Opidell’s is a joint venture between husband and wife team Jill and Chad Walker. Here, Chad posts his points of view, rants, raves, and opinions about his moonlighting job as a picker. Sometimes Jill gives her two cents as well.

Two Days, 1,200 Miles, One Citation, and Six Heywood Wakefield Chairs – Dining Room Transformation Mission Accomplished!

03 Thursday Sep 2015

Posted by opidells in Pickin' and a Grinnin' - Chad's Rants from the Road

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amish, antiques, auctions, collecting, heywood wakefield, starburst, travel

A lot has happened since my last blog, and this weekend provided the solitude for reflecting on what to include in this update. We were heading to Pennsylvania for a turn-and-burn pickup of some more 50’s artifacts in the form of Jill’s favorite sexy blondes (Heywood Wakefield furniture) . I would have plenty of time to ponder changes in the preceding months and how that affected Opidell’s, our home and me. I needed the hum of the road to lull me to my Zen place, allowing me to sort out such things like the death of the Big Suburban, Jill’s obsession with mid-mod, and the addition of our new-found family friends Heywood and Wakefield. Lots of things to sort out and lots of miles in which to do it.

We left Lexington at twelve bells, right on time (for once) and aimed the mini-Suburban east, small box trailer in tow. You see, faithful readers, tragedy has recently descended upon the Walker Hacienda. The Big Suburban, which has been battling a lifelong illness, due to a less than optimal performing 2007 engine, has taken ill. The ’07 model has been reported as problematic across internet forums, and although it has performed countless times in the past, the constant addition of oil with no much as a spot on the driveway finally took its toll. In case you are wondering, the Big ‘Bourbon is resting peacefully in the garage out of the weather. A constant oil IV is keeping him comfortable, and a battery trickle charger is keeping its spirits up. I treated him to a full detail last weekend while the weather was warm, but unfortunately, it’s just a matter of time. On mechanic’s orders, he’s not being driven other than a few miles at a time in hopes of returning his oil pressure back to tolerable levels. Likely he will be escorted to a dealer retirement home to live out his days in the care of a certified mechanic. Time will tell. I have spent 170,000 miles and countless hours with the big beast. He drove all over this country and never bucked no matter how heavily loaded he was with furniture, hay, bricks and whatever needed to be hauled.

So the weekend traveling landed solely on the shoulders of the mini-Suburban, Jill’s Toyota Highlander. Although a bit more cramped, a little less outfitted and only two wheel drive, the little-Highlander-that-could would be tested this weekend with snowstorms, West Virginia Mountains, limited gas stations and my lead foot. Plus, she had to haul a trailer which added stress to the “There Can Only Be One” Highlander.

The lil’Toyota eased onto the interstate, Jill set the GPS and I stomped the accelerator achieving light speed almost immediately. Our new pickin’ machine was off to a good start. The weather forecast was cold but clear all the way to West Virginia. Our final destination was near Lancaster, Pennsylvania, a little town just shy of Philly. The reason for the trip was to pick-up a set of Champagne finished Heywood Wakefield dining chairs and to attend an auction that featured some Hey Wake. Why drive all the way to Pennsylvania for chairs? Well, just after Christmas Jill acquired a HW table and buffet set at a consignment shop near Chicago. For you faithful readers you know Jill is partial to the wheat tinted Hey Wake, however this perfect condition original finish Champagne set caught her eye. In turn, it spawned an entire mission to refinish our former “sittin’ room” into a formal dining room, complete with atomic dishes and blue and pink handled silverware. The only thing missing was the chairs. So why not just ship the chairs? Yea, yea…I’m getting to that.

One of Jill’s occasional HW sources was a gentleman in Pennsylvania. She contacted him. They haggled. And after many sleepless nights of pacing and self-loathing, she bought the chairs. I would have paid twice as much for the items since it kept me from endless winter evenings in my non-heated garage refinishing chairs she already had acquired. After the payment for the chairs were received, Jill arranged for a shipping company to fetch them for us. Therein lies the problem. The shipping company, after taking payment, suddenly and inexplicably went out of business. Apparently the owner made off with funds with many people’s items stranded in transit scattered across the country. Fortunately, Jill’s chairs were just marooned in Amish country, so that’s where we headed.

Here was the self-inflicted problem with the weekend. We left at noon and had to arrive at 8:00pm to retrieve the chairs. For those of you keeping score at home, that’s an eight hour trip and we had, well, eight hours to arrive. Then we had to load, find a place to sleep and be rested for the next day. The tomorrow would be equally hectic. We would drive from Lancaster to New Philadelphia, Ohio to arrive at an auction beginning at 11:00 am. Then depart that auction and drive the remaining four hours home to Lexington. Quite the marathon weekend and it all had to be timed just right or we could lose out on the chair retrieval or miss the auction.

The lil’ Toyota eased onto the interstate, Jill set the GPS and I stomped the accelerator achieving light speed almost immediately. Our new pickin’ machine was off to a good start. The weather forecast was cold but clear all the way to West Virginia. Our final destination was near Lancaster, Pennsylvania, a little town just shy of Philly. The reason for the trip was to pick-up a set of Champagne finished Heywood Wakefield dining chairs and to attend an auction that featured some Hey Wake. Why drive all the way to Pennsylvania for chairs? Well, just after Christmas Jill acquired a HW table and buffet set at a consignment shop near Chicago. For you faithful readers you know Jill is partial to the wheat tinted Hey Wake, however this perfect condition original finish Champagne set caught her eye. In turn, it spawned an entire mission to refinish our former “sittin’ room” into a formal dining room, complete with atomic dishes and blue and pink handled silverware. The only thing missing was the chairs. So why not just ship the chairs? Yea, yea…I’m getting to that.

Here was the self-inflicted problem with the weekend. We left at noon and had to arrive at 8:00 pm to retrieve the chairs. For those of you keeping score at home, that’s an eight hour trip and we had, well, eight hours to arrive. Then we had to load, find a place to sleep and be rested for the next day. The tomorrow would be equally hectic. We would drive from Lancaster to New Philadelphia, Ohio to arrive at an auction beginning at 11:00 am. Then depart that auction and drive the remaining four hours home to Lexington. Quite the marathon weekend and it all had to be timed just right or we could lose out on the chair retrieval or miss the auction.

Back at the helm of the Highlander, she was trudging along. The steep hills after Charleston, West Virginia gave the ol’gal some trouble. She handled it, but not without returning to the previous gear time and time again trying to fight the trailer and gravity. Even with the overdrive off, her constant shifting bucking against my need for a constant high reading on the speedometer caused Jill to look from her reading material to consult the going-ons. Then the sleet came. Little hard pellets of precipitation belted the windshield. It slowed traffic although the track was still fast. I kept up my speed with a cautious grip on the steering wheel. Jill buried her head in more reading material, like an ostrich in the sand. I could hear her mind above the pellets on the glass: “Go to your happy place. Go to your happy place. Not much longer on the road. He knows what he’s doing. Go to your happy place.”

As we crested the mountain overlooking Cumberland, Maryland, my co-pilot yelled, “Look at that traffic. Take the exit!” Evasive maneuvers landed me on a parallel track to the off-ramp, much to the surprise of the cars trailing me. The upcoming hillside was littered with all manners of blinking lights, signaling an accident. Thanks to my co-pilots sharp eyes and a reckless regard for my fellow motorists, we took the exit and detoured around traffic. Problem was, with every additional fuel stop and unscheduled route change, our arrival was becoming delayed. Time to make up some, well, time.

Now back on the interstate, I decided to do some time traveling. I eased the gas pedal closer to the floor as the speedometer climbed. In case you are wondering, I’ll tell you a little trick. In Kentucky, the speed limit on most interstates is seventy miles-per-hour. Here’s the fun part. If you are going ten miles-per-hour or less over the speed limit on a limited access highway, interstates (or pretty much any “limited highway” with on and off ramps) then there’s no points off your license if you get a ticket. The general consensus of law enforcement is that there’s no reason to pull over a motorist for a “no-points” speed violation. Other than the fine, there’s basically no incentive to issue a citation. So, I set my cruise control at 80. The first problem with the above-mentioned scenario is that the speed limit in Maryland is 65. The second problem is that, when you are towing a trailer with a smaller vehicle it can “push” you down the mountain.

Needless to say, I saw the cop too late. I passed him, trying to drive casual, even singing “la-la-la” as I rocketed by. He was already pulling out, lights blazing the night sky. Fortunately from the passenger seat I could hear a lecture series while I searched for inappropriate place to stop. The dissertation continued until the no-nonsense officer leaned in, sternly requesting “license and registration.” I had both presented before the last “shun” syllable left his lips. It had been years since I had been pulled over, but, like riding a bike, you never forget. Since I was well practiced in receiving moving citations, it was like seeing an old friend I haven’t seen in a while. Some things are nice if for no other reason than being familiar.

“You know how fast you were going?”

Ah, it was coming back to me. “No sir.”

“83 in a 65.”

Shit, I’m out of practice. “Oh!”

“Where you heading?”

“Huh?” He was on my 50% deaf, left ear side.

“Where you headin’?”

“Oh, up to Lititz,” Ha, ha, I said “tit” to a cop, “To buy some furniture.” Figured I would attempt to garner some pity from a fellow man.

“From Kentucky going to Lititz to buy furniture?”

I could almost hear him thinking… “Good Lord Son, we will give you police escort out of Maryland you poor bastard.”

“Stay right here, I’ll be back.” He left. The sermon was now replaced with a staring contest, of which I was losing.

“How much will this cost dummy?” My supportive and understanding bride questioned. My mind took over: tell her less than the damn chairs you’re driving eight hours each direction to get! No, don’t say that. Just sit there and look dumb. Good job…that came easy. I was contemplating my retort when the officer returned.

“All right son, I’m just giving you a warning. Just keep your speed under control.”

WHAT! REALLY! “Oh, thank you sir. I really appreciate that.”

“Ok, drive safe.” He began to walk off when my overzealous co-pilot interjected.

“We are from Kentucky!”

What the hell is she doing? We’re free damnit!

“The speed limit there is 70.” She belted out.

The trooper was halfway to his car when he heard the conversation aimed at him, turned on his heels and stopped in an inquisitive, “you talking to me punk” stance. I motioned him off and waved and rejoined traffic, into obscurity. The biggest shit-eating grin creeped up on my face. Jill just shook her head and giggled.

“You are so lucky it’s ridiculous.”

Despite the additional fuel stops, back road detours and run-in with the law, we arrived in Lancaster just a few minutes after eight. Immediately we noticed slow moving flashing boxes jamming every corner of the highway. Amish. We were in Amish-land. In virtual harmony we looked at each other and mused aloud, “Is this guy Amish? What if this guy IS Amish?

