in January, this 2015 collection of blogs, highlighting antiques and collectables, and stories about the wild and whacky life of an antique dealer, is without apology, biographical for my family members, who may, one day down the road, wish to know just how eccentric old dad really was, that they somehow missed while I was alive. The fact that this collecting bug burrowed into my psyche so early in life, I feel the necessity to offer it up, as "part of the whole" interesting or "silly" biography. Worts and all, it's how I got from there to here, and carried-on the "scrounger" tradition, for more than a half century. My young life was full of adventure, let me tell you, and whether it was wandering around the interior of an old estate, awaiting demolition, looking for anything to scoop up, before being covered in knocked-down building debris, or panning for gold down along Ramble Creek, I got into this magic of treasure hunting at a time in my life, that forged the collecting passion for every day that has come afterwards. I grew up being fascinated by pirates, and their buried treasure, and I watched lots of shows about prospectors, questing for gold. I dug a lot of holes in our neighborhood, and on Ann Nagy's property, where we lived, (in her apartment building), suspecting a pirate like Jack Sparrow, had buried stolen loot. I didn't really think out the "proximity to the sea" thing out, as Burlington would have been a long way off course, and overland, to bury a sea-faring treasure chest. I was always looking for gold sparkles in the rocks in, and on the shore of Ramble Creek, but my mother informed me, after a big haul, one day, that the flecks of yellow, were actually just "fool's gold," and I was the lead fool. I really didn't give a hoot about my critics or all the other naysayers, who thought I was nuts for carrying twenty pounds of rocks in my pockets, coming up out of the Ramble Creek ravine. I could always use the rocks to decorate my room, and for natural islands in the turtle bowl. Merle told me the rocks smelled like the creek water, as an excuse to toss them back down the ravine when I was at school.
My Burlington days, in all honestly, created the antique collector / dealer-me. Everyone I knew and came in contact with, back in those wonderful growing-up years, influenced my perception about the past, the present, and expectations for the future. I grew up knowing about nostalgia, and its pull of the heart strings, before I even knew what the word meant. I can only explain this, as an almost paranormal sensation, of knowing what is past, as it affects my life, before it has been experienced. From a young age, I had a wickedly sharp perception of time, and an acute appreciation of how sad I was going to feel when it had passed. It's the root reason why I do what I do today, in both antiques and writing. I have a sensitivity, and profound worry, about not appreciating what was for that second, "in the moment." I started mentally recording events and actuality, as far back as pre-school, as if it was mandated by God that I should do so, for my spiritual development. Crazy stuff, but then how many people do you know, or read, who have had an audience with an angel? I sometimes think that this may have been one of the trigger points for me, and my compulsion to collect memories, even when they don't seem to be at all "memorable." Every account I have read, about the significance of having angel contact, is that the individual is never the same again. Happily and insightfully so! It happened so early in my life, during a dreadful illness, while living in Burlington, that I really can't discount that it was the point when my sensitivity, about the past, jumped to the exponent of ten; at least in terms of relevance to everything else I was about, as a voyeur of this crazy old world. Was I gifted by an angel, to know about my own reincarnation? Had I lived previous lives? Was my perception increased, about the importance of time and its passing, etching upon the soul. When Suzanne one day, for no particular reason, called my an "old soul," I stopped what I was doing, and stared back at her, as if she had just put a key into the lock I had never been able to open on my own. Gads, what if I really am an old soul? Recycled over the centuries? What if the angel dream was the inspiration, for my and obsessive reckoning of history? Where did I get this passion for old things, endless amounts of strange keepsakes, and my unfaltering feeling that "I've been in this place before in a previous life." Oh boy, I live with this constantly, and it is weird, I have to tell you. I benefit from it, in terms of insight, as a writer, but I shiver every time I come upon some situation or scene, in another town or city neighborhood, and feel this compulsive feeling, to look for specific landmarks, churches, homes, and businesses, that I feel are somewhere close. There are a lot of explanations for this, I'm sure, so I don't debilitate myself looking for answers every time, I am hit by a tidal wave of deju vu. It explains, somewhat then, why I have to revisit my Burlington years, because I have this nagging tug at my heartstrings, that there is unfinished business with my recollections, that must be righted.
