Environmental Realities Influence My Collecting

ENVIRONMENTAL REALITIES INFLUENCED ME CONSTANTLY AS A FLEDGLING COLLECTOR - JUST AS DID, THE INTERESTING PEOPLE MET ALONG THE WAY

IT STARTED IN BURLINGTON FOR ALL THE RIGHT REASONS - IT WOULDN'T BE AN ACCURATE BIOGRAPHY WITHOUT CREDIT GIVEN

     The material below, will read slightly disjointed today, the result of being pleasantly interrupted, almost on the half hour, all day, here at our Gravenhurst antique shop. I am all talked out, and for those who know me, this has only occurred a couple of times in my 59 years; and both times, I was trying to avoid getting the strap at school, for a crime I committed. But felt deserving of credit for all the other acts of benevolence I'd bestowed on classmates, except of course, the occasion when Ray Green and I, tossed poor old George down the coal chute at recess. So please forgive my inconsistencies today, but afterall, this "off the beaten path" stuff, is as much a part of my biography as everything else that is weird and wonderful. We have a social / cultural recreation here, at the shop, in the form of ongoing conversation, that never really ends at the end of one day; and resumes soon after the open sign, is turned the following morning. Let's just call it a maturing point of view, that even casual visitors, feel compelled to weigh-in, critically, or in full support of the prevailing opinion. It might be as simple as a political discussion, or as in most cases, it has something to do with music heritage, and who, pray-tell, was the best guitarist, or song-writer ever. There are no conclusions, but a lot of input, and that can eat into the daylight hours pretty severely. This is where I found myself contently engaged today, with a friend, and I was sorry we had to conclude because of waning business hours. I know we are in this business to make money, but gosh, wasn't it Old Fezziwig, of Charles Dickens' creation, who said, "there's more to life than money sir." Well, I concur.

     I never took the risk of hitching a ride on the rails. Riding a box car wouldn't have suited my need for creature comforts, and although I've read many accounts of living out in the open, the memoirs of former (but reformed) hobos, it never had such an appeal, that I wanted to join the brethren criss-crossing this beautiful continent. I have enjoyed reading about the adventures of others, but alas, I am a craven coward, when it comes to "climbing the heights," "diving to the depths," "jumping from the heavens," or "living life on the wild side," as relates to any discernible hardship I might suffer in their pursuit. I am a mild risk taker. The only time I wasn't of that ilk, was as a youngster, with a penchant for trouble-making, trespassing, rabble-rousing, and a plethora of other anti-social initiatives, provoking such questions from neighbors as, "Who the hell is that kid, and why is he disconnecting that power cable?" Or, "Why is that Currie kid using the gas mower on the road," and "Isn't that my mower?" This was my risk factor. I gave all the physically risky enterprise up when I became an antique dealer. Then it was a whole different type of adventure, and a much more enhanced biography, yet having nothing to do with practical jokes, property damage, grand theft auto, or burglary. I never got caught for these affairs of youth, and if this is the kind of character material, you thought might be in this biography, I must disappoint you now before you read further. The adventures in the antique field, I suppose, are pretty mild, in comparison to my tally of accomplishments as a child. I think they're still kind of neat, despite the lack of gratuitous sexual content, related debauchery, and meaningful crumbs of international intrigue. No, to spice up my biography, I had to write about the great little neighborhood of Harris Crescent, back in the late 1950's and early 60's, that inspired me to carry on life as a wise-acre gad-about, who has always cherished the memories of the places I've lived and worked, experienced thus far along, in this marvellous mortal coil. And yet my biography may read profoundly different that others, in the antique profession, because I pay a lot of credit to the environment, that always nurtured my wanderlust as a hunter / gatherer. My mother, by insisting that "I go out and play," was feeding my addiction for open air, and the exploration of the neighborhood and beyond. It's why I got in crap regularly, for sneaking down the watershed of Ramble Creek, in that great and tropical ravine, to the rocky shore of Lake Ontario, which was the one thing that made my mother regret her liberalities. She let me have a lot of room to roam, but if I came back home, smelling like the Lake Ontario fish, that floated belly-up along the shore, I was temporarily grounded. Which meant, I was not allowed to enter the ravine until my penalty had been served. I loved everything that balliwick had to offer, from its cherry, apple and pear trees, to the magnificently quaint several acres, of historic Lions Club Park, where the water of Ramble Creek, frothed and gurgled over flat limestone, sparkling with the dashing of bleeding through sunlight, into the gentle depression, contrasting the shaded park lawn, where the concrete wading pool sat empty for long and long.