“Hell Jill, I can’t talk to him. What would I say? I mean, I curse sometimes…is he going to smite me? I know, I know…I’ll ask who won the annual Abe Lincoln look-alike contest. That should be a good conversation starter.” Jill rolled her eyes at my angst. Being in the presence of anyone so convinced of their purpose in life is intimidating. I’m too much a pluralist and a genuine smart-ass not to have questions, legitimate on not.

He wasn’t Amish, fortunately for both of us. Our Heywood Wakefield Pennsylvania-connection was a pleasant fellow with a huge shop. I remembered him from his eBay postings; he always posed his pet Collie with the pieces offered for sale. We soon found out the business mascot and friend had passed away last year. As a dog owner myself, I felt sad for his former master. That pup was an iconic fixture in the mid-mod collecting community, more famous than I could ever hope to be. Then the snow came. The sky had been laboring to produce solid precipitation the majority of the journey, as we skirted in and out along the storm’s edge. But now the havens opened and rained down huge fluffy flakes Forrest Gump would surely describe as “big ole fat snow.”

We headed toward our lodging. Along the way we passed a hotel that had been built to resemble a steamboat, several music venues and an amateur wrestling arena. Lancaster had obviously embraced the simple culture influence of its Amish neighbors. On the edge of town, one sign summed up the duality of the town: “Amish Stuff for Sale. Lots of people sell stuff, but this stuff is Amish.” Funny.

Our lodging for the evening was reserved at the Cork Factory Hotel. The Cork was a good example of reuse of an old dilapidated property and turning it into something cool and viable. Revitalization at its finest. The entry was nice. The lobby was nice.

Comfy haven for four hours of sleep…

Cork Factory Hotel

But upon exiting the elevator onto the third floor, we both became oddly dizzy. I can only assume that the hotel did not utilize its Amish craftsmen neighbors since the entire place was out of plum. The floors were woozy, the walls crooked as a politician and signs were completely cattywhompus. The combination of all the odd angles caused us both to grab the walls like we were on day three of a four day bender. We dropped our bags inside and headed to the restaurant downstairs. It was a nice place with good food. Jill had a hanger steak and I went for the chicken with plum Marsala. The setup was cozy and the staff was helpful without being intrusive. I wish I could write more concerning the meal, but after nine plus hours on the road running full out, things sort of ran together. The first beer was good. So was the second. But ahhh, the third beer. The third beer was truly divine.

We returned to the room and opened the window. The heat had been set at a tropical 75, so the open window provided a nice cool breeze. The air was crisp and still with only the faint murmur of millions of tiny snowflakes passing through it and landing softly on the ground below. I looked at the clock. It was nearing midnight. Now for those of you keeping score at home, we had five hours to drive in the morning to New Philadelphia, Ohio. In order to arrive in enough time to preview the items, we would need to leave at 5:00 am to arrive by 11:00 am. The unexpected variable to the trip was the snow. The forecast predicted it would continue throughout the am hours until the mid-morning. We calculated and debated. Then it was agreed…we would set the alarms for 4:15 am in order to be on the road by 5:00 am at the absolute latest. That would allow for a little over four hours sleep. Ugh.

The snow began to fall…

We crawled into comfortable the bed. The rustic sounds of old creaking timbers from the room overhead became downright annoying with such limited time to sleep. I cursed the fate of our upstairs neighbor as I finally entered a heavy slumber. Four a.m. came much too early, as it typically does. I continued the previous evening’s cursing of our upstairs neighbor. I cursed Jill. I cursed Heywood and Wakefield and I cursed myself. I scurried to the bathroom to stare in the mirror and beg Mr. Hyde to return his body to the good doctor. After banging around the room until the cursing subsided, I donned my clothes, awoke Jill and headed toward the truck. We departed on time again! Two-for-two; our personal best.

It was still snowing. Heavy snow. The kind of snow that ruins visibility streaking the black of night. The eyes cannot focus past the big fluffy particles just over the hood. It looks like the bridge on the U.S.S. Enterprise after entering warp speed. Promise came in the form of a pair of golden arches just over the horizon. We would refuel with some much needed greasy treats and caffeine. But the promise was short-lived as that particular McDonalds was the slowest on the planet. It was truly amazing the complete ambivalence exhibited by its employees who casually took our orders then went about whatever mundane business in which they were previously engaged, finally to remember that people were staring at them for some reason. Only then would they return to see what was taking so long. I wondered if they hired Amish to work the drive thru. That would be the only explanation as to the aversion for electronic devices or speedy food.

After two corrections in our meal, we left bizarre-o McDonalds, middle finger extended at full mast. Thanks to our time-challenged friends, we left the pit-stop behind the pace car. In this case, the pace car was a slow moving snow plow that blocked both lanes of the highway. We took the left position while a UPS truck was on the high side. I wondered if a relative of a McDonald’s employee worked the snowplow as well. After battling the elements the majority of the trip, we burst thru the clouds about half-past-nine. Smooth sailing from here on out. I floored the pedal, confident we would not cross paths with the Maryland trooper as we were taking an alternate route thru Ohio.

High-tailing it through the snow!

We arrived in New Philly with approximately half-an-hour to spare, plenty of time for Jill to inspect the furniture while I reveled in my groundbreaking time. That poor Highlander will never be the same. The auction went smooth. The house, a beautiful ranch style home on a corner lot, sold first. I wandered around outside while Jill put on her game face. I was just happy to stretch my legs for a bit. I wandered around the neighborhood for a spell. New Philly may have not invented mid-century modern, but it had a great collection of it. Nearly every other house was a striking atomic ranch, all retro, all unique and all preserved. I would love to take a tour inside some of these old museums of shag carpet, wall clocks and ugly lamps. Even though the auctioneer was inside, he left his remote mic on, which relayed outside. It was like listening to a basketball game on the radio. He was the play-by-play guy and I sat huddled in the cold listening for Jill’s bid number.

The house sells for around $115K

There was a real cool bar with knotty pine walls in the basement. Good times were surely had here!

The living room was classic mid century, ugly lamps, fiberglass drapes and all!

This HW buffet sold for around $200. A good price, but Jill already had one, so she passed.

There were two of these corner cabinets, each selling for around $600. Too much for us!

But she did score two bookcases that we later realized weren’t even HW, but they looked the part and were worth the $60 she paid for them.

“An-a-forty-five…no fifty…now fifty five…now sixty. Anymore? All in, all done? Sold to number seventy-three. Seventy three.” That’s Jill’s number! She won. Atta girl, show then New Philly boys who’s boss. After winning the few select items she wanted, Jill paid and I loaded. Total time at the auction was about an hour, yet another record for the weekend. The precious chairs were carefully stacked, two by two, in the back of the Highlander while the bookcases and chairs were arranged in the covered trailer. I wrapped them, but not especially well since they would undergo a refinishing before being allowed to consort with the other Hey Wake pieces.

Our post-auction feast is traditionally Mexican food, and this outing was no different. The El San Jose would be our spot to dine, tell tales, and gather ourselves before heading south. They knew we were coming as their sign read, “Fiesta Time.” Damn right fiesta time, San Jose. I don’t know, it made me laugh and that’s all that matters. Queso dip, a Margarita for Jill and a Dos Equis for me, we toasted our successful trip. We made our deadlines, miraculously, and arrived at all our destinations in one piece. Jill was getting better at navigating. She was also becoming more in tune to my ridiculous pilot to co-pilot requests. I was constantly having her look-up obscure things that pop in my head. But she tolerated it with grace, at least most of the time.

Fiesta Time!!!

Poor headless Burro!

The artwork was breath taking 🙂

We headed south. We made a quick stop in Columbus to Jill could browse Flower Child, her favorite shop in that city. We would also swing in our favorite wine shop, across the bridge from Cincinnati and barely into Kentucky, and select a bottle for the debriefing at home. Total mileage for the trip was just over 1,200 miles. Total time behind the wheel would top seventeen hours. And total sleep in the past twenty-four hours was under four hours. But I would change that soon.

Back at home, our driveway was still covered with snow, a result of the winter storm we were barely missed on Friday. I quickly went to work. I unloaded our suitcases, tossed leftover Mexi in the fridge, opened the wine and unloaded Jill’s coveted chairs. She placed them around her matching Champagne colored table, the missing pieces that completed her formal dining room renovation.

Mission accomplished! The dining room is complete!

It looked lovely. She promised me a hero’s breakfast in the morning, to be served on her new table and presented on her atomic plates. I puffed my chest and sipped my beverage to a mission accomplished. To the victor go the spoils…but not until after I get some sleep. Good night world. Mr. Heywood and Mr. Wakefield, she’s yours tonight boys.

A much-deserved Hero’s Breakfast, and cup of coffee, for my efforts.

The Summer of Selling at Outdoor Markets – Burlington

04 Monday Nov 2013

Posted by opidells in Pickin' and a Grinnin' - Chad's Rants from the Road

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burlington, outdoor antique markets, selling antiques and vintage, selling at outdoor markets, the Burlington Antique Show..., travel journal, vintage market

Settin’ Up Shop

(Wondering where we’ve been all summer? In addition to renovating rental properties, Opidell’s spent the summer selling at outdoor antique and vintage market places. Read below how Chaddy Daddy adjusted to his first outdoor show at the Burlington Antique Show…)

Mother of God! Why do all auctions and garage sales and flea markets and estate sales have to start so damn early in the morning? Were the first auctioneers farmers in a past life? Do garage sellers all suffer from insomnia? Maybe they’re all hardcore drunks that happen to intertwine their need for strong beverage with early morning commerce. That reminds me of a quote, “If it weren’t for alcohol, think of all the sunrises I would have missed.”

Quite obviously the ride to our first show in Burlington was too early. I am by nature a night owl and morning completely eliminates this foul’s attempt at flight, in any form. Jill had tuned the Satellite Radio to a 40’s channel, further lullabying me into clouded daze of grumpy slumber. The trailer bucking against the hitch was the only thing keeping me awake as the sun began to peek over my left shoulder.

Panic immediately set in upon our arrival. Our space was occupied by an opportunistic Java truck that made an unauthorized upgrade to our spot. Jill stormed off in route to the front gate while I sat, half asleep, blocking the road. My Suburban and trailer intentionally and defiantly clogging the flow of commerce into Kentucky’s largest antique show.

In order to preserve the peace, and more importantly facilitating the caffeine seeking customers that would soon arrive, we were moved to an adjacent spot on the corner of some sort of rodeo pen. As I attempted to park the big truck in a small space, our neighbor began chatting immediately. He was already set-up, impeccably dressed and a genuinely likable person. I instantly hated him.

Him, as we soon found out, was Charlie. Charlie would be with us, or rather we would be with Charlie, for the duration of this year’s Burlington season. He was just too damn cool too damn early in the morning. While I battled the steering wheel, he would peer around the corner offering suggestions and advice I didn’t want to listen to, but knew I should.