Just the other night, Suzanne and I were talking about collecting antiques, and after we had exhausted the topic, she turned to look past the china cupboard where I had retired to look at a book, and said, "You know, whether you realize this or not, you are a collector of stories." Once again, I felt it necessary to ask for an explanation, even though I was pretty sure I knew what she meant. "Do you realize how many stories you have tucked away in that big bearded head of yours, dating back almost to infancy, that you can call up, as quickly, as one would expect to do with an online search on a computer." I'm not sure about this, but I kind of think she meant it as a compliment. "You sit here, in your chair, after work, and you are reading your memories, like most of us would read a magazine or a book," she added. "You might think of it as daydreaming or 'thinking about stuff,' but I'm willing to bet you are wandering through your own biography, finding your old cronies, and hiding away in those places you used to find sanctuary." I couldn't argue with a thing she was saying, but I had to admit, it was a rather strange overview of what I may or may not have been thinking about; or ever thought about in her company, during our social occasions at Birch Hollow. "You're not a deep thinker, and I know you aren't unsettled by your memories; and I know you're not trying to define the outer limits of the universe," she said. "You're paying homage to the past. At times you seem more comfortable this way; it's certainly the way you relax. You've been doing the same thing since we got married." I tried to assure the good woman, it isn't a means of escaping our marriage, if that's what she was inferring. To me, if what she says is true, (and I do sort of agree with her), it is just a comfortable respite, and something that reminds me of the precedents of the past, my past, which have been the template, afterall, for everything that has come since. "You could write about your recollections every day for the rest of your life, and never, ever, have a dry well to deal with. There must be a good reason, why God gave you this ability to live these moments of your life so many times over." It sure explains a lot of things, especially my love for history and antiques. Yet as a collector, and a frugal one at that, I apparently am a very rich man, for what I have stashed away in memories, for nary more expense, than a budget of time, to appreciate the good life I have so very much enjoyed.
Here now are (at least to me), some of my cherished recollections, of how I began in this mortal coil, old soul or not; and why I have sought refuge in the nostalgia of what I have always believed, were the good old days. Maybe I'm deluded; but then maybe I'm just the enlightened soul, that was touched by an angel. I will rely on my abilities as a story teller to make this point; the rest is up to you to judge accordingly. But I'm going to bet, you have never read an antique dealer biography like this one!
MY OWN INDIANA JONES ADVENTURE -
WHERE THIS COLLECTING THING BEGAN - THEY CALL ME BIG-FOOT
IT'S TRUE. I'M NOT PARTICULARLY HAIRY, AND THAT INCLUDES MY HEAD, ARMS AND LEGS, AND I DON'T JUMP OUT OF THICK WOODS TO SCARE UNSUSPECTING HIKERS. SO WHEN A FAMILY MEMBER CALLS ME BIG-FOOT, IT'S BECAUSE I HAVE ONE FOOT WIDER THAN THE OTHER. NO, THIS WAS NOT A NATURAL CONDITION. IT WAS HOWEVER, THE FIRST SIGN OF THE COLLECTOR-ME, AND AN EARLY CROSS-ROADS BETWEEN BEING AN HONEST COLLECTOR, AND A TOMB RAIDER. ONE INCIDENT, ONE ACCIDENT, LED ME TO TAKE THE ROAD TOWARD HONESTY, AS A FUTURE COLLECTOR. I THINK OF THIS EVERY TIME I TRY ON A NEW PAIR OF SHOES. IT'S NOT EASY OUTFITTING MY FEET, AND THAT'S BEEN A REALITY FOR ABOUT A HALF CENTURY. HERE'S HOW I BECAME SUDDENLY MISSHAPEN.