     As a collector, and a full fledged antique dealer, I have never lost the whimsy of casual childhood observation, and never once found myself entirely grown up, such that I couldn't afford myself the luxury, the classic romantic pleasure, of daydreaming and waxing poetic, about what nature inspired at that particular moment, or on that particular collecting adventure. Above all, I have an unspecified indebtedness you see, to the nature that partnered with me, through the years, without any expectation that I might one day, acknowledge the wealth of my now historic liaison, with the nature I have admired and adored, from the days of my childhood adventures. I have never once gone on an antique hunt, where nature was a lesser partner to the set-out mission of discovery. I enjoy my travels from point to point, and I allow the environs, I amble through, to play with my emotions. I am never sullen, or void of the sensory perception, I am plugged into this landscape through the seasons, through the prevailing weather event, storm or calm; and I can not dismiss casually, the ethereal experience of living life to the fullest, despite what some may overview as a strange, disjointed profession of buying and selling the possessions of dead people. My relationship with nature has always been my most important advantage as a collector, from long before I knew what being a "collector" meant. It invigorated me to explore further afield, and as any best friend, never betrayed me, by being uneventful, or passive to my need to be inspired. Thus, the environment has always been part of my ambition to hunt antiques and collectables, especially recognized by those childhood forays, in quest of buried pirate treasure, which took me through the wilds of our neighborhood, always with ripped paper map and child-sized shovel.

     I've read quite a few "antique dealer" biographies, from the expert perspective of those history professionals, who made profitable businesses from selling the best of the best in furniture, china, heritage glass, art and books. I've paid special attention, to those business owners, who like myself, have made a profession as generalist antique, and collectable dealers, having specialities, but never being so restrictive, not to take advantage of a big find completely out of their comfort zone. I want to know how they made good and prosperous lives for themselves, in a field that is never void of excitement, and untold adventure. It can be said with some accuracy, that the antique trade is always a gamble, and it overflows with temptation, subject at all times, to the influences of greed, and the realities of speculative successes, told over and over as industry legend. There is no stalwart antique dealer alive, who doesn't appreciate, just how tradition and legend play into this historic profession, from the passed down stories of hunting buried or sunken treasure, tomb raiding, art and antique heists, and the whole quest for the holy grail, beyond the Monty Python take, on its imminent discovery. The antique profession is a storied one, and it's what I have always enjoyed about it, truth be known. I like being a part of a profession that Charles Dickens thought worthy of writing about. Yet, when you read many of these biographies, you don't really get this impression, because frankly, the dealers never actually lighten-up enough, about some of their milestone adventures. Being way too modest and unnecessarily protective of their inner most thoughts about a business that is chock full of curious activities, and strange coincidences; even the paranormal has a place in the story collection of veteran dealers. An enterprise that by its inherent nature, draws all kinds of unique characters into the fold of day to day business, both as customers, buyers and sellers, and all associates in between. I once thought that being a writer was a razor's edge profession, especially when I was working as a staff writer for Muskoka Publications, reporting on everything from the police beat to local politics, which at times could earn some of those bold print, double-banked, front page headlines, every reporter celebrates with their coveted byline. I can't explain why antique dealer biographies are so conservative, other than to suggest, like the magician's code to never reveal the secrets of their trade, we may be a tad shy of releasing too much information about the way we acquire, or dispense of our respective inventories. Maybe it's the over-riding concern, that confessing too much inside technique would hurt upcoming generations of antique dealing. I don't know, but I can respect why some of these biographies, are respectful of the inner most workings, of how we go about hunting and gathering, in order to survive in a highly competitive field. It's just that I finish these biographies, and feel the best parts of the story were left off, for whatever reason. I don't have a hugely exciting biography, but then I'm still working on my career. I just wanted to start a biography while I could still remember somewhat of how it all began; and it did begin in those childhood ramblings, through the old Harris Crescent neighborhood, in Burlington, Ontario.

     The early goings of my collecting adventures, had everything to do with the environs of that wonderful little neighborhood, that was perfect for a never-say-never novice hunter-gatherer, who had a considerable amount of freedom, to survey the topography almost at will. My mother Merle wasn't particularly patient with me at this age. I wanted outside and she was good with this, and only too happily opened the door for my exit. We didn't do this with our boys, but for Merle it provided her with a small amount of time to regain her sanity, after a period of my confinement. I wasn't an over-active child, with any medical or emotional condition that influenced this behaviour, but I didn't see any value, other than having a roof over my head, and three square meals and snacks a day, to keep me indoors. Merle didn't like me watching television, and she accused me of all kinds of nonsense, on the brink of skullduggery, playing in the apartment; or even my room, which she thought of as my pirates' cove. She unloaded me on the neighborhood, and the plain truth; I was a scourge. I did get up to "no-good" frequently, if not hourly. Like the time I told my chum, Ray Green, to look up a vent pipe, at the side of the Nagy Apartment where we lived, just as I smashed down hard on the iron tube, which by the way, released about a hundred mud-dawbers, which I had an idea, would provide a rather nasty sting. Not just one sting either. I didn't feel very good about this, when I saw Ray running home, hitting himself, and occasionally dropping and rolling on the grass in between residences. Then the little bastards turned on me, and I was dropping and rolling all over the front lawn of 2138 Harris Crescent, when my mother found me welted-up. "Teddy Currie, what have you done?" A lot of neighbors saw me as the real-article, "Dennis the Menace," and may or may not have made the sign of the cross, when they saw my wavering silhouette against the bright morning sunlight, coming out of our apartment door. "Oh, Jesus, the Currie kids on the loose again."

     Here then, are a few more environmental-backed stories of my life on the prowl of that charming little neighborhood, where the echo of the fog-horns welcomed the spring shipping season, and summer-ripe cherries were the scent of harvest, the sound of something falling over, with a crash, usually having something to do with me! The collector in training.