I parked and sprung into action, chucking merchandise from the trailer like a man possessed. “Early Bird” buyers, as they were called, who paid extra to get in the gates two hours earlier than the general masses, were beginning to arrive. I titled this group “the darts.“ Mostly because their eyes and bodies darted from one booth to the next, scanning for that one mis-marked treasure they could scoop up to immediately resale for big-big profits. But also because, like darts, they would fire blindly at your marked price, over and over hoping to hit a bulls eye. Many were armed with flashlights to scan the merch since the sun hadn’t completely awoken either.

I was cold, sleepy and unsure of what I was supposed to be doing. I kept lobbing stuff from the trailer while Charlie kept smiling. It was that kind of smile of self-acknowledgement, as if to say “Yea, I been there. They’ll learn.” But I didn’t want to learn. I knew what I was doing and the Charlies of the world, well, they don’t know any better than me. Cold yet sweating, I kept up my mad attack on the trailer until everything we owned was spread across the dew soaked lawn. It resembled a jilted wife’s revenge against a husband coming home too late. Charlie interjected at the conclusion of my tirade: “Is it still fun?” Don’t poke the bear Charlie. Don’t poke the bear.

I tried to sit down, steam raising from my body. Jill couldn’t sit. Her primping and set up and rearranging had just begun. With the unfettered attention of an old west bartender, she continually polished and cleaned delicate wares until I thought she would shine the glazing right off. She settled on a semi-circle arrangement with small items out front and large stuff in the rear. It resembled an orchestra when completed, with Jill acting as conductor.

Almost immediately we had our first sale. It was rather boring. An “early bird” saw an item, inspected an item and bought an item. No negotiation, no conversation, just a no-nonsense grab and pay. When I tried to engage her in some obligatory banter, she cut it short by saying, “I’m only interested in items I can resell. Thanks.” And into the morning light she scurried, like an ill-tempered squirrel with a shiny nut.

As Jill continued to conduct her merchandise, I went in search of the facilities. I wasn’t necessarily in need just yet, but when visiting a foreign country, it is always wise to know where the UN is located. Besides, I needed to give Jill time to primp without me over her shoulder offering such kind advice as “How many times you gonna pick up that damn dish?” Oddly enough, the first bank of UN’s I found were located at the very front, directly ahead of the main entrance to the show. Bad planning to say the least. It is difficult to accomplish a bit of challenging paperwork knowing you are just yards from a row of angry motorists whose temporary slip on the accelerator marks your untimely and comedic demise.

I returned to our rented block of asphalt and grass real estate. Each time the wind fluttered, I gritted my teeth. Delicate items swayed in the breeze, threatening, with each passing gust, to commit tiny little suicides. I was certain that by day’s end, either the glass or my nerves would be shattered.

When we finally did sit, the cool air combined with the post-unload sweat caused us both to chill. Jill would hop up to help prospective customers while I just rocked back and forth in my chair, holding a packing blanket around my back for some makeshift warmth. “If you keep that up, we are liable to get a sympathy purchase. You look more special than uncomfortable.” Don’t poke the bear Jill.

The sun finally came up and began warming all that lie beneath its morning glow. For the first time I could truly see the massive nature of the sale. There were people and cars and antiques as far as I could see. Coffee and pizza smells thickened the air. I couldn’t decide where to train my eyes. I tried to help, but ended up looking like hired muscle looking over our stock, arms folded, refusing to allow anyone inside.

Charlie on the other hand was a pro. I watched him as he would slowly invite himself into other’s conversations, offering immediately to “make you a much better deal, that is, if you‘re interested.” He had perfected an amazing marriage of gentlemanly kinship with the hard sell. It was like watching a pro athlete…he made it look so easy. Closing his fist around the proceeds of yet another sale he walked back to his vehicle to retrieve a replacement item for the one he just sold. I was mesmerized. Now I really hated Charlie.

Mid-morning was fast approaching. We were sleep deprived, mostly since our sandwich and snacks prep didn’t occur until 11:00 pm. Due to our 4:45 am alarm, sleep was a much needed commodity. I snapped from my lethargic gaze when Jill announced, “I think I might go shopping.”

“Shopping? What shopping?”

“You know, take a stroll around, see if there’s anything good.”

“Who’s going to man the booth?”

“You can do it. You’ll be fine. Call me if you have any questions.” And off she skipped to do what Jills do best.

ME…MAN THE BOOTH? Madness. I’ve never manned the booth before. Not even at her shop. What if someone wants to make an offer? I don’t know what period that piece is from. I can’t talk shop to these people…they’re pros. Be strong. Show no fear. You’re a bull-shitter by heart…so bull-shit, man!

But it was too late. The mid-morning shoppers smelled blood in the water and descended on my booth like locusts on a crop.

“Hi, can you tell me about this piece?”

“Mind if I make you an offer?”

“This dish is scratched.”

“Can you give me a better price on this?”

I was projecting “HELP” telepathically to Jill, but it didn’t work. I opted to try my cell phone. “Come back to the booth. There are people here with questions.”

Jill came back just in time. Like a priest waving a cross in front of a team of blood-thirsty Vampires, they all backed down to at least a mildly civil demeanor. I went back to my blanky and rocking routine, shell shocked and quivering. Charlie just shook his head.

At lunch time my stipend was a cold sandwich, a cold piece of cheese and cold water. I felt like my internal temperature had to be close to the external temperature. The warm smells of burgers, grilled potatoes and kettle corn teased my senses. I allowed myself to be lulled into a wonderful carnival-style trance. Until…

“M’kay, I’m heading out again.”

“Woman, are you mad? They’ll tear me apart.”

“Oh, you’ll be ok. Besides, I saw some vintage dishes I want.”

“Yea, we don’t have enough dishes,” I gurgled under my breath. Jill gave me a defiant smile and waded into the sea of people once more.

Don’t make eye contact. Go inside yourself. Project that we are closed. I tried all my tricks. Meditate…close your eyes and wish everyone from the booth. I opened my eyes only to find two great big-haired skinny Germans looming over me.

“Uh, hi. Can I help you fellas find anything in particular?”

The taller of the two said something to the other gent in Japanese. Damnit, they’re Japanese not German you big dummy! “Yes, vat do you know about zeese two chairz?”

HA! I knew about the chairs! I had found, purchased, packed and cleaned those chairs. Looks like the Guppy just became the Shark. “Oh those two. They are mid-century, Herman Miller chairs. And they are marked as such on the underside. Really nice, really cool chairs. I purchased them at an industrial auction. They are in good shape, but I did spend some time returning them to their original luster.” You used the word luster without giggling…way to go!

“Hmmmm…zey are qvite nice. Vat is your best price on zee chairz?”

“Tell you what. You guys obviously appreciate mid-mod like myself. I’ll knock off 10% right now.” Hold your ground. Stare back at them. The first one who talks looses, right? Uh, oh…they’re conversing in German again. No, it’s Japanese you fool! Why can’t you get that right? OK, they’re done talking. Why aren’t they saying anything…they’re just staring at the chair. Good Lord, the silence is deafening. Why aren’t you people talking? Are they even breathing? Telepathically HELP………….Jill!!

“Ok, ve vill take zem. You are ze only person here with ze Herman Miller.” I have no idea how the one with the German accent learned to speak Japanese, or why.

“Oh wonderful. I hope you guys like them. Here is your change. Also, here is a card for my wife’s shop. If you are ever in Lexington, look us up.”

“Ummmm…tank you.” The Japanese fellow attempted and gave a little bow.

“Enjoy,” I returned contently. That’s how you do it Charlie! Charlie approved.

During the course of the day I noticed several rude behaviors that I would now like to address. I must first relay this story: when I was a child I went with my mother on many shopping excursions. If Charlie is the pro-seller, mom is the pro-shopper. I mean, marathon runners would be winded keeping up with this woman. Anyway, when we went in stores with breakables, I was always told, “Chad, put your hands in your pockets.” I was a somewhat rambunctious child, but this fail safe worked every time. To this day, when we go in an antique store, you’ll find me strolling the isles, hands buried past the belt.

That is just one courtesy that others should employ. Here are a few more:

1.) Don’t eat food over merchandise – the “if you break it“ rule should also encompass “if you stain it.”

2.) Don’t swing your purses – not unlike an uncoordinated dog, sometimes you ladies don’t have a strong control of your artificial tail. Keep it under control or hold it in your hands, especially when navigating narrow isles.

3.) Don’t feel fine fabrics after just eating popcorn – it’s amazing vintage clothing has lasted this long. Don’t make it age unnecessarily.

4.) On the same subject, ask to try on clothing…especially when doing so over your street clothes. If you’re a medium in everyday life, chances are you aren’t going to fit into that small over jeans and a sweatshirt.

5.) Don’t smoke anywhere near a booth – ashes get on items. But also, fire around antiques is never a wise idea. As a general rule, keep cigarettes confined to asbestos antiques only.

6.) CONTROL YOUR KIDS – you would think that would be self explanatory, but it ain’t. Seems common courtesy is becoming less common every day. It’s rarity is matched only by common sense.

During the occasional lull, we would strike up conversations with would-be consumers about a wide array of topics: the weather, other cool booths and even our own personal lives. During one of these particular asides, I was privileged with my own private giggle. While Jill conversed with an older gentleman about her chickens and play-farm life, his grandson had picked up the “Jolly Pecker”…an old vintage wind-up novelty that jumped around when released. What was it? Well, I’ll let you figure out what the “Jolly Pecker” did. Needless to say, the grandson pondered its usage for the duration of the chicken conference.

Another funny consistency was the number of mothers and fathers who showed their sons and daughters a magic device known as a typewriter. It had no screen, nothing to plug to the wall yet it still produced nicely typed correspondence. The children were amazed. We promptly changed the description on the tag as a “vintage laptop” to hopefully widen its appeal.

The day slowed as the sun perched atop its highest nest. I was now fully thawed. But the suns rays began to softly encourage me to close my eyes and sleep. I had to fight the urge. I became semi-delirious once more.

A big-boned gent walked through with a t-shirt that said “Wussy.”

A pre-teen boy walked through attempting to sell a “blue duck.” I am not sure if he was a budding young picker / entrepreneur or a figment of my imagination. Our Burlington Guru Charlie was watching my slow descent with amusement. I just didn’t have the show stamina he possessed.

Jill left her post again with strict instructions: “Absolutely no discount while I am gone.”

Shoppers descended.

“How much for this bowl?”

“Is this original?”

“Do you know where the bathroom is?”

“I can’t pay $100.00. Would you take $10?”

A fella’ carrying a large metal horse walked into our booth just as Jill returned to spell me. I launched into a drunken rendition of “A horse is a horse, of course, of course…” I was immediately silenced and shooed from the booth to go wreak havoc on our competition.

I walked the grounds, pumping much needed blood back into my brain, and participating in my favorite spectator sport: people watching. There was such a fun crowd at Burlington. Old and new. Hipster and traditional. Bargain hunters, consumers, users, admirers and reminiscers. The variety of fellow man varied as much as the items on display. Odd, quirky, beautiful, useless, fascinating and unique, the horizontal merchandise matched their vertical counterparts in quality and quantity.