I DON'T KNOW HOW MANY READERS, SOME WHO ARE ANTIQUE AND COLLECTIBLE ENTHUSIASTS, AND EVEN DEALERS, SPEND MUCH TIME ANALYZING HOW THEIR INTERESTS IN THE FIELD BEGAN. AS I WROTE IN YESTERDAY'S BLOG, I KNOW THAT HANGING AROUND IN MOM AND POP CORNER VARIETY STORES, IN MY PERIOD OF THE 60'S AND EARLY 70'S, PLAYED A MAJOR ROLE IN ATTRACTING ME TO THE ANTIQUE PROFESSION. BUT I ALSO RECOGNIZE THE SEEDS WERE PLANTED LONG BEFORE THIS, DURING THE PERIOD MY FAMILY LIVED ON A TIDY LITTLE CUL-DE-SAC IN THE CITY OF BURLINGTON, ONTARIO. THIS WAS MY INITIAL FORAY AS A HUNTER-GATHERER, AND THERE WERE FEW DAYS GOING TO AND FROM LAKESHORE PUBLIC SCHOOL, THAT I DIDN'T HAVE TO BE FRISKED AT THE DOOR AT BOTH ENDS OF THE JOURNEY…… TRYING TO GET IN THE SCHOOL WITH AN ASSORTMENT OF PROHIBITED ITEMS, AND THEN AGAIN AT HOME, ATTEMPTING TO SNEAK PAST MY MOTHER, WITH EVERYTHING IN MY POCKETS FROM CHESTNUTS, TO LIVESTOCK…..FROGS, INSECTS I FOUND NEAT, AND SUNDRY OTHER BITS AND BOBBS FOUND ON, AND ALONGSIDE THE ROADS, TO AND FROM SCHOOL. I HAD DEEP POCKETS. I KNOW MY MOTHER MERLE WAS CONCERNED ABOUT MY PENCHANT FOR HAULING STUFF HOME, AND I'M SURE SHE RAN IT BY HER NEIGHBOR FRIENDS…."WHAT'S WRONG WITH MY BOY. HE'S CRAZY WITH WHAT HE BRINGS HOME." WITHOUT QUESTION, I DID BRING SOME ODD THINGS HOME. NOTHING STRANGER HOWEVER THAN THE LEGENDARY NEIGHBORHOOD RELIC KNOWN AS THE "GOOLAGONG." (NOTHING TO DO WITH THE TENNIS PLAYER). HERE'S HOW THAT DEAL WENT DOWN.
RAY GREEN AND I WERE NOT IN A GANG. WE WERE BOTH PACIFISTS. KIDS THAT ADORED BEING OUTDOORS AND PLAYING ALONG THE BANK OF OLD RAMBLE CREEK, THAT RAN THROUGH THE SIDE LOTS OF THE HARRIS CRESCENT PROPERTIES, ONE MAJOR BLOCK FROM THE SHORE OF LAKE ONTARIO…..ABOUT THREE BLOCKS FROM BRANT STREET, THE MAIN DRAG. RAY AND HIS SISTER HOLLY, WERE PART OF OUR LITTLE GANG….IF YOU COULD CALL IT THAT AT ALL. WELL, THERE WAS A SMALL GATHERING OF KIDS, WHO HAD BUILT A BOX CLUBHOUSE, NEAR A CLUSTER OF APARTMENT BUILDINGS, ON THE END OF THE HYDRO POWER LINE, ALSO ADJACENT TO RAMBLE CREEK. THEIR PLYWOOD ENCAMPMENT WASN'T TOO FAR FROM THE BORDER OF LION'S CLUB PARK. RAY HAD SOME INSIDE INFORMATION, THAT THESE LADS HAD A SPECIAL COLLECTION OF HAND HELD DEVICES, THAT HAD SOME AMAZING POWER ATTACHED. LIKE SOMETHING A WIZARD WOULD USE TO TURN AN OPPONENT INTO A HORNY TOAD OR SOMETHING. I WAS EASILY LED AS A YOUNGSTER, RAY BEING MY SVENGALI, I SUPPOSE. SO WHEN HE SUGGESTED THAT WE COULD BE MASTERS OF THIS DOMAIN, BY HAVING THOSE MAGICAL WEAPONS, HE CALLED "GOOLAGONGS," WHO WAS I TO ARGUE WITH WHAT RAY FELT WAS OUR DESTINY OF WORLD DOMINATION. I THINK I WAS PROBABLY SEVEN YEARS OLD AT THIS TIME. I KNEW THERE WERE MONSTERS UNDER THE BED, AND I DARESAY IN THE CLOSET AS WELL. BUT AT THE SAME TIME, I WAS CONFLICTED IN LOVE WITH A CLASSMATE NAMED DONNA. I STALKED HER DAILY. SHE DIDN'T KNOW I WAS ALIVE, EXCEPT WHEN I ACCIDENTALLY STEPPED ON HER SHOES, WHEN I GOT TOO CLOSE. SO WHAT I DIDN'T HAVE IN RECIPROCAL LOVE, I RE-INVESTED INSTEAD, IN THIS HUGE ADVENTURE WITH MY CHILDHOOD CHUM.