We accidentally pulled off one veteran move: we brought our own food. Not only did it save us a pile of money, but it probably helped increase our selling stamina as well. We didn’t have to leave our post to grab food, which conserved our much needed energy. But more importantly, the food itself, although it smelled divine, was too state fair-ish. I’m sure if we would have partaken of the food trucks, the grease would have immediately begun to thicken the blood already feebly attempting to pump through our tired veins. It would have caused our eyelids to grow heavier and heavier until we entered into a perpetual state of slow motion.

I noticed there was a camaraderie between booth owners. For one, we all shared a good-hearted us vs. them attitude. Not in a malicious way, just a simple nod that we are all after the same thing, but in different ways. Nobody spoke to a neighboring booth owner’s client, while they were in the booth. Additionally, if the booth didn’t have the item that you were after, they were glad to point you in the right direction. You also didn’t badmouth your neighbor. I never heard uttered, “Good grief, he has such junk. And it’s way too expensive.” The sellers presented a common professional front. It was quite impressive. It was sort of like being in a card game with them. However, in this game, they didn’t show their cards, but they really didn’t hide them either. Direct competition for the consumer dollar was right next door, but each neighbor handled themselves with a level of decency that, if extended to the world outside the Burlington gates, would create a modern utopia.

Our first Burlington Show, or any show for that matter, was drawing to a close. Dust blown onto our sun-blocked skins created a grimy film all over our tired bodies. Guru Charlie had finally sold the “Boy Scout Plow,” his signature piece I had heard him pitch dozens of times through the course of the day. He had also donned a goofy white wide brimmed hat that seemed to inexplicably draw the antiquing masses toward him.

The lady in the booth across the drive from us brought several ornaments and other knick-knacks to Jill, for free. Jill had purchased a few things earlier in the day from our across-the-way neighbor, and, seeing Jill’s appreciation for such things, let her have them instead of risking breaking them on the long journey back to their home. That is not the first time people have offered stuff to Jill for free. She has a way about her that lets people know she’s not just here to make money. That’s a bonus. The real reason she is here is because she has a deep admiration for beautiful and unique things. Makes me wonder why in the hell she likes me…. Jill, upon receiving her new loot, immediately shut down and started rifling through it. She would be no help loading. She had touching and feeling to do.

I watched our neighbor Charlie a lot during the day. I watched him deliver his pitch, approach customers, take them in and explain to them how this or that would illuminate their lives. He was charismatic. A born salesman, but also an interesting character. Everything he did seemed spontaneous and accidental, which is why I knew it was deliberate, maybe even rehearsed. You don’t get that level of fluidity on a whim, it is painstakingly acquired. He showed us the ropes, helped us along the way and even gave us bottled water when the day was done.

When the last heavy piece was loaded and the trailer was latched down for the trip back to Lexington, Charlie asked how we liked the sale. Would we be back? We both gave a less-than-enthusiastic maybe. Guru Charlie told us some more tales allowing us enough or a pause to our breath. He told a couple of jokes that seemed to lighten the mood after such a long day of loading, unloading and loading again.

As Charlie offered his parting words, words I have since forgotten but remember them to be witty and wise, he quipped over his shoulder, “Throw that damn TV away. You’ve got Charlie!”

By the end of the day, I liked Charlie. He would be our neighbor and the one consistency for the entire Burlington season. Over time Jill did buy some stuff from him, but no amount of profit from the items he sold would reimburse him for his Guru wisdom, constant companionship or general kindness to two “kids” way over their heads, and only Charlie, with his goofy hat and kind way, would be there as the life preserver to remind us that, old or new, anyone in this business has to be a little crazy.

Mountain Mushroom Festival 2013

22 Wednesday May 2013

Posted by opidells in Pickin' and a Grinnin' - Chad's Rants from the Road, Uncategorized

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estill county, festival, kentucky, morel mushrooms, morels, mountain mushroom festival, mushroom

Today was fun. And quick…therefore a quick blog for a quick day. Today we went to the World Famous, least I say, famous throughout the entire Universe, Irvine Mountain Mushroom Festival. The Mount Mushroom Fest is held every year in late April and celebrates the notoriously elusive and highly delectable Morel Mushroom. If you like mushrooms, the Morel is the bestest of the bestest. I have had Morels in featured dishes at fancy restaurants, but they are mostly the dried and shipped type. The ones in Irvine are straight out of the fertile grounds on Eastern Kentucky, exploding with flavor.

I would venture to Irvine simply for the promise of being able to buy bulk Morels. But Irvine went a step further and added a festival to frame around the fun guy. (Fun guy…as in fungi, get it?) And I love festivals. I have been to the Chicken Festival, the Poke Salad Festival, May Days, Court Days and long since earned my ten-year pen for traveling to the Wool Festival, my personal favorite. But somehow this year was to be my inaugural Morel Festival venture. I was very excited. Promises of greasy food aromas, the sounds of music and the bustle of a small Kentucky town made me smile to my core.

Our big Suburban boat left the docks close to noon. We headed toward Winchester for the first stop: we were to pick-up Jill’s grandfather, affectionately known as Papaw Gene. Those of you familiar with Jill’s shop already know that Papaw Gene is an Opidell’s celebrity. His wife was Opidell herself, for whom the shop was named. Papaw is quite a character and I was excited to have him along for the journey to eastern Kentucky.

Our next station was Trapp, Kentucky, USA. We pulled down the driveway to Jill’s folks house and, after finishing off the last of his breakfast, collected Jill’s father and set off. We chatted about Kentucky and how much even in the hills of eastern Kentucky that things have changed from all our childhoods. Bluegrass music hummed through the speakers, a perfect soundtrack for the adventure we were on. After about 45 minutes and several straightened curves later, we arrived in the big city of Irvine.

The streets were lined with cars. The sidewalks were chocked full of people, walking, shopping at road-side yard sales and socializing in a way only a small town can. Parking was as scarce a commodity as the mushrooms we ventured out to purchase. A handful of budding young capitalists set up “$5 parking” signs. Churches, Boy Scout groups and regular folks with large yards were amongst the lot to cash in on the popularity of the little mushroom. In the end, we settled on a parking lot / yard sale as the location to hitch our mount. I openly speculated that they made more on the parking than the yard sale. The lot owner just smiled and added our five-dollar bill to her growing stack.

We entered the main festival area. What a sight! Everything was Morel Mushrooms. There was art done by local school children proudly displayed outside on shop windows, t-shirts, hats, artwork and even a huge wood carved Morel sculpture on Main Street. How could anyone make a caricature out of this spongy fungus? Welp, Irvine did, and with great success. The sounds of bluegrass and gospel music filled my ears as we walked by the main stage. My emotions went back and forth between wanting to slow way down and die, and to wanting to jump up and stomp my feet and holler. Such is the nature of Bluegrass music. One minute you’re wanting to kill someone, a minute later you’re wanting to die. Guess you have to have Kentucky blood to really understand.

Jill talked her father and grandfather into putting their heads in one of those photo cut-out posing things. Only thing is, the cut-out was a Morel mushroom. Too funny! I took the picture. It isn’t the best picture I have ever taken, but given that I was giggling at the sight of three generations of Hensley’s posing as fungus, I think it came out pretty good.

Three Generations of Shroom Heads

We continued down the midway. There was regular and goat soap, hot dogs with peppers and onions, recycled bottle candle holders, pop guns, funnel cakes, fresh pork rinds and cracklins, church brownies, kids running everywhere, folks catching up, chatting, sitting, meandering, leaning, and fun all around. We met Fritz the police dog, who had a tick on his eye. “Hell, I tried to get it off her, but when I did she nearly bit me. I figured she can just keep that tick then,” her partner told me. Fritz and her handler were newly assigned partners, still trying to get used to each other. Time will tell who becomes the true master.

Fritz the German Police Dog with a Tick on her Eye…

We even got a glimpse of a celebrity…Tim Farmer, host of Kentucky Afield on KET, put on a Morel cooking demonstration. “Y’all like butter? I like butter. Can’t go wrong with butter can ya?” he asked the crowd while whipping up some good smelling vittles.

When we had seen all the sights we could see we headed toward the parking lot-garage sale. Jill had about a pound and-a-half of Morels she snuck in and purchased when the other negotiator low-balled lower than the seller would take. Jill’s fierce negotiation tactics had paid off when she offered just a bit higher. The seller cried, “sold to the purdy lady,” and off she went like a thief. We boarded the truck and headed back thru the town, quickly returning to the wildness of east Kentucky.

Papaw Gene reminisced about a grand hotel serviced by a sulphur-springs in Estill County. I thought at first he surely had been mistaken. Afterall, sulphur springs are great tourist destinations. How could that have closed? But sure enough, when I returned home I looked into the validity of his memory, and found that there is a spring in Estill County. A spring that most likely pre-dated human’s existence in North America. And there had been a grand hotel near the site of the spring, boasting 120 rooms and several cottages. Unfortunately it burnt to the ground in December, 1932, never to be rebuilt. What a shame. It would seem that a draw like a big hotel and springs could really bring Estill county back financially. But on the other hand, seems like they are doing pretty well with the mushroom festival. Still, makes me wish I could see the grand old hotel back in its glory days.

On the highway back, we chatted and gossiped and told lies. It was nice to take a lazy drive thru the gateway to eastern, Kentucky. It is nice to get out-of-town once in a while and rediscover your roots. It makes it even nicer to be with people who remember how it was back in the good ol days. Chatting with Jill’s grandfather gives him a chance to remember, and us a chance to imagine. It’s like modern folk-telling, passing down memories from generation to generation so they aren’t lost forever to time. It’s sad and beautiful simultaneously.

We dropped off Jill’s dad without visiting since Jill was heading in to her shop. I pointed the nose down the last section of curvy roads toward Winchester. It’s not possible, nor would I want it to be possible, to get together with Papaw Gene without remembering his wife Opal, born Opidell, and remembering. I knew it would make Jill sad, but sometimes remembering isn’t for us…it’s for the person remembering. He said he missed her. I silently thought to myself. I never knew Jill’s grandma before Alzheimer’s had already started affecting her. However, I do remember that she was a firecracker. She was feisty and didn’t mix words, had a good sense of humor and a warm way about her…accepting me even though she may not have even known who I was. A grandmother in all senses of the word.

“You know..don’t wait until it’s too late to tell someone how you feel about them,” Papaw Gene cautioned. Knowing how he felt and feels about his wife, I bet Papaw relayed his feelings loud and clear. You can’t tell them too much though. I bet that is what he really meant.

We entered the traffic of the interstate as Jill and I sat quiet. We smiled at each other, our hands meeting as we headed back to our lives together, raising chickens, watching ducks, playing with dogs, polishing antiques and contemplating the next adventure. Although, tonight the adventure would be no adventure. We would relax, spending the last moments of the day gazing out across our lawn and giggling at our neighbor cursing his weed eater while we sipped wine, happy to have each other, if not forever, at least for tonight.

Columbus, Ohio Pickin’ Trip Part Three – Andre the Giant and Auction Time!

12 Friday Apr 2013

Posted by opidells in Pickin' and a Grinnin' - Chad's Rants from the Road

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andre the giant, antiques, auction, heywood wakefield, picking, sunday

Part Three

My prayers of completely bypassing winter for warmer days of Spring went unanswered. The whiteness illuminating from the reflecting snow outside crept into our room far too early considering our diligent tour of as many of the city’s sights, sounds and tastes as palatable in a single evening. We slowly began gathering our things, resembling a pair of zombies searching for their morning “Brrraaaaiiinnnnsssss.” Grunts and moans were all we used to communicate while the antidote for our sickness in the form of thin hotel room coffee brewed atop the cabinet. Showered, shaved and ready to meet the world, although we were not fully awake, the cold Ohio air would soon remedy that.

Breakfast was one of the best I have had in many days. Grumpiness soon began to lift, no match for freshly brewed coffee, eggs, turkey sausage and a big stack of buckwheat pancakes with organic syrup and fruit. Usually I opt out of the fruit-on-pancakes option fearing healthy food would throw off my delicate balance permanently. But the combination was wonderful. I emailed myself a note to learn how to make buckwheat pancakes. Jill, sensing our trendy surroundings, and gazing at me head first in my portable device, said, “You’re such a yuppie. You know you fit right in.” I would argue, but with coffee in one hand and an iPhone in the other, I looked like the plus sized poster boy for Apple.

Plump and happy, our final stop was on the horizon. Jill had found a sale where some elusive Heywood Wakefield pieces would be on the block. Given their rarity in these parts, we had to go wade in to see if we had even a grim chance of acquiring a couple of pieces. We were once again venturing into uncharted territory. Sunday auctions are infamous for commanding larger prices, at least in our experience. That coupled with heavy advertising, and our chances were slim.

(We think this was Ursula from the Little mermaid as a brunette…)

The auction was held in a large warehouse on the outskirts of town. We parked and headed in amongst trucks with trailers, trucks with campers and several box trucks lettered with their companies names. Not a good sign. Neither was the scene inside. The place was packed. I mean packed. I actually had a concern that if we were able to bid, the chances the auctioneer could see us amongst that sea of people was slim. The auction crowd filed in while I observed them, totally unaware of my secretive judgments. Townsfolk laughed and joked with each other, kidding that they didn’t even bring money to the auction today, just wanted to get out of the house. Others downplayed their interest in a particular item they happened to be examining or hovering above for the better part of an hour.

Low bid numbers lingered. High bid numbers feverishly searched for particular items they had on their checklist. I sat back an watched the floor come alive with bidders and gawkers alike. The items sat in their prospective spots, shiny and proud, awaiting their appearance on the grand auction stage. A half-hour before the auction began, the auctioneer began piping in twangy old country music thru static filled speakers. Since my location was not in some dive bar way too early reflecting on my misreable life, I did not need the accompanying soundtrack. Especially not at a packed auction house on a Sunday morning.

Sounds of Conway Twitty’s “Play Guitar Play” filled the room, along with laughter and unwinding tape measures. Note to self…bring ear plugs to the next auction. I watched as an old farmer inspected a beautiful nude painting well beyond a comfortable time period. I’m talking, closer to five minutes, inspecting only one particular area of the painting. It was a site to beyhold, though it seemed everyone was straining not to see this particular site. I recall jotting down several notes to remember to write about the experience: John Deere hat, farmer long stare, over-the-shoulder exposed boob. Think that about sums it up.

Lingering a little too long in front of the topless art…

The auctioneer was friendly and full of energy. He started with the standard terms and conditions of the sale, buyers premium, pick-up and obligatory praises aimed at the snack bar located in the back, although nobody in the house could ignore the presence of the snack bar, especially its wafting smells. Like an explosion, the auctioneer perfectly timed the collective coffee surging with the bloodstream and his opening cry of, “Hey, Hey Mama, let’s go!!” We all jolted forward in our seats and the auction was off.

Opening prices were high, as they usually are. Early on everyone has buying fever and many let the auction format get the best of their judgement. The “buy, buy, buy” frezy is difficult for anyone to thwart. During the show, I noticed a frail lady directly in front of me. She wore square glasses and a lacey shawl, delicate clothing to match her equally delicate disposition. I noticed she was constantly scanning the marketplace for her mate. Every few moments she would begin her laborsome task of moving her tiny frame into position to scan up the long isleway to look for her fella. Sitting directly to her left was a portly lass sporting an Ohio State crochet bonnet and matching sweatshirt. The big gal kept edging closer and closer to the frail lady, practically edging her out of her seat. Now, as a big fella myself, I can tell you this move was intentional. Just because you have extra meat on your bones does not mean you are unaware of your outcroppers. She was annexing the poor little old lady’s space like Germany annexing Poland. I immediately had distain for a person I had never even met. Here’s the most annoying part: while the little old lady turned to scan the crowd, the big gal would peer over her shoulder to see what she had written down about the previous or upcoming auction items…a definite breach of auction eddiquite and ethics. After edging the old lady for about an hour, the little old lady got up to look for her fella. The portly gal immediately gave her seat to a couple who asked if the seat was avalible. I began to say something but didn’t. Turns out, the new couple were even more annoying and, while sitting on each other’s lap, slowly edged out the portly lady until she left…never to be seen from again. Mu-ha-haaaaaa.

There were some memorable moments at the auction. The auctioneer, when things were lagging, would sell items to the cadence of one-little two-little three-little Indian. That was odd. As was his bid-calling assistant who, as far as I can tell, was a bit shell shocked from the auction format. He would yell a hearty “Yuuuup!” at weird times, and twice when the auction was over and the auctioneer was describing the next item. The auctioneer would make a quip at his expense and the sale would continue without missing a beat. Once while auctioneering a pool stick set, the auctioneer said, “What-ya-got-thar? I can’t see on-a-counta the rack.” I leaned to Jill and said, “He’s talking about you, you know.” I giggled despite the swift elbow to the ribs. There was an Andre the Giant look-alike that helped display items.

Andre the Giant as a Cowboy

He had a chew in the entire time, never saw him spit once. And his greasy finger-nailed hand would proudly display some of the finest antiques in all of Ohio. Then there was the flannel clad chunk that also helped hold up items. When he did, his big round belly would show and Jill would snicker every time. And lastly was the apprentice auctioneer. Described by my partner as a Mad Men stand-in, he was handsome, well groomed, well dressed and, well, out of place. As the final items crossed the block, he was called in as a sort of third-string auctioneer. Fortunately he did a nice job coming off the bench.

The auctioneer’s had two O’s in his name. As a huge James Bond fan, I automatically gave a lot of favor to anyone with double-o status. It was a fun auction. Jill won some, and lost some. Most importantly she won the main couple of items she wanted, which included her coveted Heywood Wakefield night stands, now a welcome addition to our bedroom. I loaded while Jill paid, our standard end-of-auction arrangement. Afterwards we headed to a local Mexican restaurant, another post-auction tradition. Jill had a glass of wine and I had a beer. No margaritas due to some oddball local blue-law that said those two alcohol drinks were ok, but hard liquor, like the kind found in a Margarita, were bad. I’m sure the Lord would be pleased that little town took such a hard stance. We enjoyed the momentary downtime as we prepared to head south again.

“I had a good weekend,” I toasted. “Me too,” Jill returned. “This has been a pretty lucky weekend.” “What do you mean,” she asked. “Well, you were lucky to win the original auction items. Afterall, that’s why we came up in the first place.” “True.” “And we were lucky to find the first ever February Garage Sale.” “Don’t know if that was luck so much. That was just bizarre.” “And how about the room? That was lucky.” “More for you! Since it was right in the middle of the cheerleader invasion of 2013.” “Well then, you have to admit the luck we found in this place. Probably it’s the luckiest ever!” “That’s true,” she said. “I did get some furniture I’ve been wanting for a long time. You’re right, we did get lucky.” “Hmmmm. That’s not what I was talking about. I meant here…here. We are lucky to find this place. Afterall, this is the first Mexican restaurant ever that has delivered our food without the plate being hot. ‘Hot plate.'” She giggled. And I’m serious. It’s the Mexican restauant Holy Grail. It’s called Fiesta Tropicana in Lancaster, directly across from Carnival Foods. Good food, good prices and no hot plate. (Feel free to use that catch phrase fellas. I got plenty more!)

Columbus, Ohio Pickin’ Trip Part Two – Good Food, Good Drink, and Cheerleaders – A Hedonist’s Delight!

03 Wednesday Apr 2013

Posted by opidells in Pickin' and a Grinnin' - Chad's Rants from the Road

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antiquing, cheerleaders, cocktails, columbus, flat iron, hedonism, ohio, picking, VINTAGE

Part Two

This was one of the few times we didn’t fully scout out the town we were heading to. By time to cast off, normally I have lodging recommendations, GPS coordinates, have checked highway conditions and have already picked what I am going to have at dinner that night from the best reviewed restaurant in town. But not this time. This time we were truly winging it. We knew the area we wanted to stay in, which was close to some vintage shops and restaurants, but nothing prepared us for the scene when we arrived.

Snow was coming down in pillows. Big, fluffy, can’t-see-your-hand, stings-the-back-of-your-neck, pillows. Towing the trailer made navigating downtown that much more challenging. We finally settled on a hotel that seemed to have easy parking access for our antiquing rig. While Jill ran inside, I slowly became surrounded by girls, ladies and women. Hordes of them descended on the city. Some wearing dresses, gowns, jeans, but all made up to the “nth” degree. I guess I didn’t realize the dome light had illuminated the inside of the truck. As I followed a couple of the ladies, my eyes met Jill’s.

“Uh, hi. Uh, snow…everywhere. Cold too. Uh, what’s up?” I fumbled.

“There’s a cheerleader competition this weekend. Try and keep your eyes in your head, sick-o.”

I would have tried another attempt at an explanation, but I had been busted. Fortunately the Rah-Rah’s hadn’t gotten every room. Jill snagged the last one, probably in the entire city.

We exited the parking lot, found the designated hotel lot across the road and abandoned the trailer into one of the empty spots. We then turned the Suburban toward downtown. We found a very trendy area littered with awesome eateries and vintage shops. Upon entering one shop in particular Jill offered a hearty, “Hello!” barely thru the door. It was uncharacteristic of her so I gave her the obligatory what-the-hell-was-that look? She shrugged, turned a little red and headed inside. Come to find out, she was just so excited to see such a cool place, similar to her little shop back in Lexington, that her words beat her brain in a heartfelt salutation.

Flower Power – Coolest Columbus Vintage Shop Ever!