SO, WITH STEALTH AND COMMITMENT, TO PREVAIL OVER THESE NEIGHBORHOOD TOUGHS, RAY AND I SNUCK UP ON THEIR CLUBHOUSE, USING THE AMPLE SHRUBBERY OF THE CREEK BASIN, TO CONCEAL OUR APPROACH. RAY HAD ALREADY OBSERVED THE GANG LEAVING THE FORT, AND CALCULATED WE HAD JUST ENOUGH TIME TO MAKE THE RAID, SECURE THE GOOLAGONGS, AND BEAT A HASTY RETREAT BACK INTO THE WOODLANDS. TO GET ACCESS TO THE BOX-FORT, YOU HAD TO CLIMB UP AN UNSECURED SHEET OF FOUR, BY EIGHT FOOT PLYWOOD, WITH SMALL BOARDS NAILED ONTO THE FRONT, AS A SORT OF LADDER TO THE TOP. AND YES IT WAS A LITTLE WOBBLY UNDER OUR WEIGHT. WE HAD TO CLIMB DOWN INTO THE BOX, WHICH DID SEEM A TAD STRANGE, AS THE DOOR WOULD NORMALLY BE ON ONE OF THE SIDES. WHEN WE BOTH USED AN INSIDE LADDER TO GET DOWN INTO THE NERVE CENTER OF THE CLUBHOUSE, WE FOUND TWO OF THE COVETED GOOLAGONGS. RAY GOT ONE, AND HANDED ME THE OTHER. "LET'S GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE THEY COME BACK," HE YELLED TO ME, ALREADY HALFWAY UP THE LADDER TO THE ROOF. IT WAS THE "COMING BACK" PART I HADN'T BEEN AWARE OF. I DIDN'T KNOW WE WERE ON A TIGHT BUDGET OF TIME, TO MAKE OUR GREAT ESCAPE. SO I HUSTLED OUT OF THE ENCLOSURE, JUST IN TIME TO WATCH RAY LITERALLY BOUNCE DOWN THE PLYWOOD. "THEY'RE COMING TED, THEY'RE COMING," HE SHOUTED, ALREADY RUNNING UP THE HYDRO FIELD, IN PLAIN VIEW OF THE THREE GANGSTERS COMING FROM LIONS PARK. FIRST OF ALL, WE HAD AGREED, OUR ESCAPE WOULD HAVE BEEN HARDER TO FOLLOW, DOWN THROUGH THE CREEK BED, AS WE COULD RUN AMONGST THE THICK SHRUBS, LIKE DEER IN FLIGHT…..ALMOST INVISIBLE IN THE ZONE WE WERE MOST FAMILIAR. HE DIDN'T FOLLOW PROTOCOL AT ALL THAT DAY.
WHEN I TOOK MY TURN TO GO DOWN THE PLYWOOD, MUCH THE SAME AS RAY HAD LEPT DOWN, (INSTEAD OF USING THE LADDER RUNGS), I DIDN'T KNOW THE PANEL HAD SHIFTED AWAY FROM THE STRUCTURE OF THE FORT. SO WHEN I TOOK THE FIRST BOUNCE DOWN, THE PLYWOOD DROPPED STRAIGHT TO THE GROUND WITH ME ON IT. THE DROP WAS ABOUT EIGHT FEET, AND I LANDED ON ONE FOOT, FRACTURING IT BADLY. THE PAIN WAS HORRIFIC. BUT I STILL HAD TO RUN, FOR FEAR OF BEING BEATEN TO A PULP. RAY HAD TOSSED DOWN HIS GOOLAGONG, BUT I REFUSED. WHILE RAY WAS HAVING HIS LUNCH, I WAS STILL TRYING TO GET AWAY FROM THESE LADS, AND AFTER SOME INTERESTING DEKES AND DIVERSIONS, I MADE IT IN THE APARTMENT DOOR WITH ABOUT TWO SECONDS TO SPARE. THE DOOR LOCKED AS THE CLENCHED FIST OF MY PURSUER, POUNDED THE HOLLOW WOOD. MERLE HAD BEEN SNEAKING A CIGARETTE, AND SHOT UP LIKE A JUMPING JACK, KNOCKING A GLOWING PORTION OF ASH ON HER BLOUSE….WHICH MOST CERTAINLY LEFT A MARK. SHE WENT TO ANSWER THE DOOR, AGAINST MY URGING NOT TO, AND TO MAKE A LONG STORY SHORT, WELL, SHE HANDED MY ENEMY CAPTAIN THE GOOLAGONG I HAD STOLEN, YELLED AT ME FOR ABOUT A HALF HOUR….TOLD ME THAT I WAS LUCKY TO BE ALIVE…..AS THE KID REALLY WANTED TO KILL ME…..AND THEN ASKED ME WHY MY RIGHT FOOT LOOKED LIKE I HAD A FOOTBALL TUCKED INTO MY SOCK. SO OFF TO THE HOSPITAL WE WENT. ALL FOR A GOOLAGONG I HAD TO HAVE…….BECAUSE OF ITS MAGICAL POWERS. YEA, WELL, THIS WAS TEDDY'S FOLLY. ALL I GOT WAS A REALLY BIG FOOT FOR LIFE.