We ate such good food. And drank such good drink. Two highlights: the first was a bar that specialized in old style cocktails. Very cool, very hip, and those words aren’t usually in my repertoire. Jill had a French 75 which contained Gin, Champagne, Lemon Juice and Sugar. So named for the supposed kick the drink has, it’s like being shelled by the French 75mm field gun. Now look, the drink was excellent as was the place, so far be it from me to make some off-handed remark about the French. I love French cooking, French drinks and everything French. Just because I am a budding humorist, don’t expect some stock derogatory French comment. It’s just not going to happen. Nope. No. Ok, instead of an olive spear, every French 75 is garnished with a little white flag. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.

Flat Iron long an narrow restaurant…

Flat Iron Bar

Only burners in the house…

Flat Iron Master Chef

The other culinary highlight was at a little restaurant called Flat Iron. Long and narrow, the Flat Iron is undoubtedly named after its famous New York namesake. It’s not only a brilliant use of space, but the drinks were delicious. Due to the tight quarters, three cooks occupied a space no larger than most residential kitchens. We watched master chefs flip and sauté and style food dishes in the blink of an eye. There were only two burners available, so the three working together looked like poetry in motion. The hotel was next door so we indulged in some late-night wine. We sipped and watched, watched and sipped. The cooks were so memorizing that even I was speechless for a long spell. I was envious of their skills and vowed to cook more. We thanked both the head cook and manager for such an unintentionally entertaining evening, apologized if we seemed like stalkers and headed next door thru the packed snow to our room. I drifted off to sleep warm and content hoping not to stir until well into the warmth of summer.

Columbus Ohio Pickin’ Trip Part One – Heywood Wakefield Hell and February Yard Sales

30 Saturday Mar 2013

Posted by opidells in Pickin' and a Grinnin' - Chad's Rants from the Road

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adventures from the road, garage sales, heywood wakefield, opidells, picking, VINTAGE, yard sales

Part One

Once again, we headed northward to claim our stake. Or stake our claim. I can’t remember which way that one is supposed to go and since idioms aren’t my strong suit, I’ll say it both ways just to be safe. Anyway, we pointed the nose of the old truck down the interstate to do some claiming and staking, though not necessarily in that order. Columbus, Ohio, would be home base as we branched out different directions, allowing the road to carry us wherever it deemed fit. Our reason for the trip was to pick-up a Heywood Wakefield China hutch Jill purchased at an on-line auction somewhere between here and there. I am not being intentionally elusive, I truly don’t remember the name of the little town. This time we had a small covered trailer in tow since it was raining, and since rain was forecasted for the entire weekend. We took all back roads out of Lexington for the duration northward.

We arrived at our first stop…a sleepy little town complete with a Main Street, a pair of barely used stoplights on opposite ends of the town, and a genuine small town feel to the whole place, despite the dreary misting rain. Inside we found a combination retail shop / on-line auction house / karoke bar / coffee shop / chili emporium. I’m not sure which business was most successful, but on that cold day the chili was by far the leader, in pungent smells if nothing else. Jill settled up while I began loading our wares into the Suburban and trailer. When I returned, Jill and the shop owner were waste deep in serious negotiation. I kept my head down…never look a negotiating woman in the eyes…and kept loading. In my mind I imagined Jill saying, “Now listen. When he comes in, lets pretend to be talking about price or something of the sorts. That way he will keep loading and I don’t have to go out into the rain.” I know that wasn’t true, but what husband hasn’t plotted his own wife’s demise while on the heavy end of a lifting assignment.

“Should I kill her for this?”

Turns out, Jill was negotiating. She ended up purchasing a Heywood Wakefield dining table with chairs that had not hit the online auction website. The ensemble was in rough shape, or I like to call it, ready-to-be-refinished shape, but the price was reflective. With a little elbow grease, there might be life left to breathe into this formerly cool Mid-Mod piece.

Everything was loaded, strapped down, tied down, roped down and taped down, so we went thru the final (otherwise known as other) stoplight leaving town and back onto the backroads. The rain was still drizzling. Jill had 40’s music humming from the XM Radio, occassionally stealing glances of approval back at her hardware, then appreciative doe-eyed glances at me as if to say “thanks for letting me do this.” Oh my Jill…I can’t say no to her, and she can’t say no to Heywood Wakefield. It is a love-affair of undrstanding that I’m sure will continue for many years to come.

On the road of life, detours are what makes the trip, well, a trip. Back-road pickin’ is no exception to this sentiment. As we blasted down the highway, now to a Jill-selected Patsy Cline soundtrack, I briefly gazed from my intent highway stare to catch, out of the corner of my eye, a “Garage Sale” sign. Garage sale? At the time it was late February with a hefty blanket of snow on the ground. I had to pull an abrupt emergency 180 to investigate. Jill offered encouragement at my abrupt three-point turn disguised as curses coming from her window pressed cheeks. I got our rig under control and prepared to land in front of a busted up old gas station looking shack, barely off the main highway. I parked and we pondered. Was the sign for real? Afterall, there were remenants of gas station signage and I know the fuel stop had long gone. As curiosity began to peak my interest, I tried to ignore the faint wail of imagined banjo music I heard rustling thru the trees.

February Garage Sale?

We entered the establishment to a hero’s welcome. “Hi y’all doin?” The propietor sported high hanging overalls, flanel shirt and Sherpa style hat. Don’t know what a Sherpa hat is, don’t worry. Neither did I…I had to look it up. Think Eddie in Christmas Vacation. “Shitter’s full!” Anyway, the rest of his gang rounded out the brother Daryl and other brother Daryl ensymble, although quite a bit taller. The oldest brother, I’m guessing at about 35, said it was his birthday. We wished him a Happy Birthday, chatted for a bit, then commenced to peering thru their “garage sale.”

The whole garage sale consisted of the room in which the five of us stood. Looking around was quite literally looking around. That is to say, we had just enough room to spin in a circle to check out their goods, then sideways shuffle to get to another section of the tiny room. Then like a scene right out of Indiana Jones, I found a hidden door. “This included in the garage sale?” I asked. “Well, I ain’t thought bout it. Ain’t much it there…just some old stuff we ain’t cleaned out in a long time. Roofs collapsed in a spot in there…mostly old stuff from an antique shop that used to be in there.” Jills ears perked up like a Jack rabbit on Easter. “Mind if we take a look? I asked. “Naw, sure…s’long as you don’t sue me for falling in no holes.” I agreed and opened the door.

Now we were pickin’! And a grinnin I might add. We tried to contain our excitement lest we ruin our poker faces. Jill got in her head down rumage stance while I tried not to get in the way. My job, as usual, was to keep the propiteor semi-entertained so Jill could work uninterrupted. I stumbled upon some cool old decanters at the front of the shop with all the brothers peering at me. “Hmph, it must be your birthday,” I snorted. “Why there ain’t a drop of liquor left in any of these old bottles!” They thought that was halarious, and amongst the back-slappin I believe I was accepted as one of their own. We chatted a spell while Jill made her final selections. Among the best of the lot was an antique globe, a really cool roll down map and a few of the decanters came with us as well. All in all a pretty good truck, as Huck Finn would say.

Awesome Globe!

We paid the gent and said our final goodbyes to the fellows before loading our finds and heading back out on the highway. It’s funny to look back and think about what transpired. Our initial feeling was that of fear…fear of being bound and killed, or worse. But ultimately these were good old boys, just like me. Hell, maybe they had the same initial fear when I said I was from Kentucky. In this world it seems like we are being told more and more to keep up our guard. Now I’m not saying to be nieve. Not at all…just more accepting of things the way they are. Forget what the news yells at us nightly. This counrty is still chocked full of good people. Good people just like our new friends we were fortunate to cross paths with, on some random highway in some random town. While we were seeing scenes from a bad 80’s horror flick, they were just hanging out selling some stuff and celebrating a birthday. There were some good deals, good items, and above all good people…real good people…at the February Garage Sale.

The Michigan Peddler

19 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by opidells in Pickin' and a Grinnin' - Chad's Rants from the Road

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antiques yard sales, michigan peddler, picking, sales, VINTAGE, yankee peddler

It was just a short time ago that we happened upon a very peculiar character during one of our travels. Hmmmm…perhaps peculiar isn’t the right word. Peculiar is usually defined as odd or curious, eccentric, queer. I’ve always felt that it has a little underhanded quality that may not properly paint this particular gent. Maybe interesting would be a better tag. And since eccentric and queer are interesting to me, then yes, this fellow was definitely interesting.

Motoring down the highway, the old Suburban and trailer forming the Pickin’ Express, we spotted just off the roadside, in an abandoned fast food restaurant parking lot, an oasis of cool stuff piled high and wide. There might as well have been a billboard with a flashing arrow pointing “Stop Here!” Even though the arrow didn’t exist, that’s what Jill saw. We executed a perfect emergency landing into the parking lot, and amid the dust and sprinkling asphalt, exited the vehicle.

“G’mornin’,” the seller extended. Our entrance had obviously disturbed him from his peaceful refuge inside the Sunday paper and morning coffee. The salesman was a medium build black man, probably 35-ish, funny – but for no definable reason, and he exuded a feeling of genuine happiness. Baring a bright ivory smile, he was wearing baggy blue-jeans and a flannel shirt, tennis shoes that seemed to be the newest addition to his wardrobe, and a baseball cap that had long ago stopped advertising whatever it originally attempted to sell. He ceased leaning back in his chair, returned all its legs to earth with a thud and hopped to his feet.

“Y’all lookin’ for anything in ‘ticlar?” He had a little bit of a limp.

“Nah, we are just lookin,” I returned. “You got a lot of stuff here.”

My observation was sincere, but then I realized just how much of an understatement it was. As I gazed around the isolated lot I realized that the only means of conveyance as far as the eyes could see were our derailed antique train and his old formerly-red Ford pickup truck. No trailer, no backup car…nothing.

“I mean, you really have a lot of stuff,” I repeated. “How’d you get it all here?”

He did an obligatory over-the-shoulder glance and leaned in close, as though he was about to tell me the secrets of the universe.

“It’s amazing how high you can shovel shit ain’t it?” He said with a little giggle.

I found out later he was a mighty religious fellow and didn’t abide cussin’, especially on a Sunday. But he did keep his one favorite swear on reserve as a little verbal treat that he used sparingly and with a great degree of self-restraint.

We scoured the short isles and soon found this peddler had great taste. Not to mention, he was a conversationalist. He would occasionally stop over and start up a chat with “oh, I forgot I even had them. They’re pretty ain’t they?” Following a chat he would return to the paper and offer short updates about the world, politics or so-and-so in the news and “did you ever here the likes?”