I PAID DEARLY FOR THAT INDISCRETION, WHERE "WANT" CLEARLY OUTWEIGHED CONSEQUENCE. THE X-RAY AT JOSEPH BRANT HOSPITAL SHOWED A SUBSTANTIAL FRACTURE IN MY FOOT, AND DOC PRESTON CAME TO OUR APARTMENT TO WRAP MY FOOT. HE PUT A DRESSING ON MY SKIN, THAT WHEN WRAPPED, MADE IT FEEL AS IF I WAS WALKING ON HOT COALS FOR ABOUT A DAY. THAT BROUGHT TEARS TO MY EYES. WHEN MERLE EXPLAINED TO THE DOCTOR, HOW IT ALL CAME ABOUT, HE PUT HIS HAND ON MY SHOULDER AND ASKED, "WELL TED, ARE YOU GOING TO DO THAT AGAIN?" I SHOOK MY HEAD BECAUSE THE PAIN IN MY FOOT, KEPT ME SPEECHLESS FOR QUITE A WHILE.
RAY AND I WERE GOOD CHUMS RIGHT UP INTO OUR TWENTIES, BUT WE MOVED A CONSIDERABLE DISTANCE APART. I DIDN'T BLAME HIM FOR GETTING ME INTO TROUBLE. I COULD HAVE SAID NO. I DO BLAME HIM FOR LEAVING ME TO FIGHT OFF THE GANG. WHILE HE WAS HIDING UNDER THE BED, SAFELY IN HIS APARTMENT. I'M TOLD I DID MORE DAMAGE TO THE FOOT BY RUNNING AWAY, THAN IF I HAD LIMPED HOME ON RAY'S SHOULDER. IT WAS ONE OF THOSE THINGS THOUGH, WHERE SELF PRESERVATION KICKED IN, AND THE THOUGHT OF GETTING A DAMN SUBSTANTIAL BEATING FROM THE GANG RUNNING BEHIND, OUTWEIGHED THE POTENTIAL OF HAVING ONE REALLY BIG FOOT FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. WHAT STARTED WITH AN INTEREST IN SECURING AN ENCHANTED WEAPON, ENDED WITH AN ENLARGED FOOT AND A VIVID MEMORY OF MY ONLY TIME AS INDIANA JONES, IN THE PURSUIT OF THE "HOLY GOOLAGONG."
AT ABOUT THIS AGE, I REALLY DID TURN ON TO TOYS THAT WERE MINIATURES OF THE REAL MCCOYS. YOU KNOW, A WOODEN BOAT WITH AN INBOARD ENGINE, WITH BATTERY POWER, THAT ACTUALLY DASHED ACROSS THE OPEN WATER. I CAN REMEMBER MY DAD COMING HOME WITH WHAT I ALWAYS THOUGHT WAS A CHRIS CRAFT MINIATURE, WITH A BATTERY DRIVEN INBOARD ENGINE, THAT I THINK NOW MUST HAVE BEEN FOR MY BIRTHDAY. WE DIDN'T HAVE MUCH MONEY THEN, SO I CAN'T IMAGINE, THAT HE ALL OF A SUDDEN TOOK LEAVE OF HIS SENSES, AND BOUGHT ME WHAT I THINK WOULD HAVE BEEN AN EXPENSIVE TOY. FOR WEEKS, I PLAYED WITH THAT LITTLE BOAT IN THE BATH-TUB. I KEPT BUGGING ED TO TAKE ME DOWN TO THE PARK NEAR THE OLD BRANT INN, SO I COULD RUN THE BOAT IN LAKE ONTARIO. FINALLY HE RELENTED, AND FATHER AND SON HAD A PLAY DATE WITH A REALLY NICE BOAT. NOW ED WAS IMPATIENT WITH THINGS LIKE THAT, AND HE DIDN'T APPRECIATE FULLY, THE RUDDER HAD TO BE SET TO THE DIRECTION IT WAS SUPPOSED TO GO. SUCH AS BEING POSITIONED SUCH THAT THE BOAT WOULD CRUISE IN A CIRCLE. SO HE JUST SET THE RUDDER STRAIGHT, SECURED THE BATTERIES, TURNED IT ON, WHILE STILL IN HIS HAND, PLACED IT IN THE WATER, AND IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL SIGHT TO SEE. MY LITTLE BOAT HEADING OUT TO THE OPEN LAKE. IT MANAGED TO GO SO PERFECTLY STRAIGHT, IT WENT RIGHT THROUGH THE OPENING OF THE BREAK WALL, THAT PROTECTED THE BEACHFRONT, AND WE STOOD THERE, FATHER AND SON, WAVING GOODBYE TO MY BIRTHDAY PRESENT. I DON'T REMEMBER GETTING A REPLACEMENT TOY, ALTHOUGH I MAY BE WRONG ABOUT THIS.
I ALSO HAD, AT THIS TIME, A WONDERFUL LITTLE TIN BATTLESHIP, ON WHEELS, THAT YOU COULD PLAY WITH ON A TILE OR WOOD FLOOR, AND IT WOULD CHANGE DIRECTIONS WHEN IT HIT AN OBSTACLE, OR THE WALL. I LOVED THAT SHIP BUT REPLACING THE BATTERIES WAS COSTLY. MY MOTHER GAVE IT AWAY TO ANOTHER KID IN OUR APARTMENT BLOCK, BECAUSE SHE DETERMINED I HAD OUTGROWN IT. ED ONCE BOUGHT ME A NICE LITTLE ROBOT FOR CHRISTMAS, ALSO REQUIRING BATTERIES, AND THEN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, CAME OUT OF THE BATHROOM AND CRUSHED IT UNDER-FOOT. THEN HE BOUGHT ME AN EVEN BIGGER ROBOT THAT I THINK WAS CALLED "ROBBIE THE ROBOT," AND IT WAS PRETTY MUCH INDESTRUCTIBLE. I THINK IT TOOK FOUR LARGE BATTERIES, BUT IT WAS SPECTACULAR WHEN IT WAS SWITCHED ON. IT WALKED, HAD LIGHTS ON THE INSIDE THE GLASS SHIELD, OF THE ROBOT'S HEAD, AND THE ANTENNAE ROTATED WHEN IT WALKED. ANOTHER CLASSIC TIN TOY I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE NOW, THAT MY MOTHER DECIDED WAS SURPLUS, JUST BECAUSE I GOT OLDER. I CERTAINLY WASN'T OVER-RUN BY TOYS, BUT I ALWAYS GOT A HOCKEY STICK FOR CHRISTMAS, AND THAT KEPT ME GOING THROUGH THE YEAR. I COULD USE THE STICK AS A MAKE-BELIEVE GUN IN A PINCH, IF THE NEIGHBOR KIDS DECIDED TO HAVE A WESTERN-THEME DAY. I ALSO REMEMBER A GUN AND HOLSTER, PLUS CALLING CARDS, INSPIRED BY THE TELEVISION SHOW "PALADIN," I BELIEVE, AND I WAS ALWAYS DRAWING MY GUN ON FOLKS I DIDN'T CARE FOR. I GAVE ALL MY CALLING CARDS OUT ON A DOOR TO DOOR CANVAS, ONE DAY, WHICH REALLY FREAKED OUT THE NEIGHBORS. I WAS A GUNSLINGER, YOU SEE. WHEN I FELT LIKE BEING A BAD GUY, I WAS JACK PALANCE, IN HIS HIRED GUN ROLE IN THE MOVIE "SHANE." ONCE AGAIN, I THINK THAT LONG BEFORE I GOT THE URGE TO HEAD WEST, TO JOIN THE REST OF THE HIRED GUNS, MERLE LEFT ME GUN-LESS WHEN I GOT HOME ONE DAY AFTER SCHOOL. TO COMPENSATE, I JUST KEPT FINDING NEW THINGS TO BRING HOME FOR MYSELF INSTEAD. I HAD LOTS OF CONTRABAND STASHED UNDER MY BED, AND AT THE BACK OF THE CLOSET. I WASN'T A THIEF, EXCEPT IN THE GOOLAGONG INCIDENT, BUT I HAD A FASCINATION FOR FOUND ITEMS THAT WOULD SERVE SOME FUTURE USE. THE ROOT OF THE EVENTUAL HOARDER. MAYBE IF MERLE HADN'T CHUCKED ALL MY STUFF OUT, OR DONATED IT TO NEIGHBORS' KIDS, I WOULDN'T HAVE HAD TO ENACT PLAN "B." THE HUNTING AND GATHERING OF EVERYTHING AND ANYTHING ELSE I COULD FIND ON MY GAD-ABOUTS.