Soon after our arrival we noticed quite a few more people arriving to take a peek at the goods lining the lot. Most were dressed in church attire, wandering just to be wandering…something lazy to do after spending all morning trying to catch the Holy Spirit. Some toted impatient kids, nearly at their limit from Sunday sitting-still time. Others sported some of the most beautiful and broadest brimmed hats you have ever laid eyes on, second, and a close second, only to the Kentucky Derby itself. Our haggler remarked, “The clothes are getting nicer. That means it must be getting close to lunch time!”

I thought it was a funny line, but it still made me feel a little heathenish for not being included in the Sunday best group. Note to self…hit an occasional church in your travels. The preachin’ is good, the singing is nice and you might even get invited for a little fried catfish afterwards. Nothing will recharge your faith quicker than a properly fried catfish dinner with all the trimmings. Yum!!

We had gathered all we could hold, and then some. I started thinking about the stacking comment from earlier and nearly dropped the entire haul giggling. The salesman must have sensed it and joined in on my laugh at the inside joke. All Jill’s items were laid before their soon-to-be-previous owner and the two of them began negotiations resembling a couple of roosters circling before a fight. Bids went up and bids went down. Accolades were given. Resumes presented.

“This one has a crack.”

“I saw one just like that sell on eBay for twice that much.”

“I just can’t pay that, I won’t.”

“I would throw it in the trash before I’ll take a penny less.”

The New York Stock Exchange has got nothing on these two. Finally a price was agreed, hands were shook and everyone parted as friends. It reminded me of the end of a prize fight. After beating each other mercilessly for twelve rounds, most boxers still hugged afterwards and told of great admiration for the other fighter in the post-match interview, regardless of who was the victor. I guessed there was a mutual respect by both parties. I reckon that extends to good old fashioned horse trading as well: each admired the other’s spunk and tenacity, and ultimately they both came away champs if in nothing else but the experience alone.

I had been quietly monitoring the goings-on while aimlessly rummaging through some books. Although I didn’t see anything of particular interest, I had just picked up a very old picture-style encyclopedia when the negotiations came to an end. I flipped open to the middle and, as the pages came into view, I heard a voice from over my shoulder.

“That’s me you know.”

It didn’t quite register what was even being said until I read on. The page was open to “Yankee Peddler” and showed a photo of an old man, selling items from a carriage. The gent asked if he could read the page to me. I agreed and he proceeded to tell of a simpler time, per the encyclopedia, when goods and services were traded by Peddlers. Peddlers were essentially traveling salesmen of goods, brought from the city to the country and vice versa. Peddlers would bring items from one region to another, sometimes exposing areas to products they had never seen for the very first time. They were known to be shrewd salesmen and carried a mystique about them, most likely a product of their great travels in a travel-deprived world. Along with their wares they brought news and gossip, likely embellished from time-to-time. Many things they brought were essential. Others were not. Some reports have shown Peddlers doubling as healers, salesman of magic elixers, performers and even fortune tellers. All-in-all, you got plenty bang for your buck when purchasing from the Peddler.

“Wow, that is you,” I said aloud. “You sold us some stuff, read us the news, and, I might add, you ARE a shrewd negotiator.”

He smiled at that.

“Yea, I read that part in that book a few times. I always did like it. But I’m from Michigan. Maybe I should be known as the Michigan Peddler.”

“You know, that has a good sound to it. The Michigan Peddler it is!”

“See,” he said, “now you can tell all your friends that you bought from the one-and-only Michigan Peddler. Now, you make sure to tell ’em my name in case I cross paths with any of the people you know, they’ll know me before we even shake hands.”

“The Michigan Peddler…HA,” I chuckled. “Oh, I’ll be sure to tell ’em all about you.”

And I just did…

Chaddy Daddy

Monotony-itis and the February Blues

11 Monday Feb 2013

Posted by opidells in Pickin' and a Grinnin' - Chad's Rants from the Road

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blues, comedy, entrepreneur, february, monotony, picking, retail, VINTAGE, winter blues

In the world of retail sales, there is sometimes a little downtime. Who am I kidding? There is a lot of downtime. Being that Jill’s shop is small, standalone and off the main drag, there can be long lulls between activities. Occasionally, Monotony-itis will set in. Monotany-itis is categorized by several key conditions:

1.) Pacing – walking from window to window, wishing, hoping and even willing customers to descend upon your establishment. Although this constant peering from the windows by the proprietor gives off a Norman Bates vibe to the place, it cannot be helped.

2.) Searching – looking thru web page after web page for non-existent auctions, clever products, and odd distractions to occupy your time. Acute searching typically includes random YouTube searches, especially when involving celebrities, monkeys or skateboard accidents. Severe searching may even include QVC scanning and, in extreme cases, later-regretted purchases.

3.) Cleaning / Rearranging – this condition of Monotony-itis can be one of the most severe, defined by the overwhelming need to straighten up, freshen up and move large items to change the appearance of an overall space. It begins with an innocent task of dusting…just a little touch up. Then it progresses rapidly. A chair is moved, a painting rehung…next thing you know, you’re hiring a crew to stack two pianos on top of each other to create the perfect backdrop to stage a dish sale.

Although not inherently dangerous, it becomes dangerous thru means of small adjustments to certain items to establish the perfect retail appearance. Anyone who is married has seen this condition firsthand. It is easily diagnosed by the tell-tale language of altering a space’s appearance:

“Just a little more to the left…no my left. Almost there…almost there. No, that’s too far. Back to your right…no your other right. YOUR right hand, dummy! Now lift it up so I can see it. Hmmmm…ok, I don’t like it there at all. Let’s start over.”

In its final stages, that thing being lifted for approval will be a twenty-five foot mirror, a came-over-on-the-Mayflower armoire or an anvil. Which brings me to the final stages of Monotony-itis…

4.) Cursing – the final stage of Monotony-itis brings on a flurry of curses that would wilt flowers from a block away. The simplest form of cursing is brought on by a physical manifestation, for example, an antique filing cabinet smashing a toe during condition three. Or it could be brought on by the more dangerous mental manifestation. This is when all the pacing, searching and rearranging hasn’t resulted in an on slot of customers and doubt begins to set in.

“What am I doing wrong? Why isn’t anyone stopping? Why can’t my shop be on a beach in Puerto Rico? Oooooo…a Mojito sounds good. I should be on a beach sipping a Mojito! Instead of freezing in Kentucky! I don’t even like horses!! WHY, OH WHY!!” Followed by, as Bill Cosby would say, foul…filth…flarn…foul. Amazingly, condition four is actually the cure. Once there is a little cursing outlet, there’s a release, then everything becomes right with the world and condition one begins anew.

I suspect most retail establishments go thru bouts of Monotony-itis as none are fully immune, especially following the Christmas season. In Hamburg I doubt the symptoms are as severe due to their steady traffic flow. But when you are a secluded little specialty shop off the beaten path, it is very easy to allow that humdrum feeling permeate deep into your very soul. So what to do, what to do? (Cue patriotic music.) How can we ban together to fight Monotony-itis? How can we, fellow shop owners and retail entrepreneurs help fight this horrible condition so that none are ever afflicted again? Shall we wear ribbons raising the awareness of Monotony-itis? No! Shall we march? No!!! The answer is simple my friends…you just gotta have a little fun.

Sorry about the anti-climactic ending, but it’s true. That’s how we battle the little bouts of downtime and it works pretty well. When there are no customers in the shop, and no items to procure, we come up with little ways to goof off and help pass the time between auctions or customers or whatever.

Give you an example: recently we were doing some painting. My mother-in-law was coming by to check on my progress, but also to visit. Jill and I hatched a plan. Well, I hatched a plan and Jill approved. I took a small bowl and filled it halfway full of small ripped up pieces of white paper. I cleaned out my paintbrush so that it was spotless. When my mother-in-law arrived, I cupped the bowl and held the paintbrush as though she had just caught me in the middle of a stroke. I bid her a hearty hello and briskly walked toward her, theatrically faking a stumble and clumsily spilling the bowl’s contents onto her. As expected, she thought it was paint spilling from the bowl and, given my strong proclivity to falling, it was an easy sell. She shrieked. Then she cursed. Then, being a proper Southern lady, immediately swore revenge.

One time during the autumn, while sitting out front enjoying the day, we noticed a lot of people walking their dogs. Big dogs, little dogs…seemed like every person in the neighborhood was attached to a canine. So we started making quarter bets as to which type of animal would appear next. Each quarter wager bought a single chance: how big a dog, what color dog, what family of dogs, would it bark, would it have a retractable leash, would it look like its owner…all questions on which we would gamble. I don’t recall who won, but it made for a fun way to pass the time.

Last week, I had a good one on Jill. We had just shared lunch when I recalled an old gag I had heard from native Kentucky comic, Carl Hurley. I set the stage: I called Jill on her cell phone:

“H’lo.”

“Hey Jill.”

“Hi darlin’.”

“Listen, I just got a call from a fella’. He said he wants to look at an item he saw in your shop when he drove by yesterday. He wants you to call him at his work. You ok with that?

“Sure.”

“Ok. He works over at the Bluegrass Stockyards on Lisle Industrial. His name is Mike. Now, he said there are several other Mike’s that work there, so when you call, ask for him by his full name. His last name is Howe.”

“You got it.” I proceeded to give her the phone number. If you haven’t figured out the joke, as Jill hadn’t, I’ll help you along. Jill would shortly place a call to the Bluegrass Stockyards and ask for Mike Howe. Get it yet? Mike Howe. (Might want to read it out loud several times.) Mike Howe, when coupled together, sounds like My Cow. So our heroine would be calling the stockyards, ultimately asking to speak with her cow! Ha! Here’s how I imagine the conversation would go. (I have replaced Mike Howe with the phonetic version for ease of reading.)

“Bluegrass Stockyards, how can I help you?”

“Hello, this is Jill, and I was calling to speak with My Cow.”

“Uh, I’m sorry honey, who did you want to speak with?”
“My Cow. Is he available?”

“Honey, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“My Cow came by my shop today and wanted me to call him back. Is My Cow there so I can speak with him.”

“Well, we have lots of Cows (Jill would have heard, “We have lots of Howes here), but I’m not sure any of them can talk.”

“I know, but I just want to speak to MY Cow.”

I didn’t get the actual conversation. Since I pulled off the gag, that information was withheld. I guess she figured that would just be too much for me to handle. I might just suffocate from lack of oxygen while laughing so I think it’s safe to say, we find ways to occupy our down-time. Sometimes the downtimes are the best times anyway.

Chaddy Daddy

Sale Classifications 101

17 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by opidells in Pickin' and a Grinnin' - Chad's Rants from the Road

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Tags

estate sale, garage sale, picking, sale, yard sale

Ok class…the letter for today is “G.” “G”…is for Garage Sale. That’s right boys and girls; today we’re going to talk about the wonderful world of garage sales.

Maybe wonderful is a bit of an overstatement, but it is definitely a “world” all of its own. Well, perhaps even world is being kind. Planet would be a little more befitting the bizarre intergalactic creatures you can find in the wonderful land of garage sales.