WHEN I THINK BACK TO OTHER SOURCES OF INSPIRATION, BACK IN THOSE YEARS, I REMEMBER GOING WITH MY FATHER ONE DAY TO BUY MY MOTHER A CUP AND SAUCER, FOR HER BIRTHDAY. SHE WAS A BIG TEA DRINKER, AND WAS, AT THE TIME, TRYING TO COLLECT A PARTICULAR PATTERN OF CHINA, LITERALLY ONE CUP AND SAUCER AT A TIME. HE TOOK ME TO A BUSINESS, A COUPLE OF BLOCKS AWAY, NEAR THE SHORE OF LAKE ONTARIO, THAT ONLY DEALT WITH COLLECTIBLE CHINA. I WAS IN AWE. I COULDN'T BELIEVE THIS SEA OF CHINA CUPS, SAUCERS, DISHES, PLATTERS, COVERED DISHES, AND BOWLS EVERYWHERE IN THE SHOP. ED PICKED OUT THE PATTERN MERLE LIKED, AND WE GOT THE CUP AND SAUCER WRAPPED AND BOXED IN THAT INTERESTING SHOP, AND I ALWAYS REMEMBER THE SOFT ORCHESTRAL MUSIC BEING PLAYED, AND THE PERFUME SMELL OF THE AIR INSIDE….WHICH SORT OF REMINDED ME OF OUR LANDLADY'S SPRING GARDEN. I ALSO REMEMBER ED TAKING ME TO THE BURLINGTON BUS STATION, AND THE FRAGRANT SMELL OF TOBACCO FROM A SHOP CONNECTED, I BELIEVE, AND IT WAS MY FIRST INTRODUCTION TO PIPES AND TOBACCO POUCHES. I THINK THERE WAS A BARBERSHOP AS WELL, SO I GOT THE STRONG SCENT OF SHAVING FOAM, AFTER SHAVE AND BRUSH DISINFECTANT….AND THE CLEAR RECOLLECTION OF THE SOUND OF A RAZOR BEING HIT, AND RUN UP AND DOWN THE STRAP, HUNG AT THE SIDE OF THE HUGE BARBER'S CHAIR. I'M PRETTY SURE THIS IS WHERE I GOT TO GO, ONCE A MONTH, FOR MY OWN "EAR LOWERING" AS MY MOTHER USED TO CALL IT. THE BARBER USED TO PUT A BOARD ACROSS THE ARMS, AND THAT'S HOW HIGH IN THE CHAIR I HAD TO SIT, SO THE POOR BUGGER DIDN'T HAVE TO HUNCH OVER TO CUT MY CURLS. I'M PRETTY SURE THERE WAS A CHAP WHO HAD A SHOE-SHINE STAND IN THE MAIN HALL, OF THE STATION, THOUGH I MAY BE WRONG ABOUT THIS. I CAN RECALL THE SMELL OF THE SHOE POLISH, AND I'M REASONABLY SURE ED USED TO HAVE HIS DONE AT THE SAME TIME AS I GOT MY HAIR TRIMMED. THERE WAS A PLETHORA OF SIGHTS, SMELLS AND TEXTURES GOING AROUND THESE PLACES WITH MY FATHER, THAT STILL AFFECT ME TO THIS DAY……..WHEN I COME UPON AN ANTIQUE AND COLLECTIBLE SHOP, THAT HAS NOSTALGIA PIECES I REMEMBER FROM THESE CHILDHOOD VISITATIONS. I STILL GET ENTRANCED BY BARBERSHOP AROMAS, AND THE SWEET SCENT OF FRESH PIPE TOBACCO, AND THE CURL OF SMOKE FROM A NEWLY LIT PIPE BOWL. THE PERMEATING AROMA OF SHOE POLISH…..(AND NO I DON'T SNIFF IT FOR A KICK), ALWAYS REMINDS ME OF THOSE FATHER-SON MOMENTS. I HAVE SEVERAL SHOE-SHINE BOXES WITH CONTENTS…..TO ONE DAY SHOW MY GRANDKIDS WHAT PROFESSIONS USED TO EXIST, BACK IN THE GOOD OLD DAYS.
I KNOW THAT THERE ARE MANY THINGS FROM THOSE DAYS, WHICH LINGER IN MY ANTIQUE INTERESTS ALL THESE YEARS LATER. BUT I DON'T THINK THAT ANYTHING MY PARENTS DID, OR MY FRIENDS PARTICIPATED IN, OR ANYTHING I PICKED UP AT SCHOOL, HELPED ME PLANT THOSE SEEDS OF A FUTURE PROFESSION. I WAS INFLUENCED BY MANY THINGS, TO ENJOY THE PRESENT TENSE…..SO MUCH I GUESS, THAT I TRAPPED THOSE TIMES IN MY HEART AND SOUL, SUCH THAT I HAVE WANTED TO LIVE THEM OVER AND OVER AGAIN. EVEN DOWN TO THE BLACKPOOL ROCK CANDY, I USED TO BE ABLE TO GET FOR A TREAT (AND A FEW PENNIES), AT THE THEATRE MATINEES, IN BURLINGTON AND THEN BRACEBRIDGE. I STILL GO NUTS FOR THE STUFF, THAT ROTTED AND BROKE OFF MY TEETH, BUT BY GOLLY, COULD LAST A WHOLE DAY OF LICKING. I STILL LIKE TO PICK UP THE OCCASIONAL BROWN BAG OF BLACKBALLS, THAT ALSO DESTROYED MY TEETH, BUT FOR THE CASH STRAPPED KID, A THREE FOR A CENT DEAL, WAS WELL WITHIN MY BUDGET. AND WHEN I WAS IN THOSE FASCINATING CORNER SHOPS, WHERE THEY SOLD CENT CANDY, IN BURLINGTON AND BRACEBRIDGE, I WAS MOST DEFINITELY BEING INFLUENCED BY EVERYTHING I WAS SURROUNDED BY…….AND THOUGH I DIDN'T BECOME A COLLECTOR JUST BECAUSE OF THESE SHOPS, IT CERTAINLY WAS THE CRADLING OF MY IMAGINATION, AND THE FERTILIZATION OF THE SEEDS THAT HAD ALREADY BEEN PLANTED.
I CAN REMEMBER RAY GREEN AND I ENTERING AN OLD HOUSE, ON THE HILLSIDE OF TORRANCE AVENUE, AND KNOWING IT WAS ABOUT TO BE TORN DOWN, STARTED HARVESTING EVERYTHING THAT HAD BEEN LEFT LAYING AROUND. INTERESTING STUFF SCATTERED ON THE FLOOR, RANGING FROM VIVIDLY COLORED GLASS, SHATTERED OUT OF THE ELEGANTLY APPOINTED ENTRANCE-WAY, TO GLASS LIGHT SHADES, OLD WIRING, PIECES OF BOOK SHELF TORN FROM THE WALL, AND STRANGE KITCHEN UTENSILS WE FOUND ON THE CLUTTERED KITCHEN COUNTERS. WE ASSUMED THAT IT WAS A CASE OF PICKER'S RIGHTS, AT A TIME WHEN I KNEW NOTHING ABOUT PICKING, OTHER THAN WHAT I PRACTICED OUT OF INTEREST, NOT FOR PROFIT. WE CAME OUT OF THAT HOUSE WITH OUR POCKETS JAMMED TO OVERFLOWING. WHEN WE CAME UP TORRANCE AVENUE THE NEXT DAY AFTER SCHOOL, A TRACTOR WAS PULLING DOWN THE REMAINING WALL OF THE ONCE BEAUTIFUL OLD HOUSE, NESTLED AMONGST THE CHESTNUT TREES. WE COULD NOW CALL THESE ITEMS SOUVENIRS, LIKE THE ONES MY PARENTS USED TO BUY ME WHEN WE WENT TRAVELLING TO PLACES LIKE NIAGARA FALLS AND BUFFALO. IT TOOK MERLE ABOUT A MONTH TO FIND AND THROW OUT THE JUNK I'D HAULED HOME, FROM THE OLD VICTORIAN ERA HOUSE. I WAS DONE WITH IT ANYWAY. IT HAD SERVED ITS PURPOSE OF INSPIRATION. A COLLECTOR WAS BORN. SHE COULDN'T THROW OUT OR GIVE AWAY EVERYTHING. COULD SHE?
MY YOUTH WAS SPENT WITH, AS THEY SAY, "EYES WIDE OPEN." I'M GLAD OF THIS. BUT I TRULY THINK I WAS BORN THIS WAY. MY GRANDMOTHER USED TO SAY I HAD AN "OLD SOUL," BUT I NEVER KNEW WHAT SHE MEANT BY THIS. I THINK I DO NOW.
THANK YOU FOR JOINING TODAY'S BLOG. PLEASE JOIN ME AGAIN, FOR MORE STORIES ABOUT ANTIQUE AND COLLECTIBLE HUNTING.
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