Let’s start the education right there. Proper classification of one of America’s greatest institutions is a must. After all, there are many local dialects to which privateer sales of former goods answer. Here are just a few, and my definition of each.

The lowest on the rung has to be yard sales. Yard sales appear as though a front door vomited onto the lawn a wave of undigested items in the form of clothes, shoes, crack-framed Picasso prints (wouldn’t he be proud), AS-SEEN-ON-TV museum grade pieces and all manners of other oddities. This is not to say that yard sales don’t yield good stuff…on the contrary. But here is where central Kentucky yard sales can be very deceptive…and dangerous. You see, venture beyond the city walls of good ole Lexington and the majority of Eastern Kentucky looks as though there is a yard sale already in progress; cars, televisions, cans and even an old hound dog or twenty litter lawns giving the deceptive appearance of a bonafied sale underway. But try and join in on the Saturday afternoon fun and you might end up pulling a Bon Jovi. No? As in shot? You know, “Shot thru the heart, and you’re to blame…” Ok, long way to go for a hairband reference, but this blog started later than usual so please extend me a smidge of leniency.

Next is my personal favorite, the garage sale. Garage sales are cool because not only can you preview items the seller wants to sell, but you get to take a glimpse into the life of that same seller. It’s like looking directly into the soul of your neighbor. No telling what you may find that others never get to see. Are they closet collectors? Psychopaths? Hoarders? Most of the time they’re just normal folk, but sometimes you find stacks of Playboys next to a bible collection, an unused sewing machine next to tattered clothes, or barely used lawn equipment when the host’s hedges are peering over the windows…even the ones on the top floor! Typically it’s not that dramatic, but as I said, occasionally you get a chance to practice a little armchair psychology.

Estate sales are also pretty popular. Estate sales usually look as though the house was all of a sudden abandoned, then a price-gun happy nut came in and peppered the place with price tags. Typically that’s the reality in the case of a death or sudden move or whatever. Estate sales are sometimes done by a company specializing in such sales, but can be performed and orchestrated by normal folk as well. They are neat because you can see a whole house full of stuff still set up inside the home and it helps get a better scale of how something would appear, or even how to set up a room with a particular item. Now, if you ever show up to an “estate” sale and all the stuff is in the yard, correct them (citing your new ed-u-ma-cation) and snobbily inform them “My good fellow, this is about as much an estate sale as Michael Vick is a Zoologist. As Jeffrey Damher is a model citizen. As Hitler was a humanitarian.” Then give them your best Thurston Howell contemptible chuckle and sashay away. Of course, only do this after you have checked their yard for cool items. If you do find something you like, do as we do and simply say “Love your estate sale.” No reason to be snobby to the person with whom you’re about to do business.

So now you know everything there is to know about privately held home sales. Well almost. Next thing you have to know is the people and etiquette in dealing with folks. The people at these varying types of sales are just as unique as the wares they are peddling. There is no set type or person that sticks to a specific type of sale; they are as vast and sometimes crazy as America itself. I’ll give you a snapshot psychological profile of our favorite types:

1.) The Early Bird. These are the people that get to garage sales, estate sales and yard sales long before they open. Years ago, Jill and I hosted our own garage sale. Jill wisely saturated the market with the standard neon signs at the intersection, arrows pointing to the sale and ads on Craigslist updated every few days to insure a good turn-out. The start time was 9:00 am on a Saturday. I decided to head to Magee’s Bakery at about 8:00 a.m. then meet Jill and her father (who was assisting in manning the sale) with fresh doughnuts and country ham-biscuits. When I arrived at Magee’s a few minutes later, Jill’s number lit up on my cell phone.

“Hulo,” I answered.

“Chad, you’ve got to get back down here ASAP. The driveway is full of people waiting to get in!”

People were stacking up an hour before we were even set to open! I jetted back with medium warm doughnuts and a coffee stained crotch to find a city of people attending a sale already in progress. The first gentleman inside scoured the merchandise with hawk like precision, grabbed a small ceramic Pomeranian statue for fifty cents, frantically paid, then darted off with an “I’m late, I’m late” vibe reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland.

2.) The Negotiator. William Shatner wouldn’t stand a chance against these old-school, vicious negotiators. I was selling a golf cart one time for a mere $200.00. It ran and was painted to look like an Army truck. Cool and cheap.

“Hmmmm….” A fellow fretted, obligatory head scratching followed. “Tell ya what, I’ll giv’ ‘er $25.00 right now, cash money.”

It was a garage sale, what did he think I would take…goats?

“I don’t know, I think two bills is a pretty good deal,” I returned, now scratching my head.

“Now c’mon, I really need ‘er.”

He needed it? For what, freelance missions to the Gulf? He was relentless and I would like to say I fought the good fight, but in the end he did work me pretty good. I got rid of the cart and a little pesky pride as well. The negotiators are not to be trifled with. They are pros. They know the cards they hold, AND the cards you hold. They have an uncanny way of getting sale items for next to nothing, and making you think it was YOUR idea. I’m pretty sure most casino owners began as garage sale Negotiators.

3.) The Educator. Antiques are really cool. They have a way of drawing people in for conversation. They remind one person of something they once had, and then the next person of something they never had, but wanted. And as you can tell by most of my meandering blogs, I’m chatty. But sometimes those conversations are very one sided. I compare it to my motorcycle riding days. I researched a bike, I thought about a bike, I looked at bikes and eventually I bought a bike. But no matter where I went, there was always that one guy who wanted to tell ME about MY bike. Collectables are no different. There’s at least a few budding professors that want to tell sellers about their items. I tend to let them ramble; after all I love conversation even if it is on something I already know. Sometimes people just want you to know they are smart.

4.) The Scragglers. I would compare the Scraggler to a vulture, but that wouldn’t be fair. Vultures wait for something to be near its end before they strike. Scragglers are different. They stroll in close to the end of a sale, leisurely look around and nine times out of ten they find some really cool items the early birds missed under the piles of distracting goods. The Scraggler isn’t a Pro, but instead is someone out for a stroll who happens to see a sign for a sale and putters in, just to take a peek. They’re my favorite, mostly because they’re me. They are the ones who don’t have to be there, they just happen to be. They aren’t looking to make a big profit or find that one elusive item they can tell fish stories about the rest of their days. They are just cool shoppers who have strayed from the Big Box grasp and maybe, just maybe, they will find that one sweet thing that keeps them coming back weekend after weekend; that gold coin that entices them to look for treasure. And even though they may never find it, they still have that coin. Yep, Scragglers are my favorite. You know, unless you’re trying to end early to go home.

There is also a dark element to garage sales. You have heard the saying “A few bad apples ruin it for the whole bunch.” Well unfortunately garage sales have the potential to have a truckload of bad apples, way above the acceptable bad apple ratio. Some people shove, push and act just plain uncivilized. I spoke with one garage sale lady who recounted the time she had a sale and a, what appeared to be very wealthy lady, swarmed in and scooped up all the costume jewelry she had for sale. She made her way to the register to pay and only then began cycling thru the jewelry. She just wanted to make sure she and she alone got the best stuff. I am told she discarded about 90% of the jewelry. She just didn’t want anyone else to have it. I have heard of people breaking expensive items and never telling the owners. Both owners that relayed this story said they would have gladly forgiven the would-be vandals, accidents do happen, but who just breaks someone else’s things and doesn’t say a word? We as humans are better than that…aren’t we?

But the absolute worst has to be a thief. I’m not a religious person, but I do think you go to a special place in Hell if you steal from a garage sale. Countless garage sale host and hostesses have recounted stories of theft. And usually it’s nothing grand. A broken sign was one. A pair of $5 shoes was another. We even had a replica Coach bag go missing from our personal garage sale. Mostly all items that, had we been asked, we would have probably given away to someone who needed them or even desperately wanted the item but just didn’t have the money. I remember my mother selling a very nice quilt to a lady once who had a similar quilt when she was a child. The quilt she had burned in a fire and she practically begged my mother to sell it to her for much less than my mother paid for it. And she did. Most people, especially garage sale people are the salt of America. Treat garage sale folk with respect and it will be returned tenfold. There are very few blind trust outposts left in this country.

Bizarre things happen at garage sales all the time. I have seen a ten year old boy break dance, several people sang for me. Last weekend I witnessed a nice older lady searching for money she obviously hid in her brassiere until God and everybody could see her full undercarriage. I tried not to look but the tractor beam pulled me in. I got caught. And with a smile she said “Guess I shoulda brung a wallet, huh?” Complete indignation is a trait I look forward to in my twilight.

Once I even made money at a garage sale. Jill and I stopped off to check out a sale late in the day. They had a few items of interest, but due to a long day we were not in the mood to neither haggle…nor do much loading. Well, somehow during the conversation (I’m always chatting with people) he said something about model trains.

“You have a track?” I asked.

“Yup, upstairs over my garage.”

“No kidding,” I returned. “Would you be interested in buying some old 1950 and 1960’s railroad timetables and books?”

“You bet!” He got excited.

I had purchased at auction a while back a whole box of timetables, pay scales, forms and all manners of railroadphenalia from as early as 1930 and as late as 1980. He happened to be a member of the Lexington model train club. I ran back to my office and grabbed the books. I got lucky. I not only sold the books, but I sold them to someone who will really appreciate them. And although I had initially wanted much more, fate let me know who the books were supposed to go to.

Now, here’s a little insight into the world of auctions I would like to explain. I paid $5.00 for the books. I sold them for $20. That’s a pretty good profit, right. But you have to remember, I bought the books over an hour’s drive away, each direction, drove them back home to Lexington, stored them, attempted to sell them on eBay several times unsuccessfully, and finally months later just so happened to find a fellow who wanted them at his garage sale. Jill and I will go to dozens and dozens of garage sales, yard sales, estate sales and auctions in a month’s time. And we do make profit. Or try to. But just like the example above, although $15 profit is pretty good, there are much easier ways to make fifteen bucks.

When we purchase an item, we may have looked at thousands of other items just to get that one that would fit the store. We are quite selective. And we never gouge the customer. If we get a good deal, why, we just pass that along. What I am saying is, don’t listen to Storage Wars or Baggage Wars or whatever glorified “wars” is on the television. Auctioning is hard work, long days and lots of disappointment. But if you do what you love, you will enjoy it that much more. That’s why we continue to look for that elusive deal. We love it: the hunt, the drive and the time we spend together. More often than not we get to see a side of this crazy world that we had forgotten, or perhaps, we just overlooked.

People Watchin’ at the Friendliest Auction House on Earth

13 Sunday Jan 2013

Posted by opidells in Pickin' and a Grinnin' - Chad's Rants from the Road

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antiques, auctions, bidding, comedy, dukes of hazzard, estate, people watching, sales, VINTAGE

One of the greatest luxuries the auction/garage sale/estate sale format provides me is people watching. I love people watching. And ultimately, I love people. Big people, little people, different colors, different appearances, etcetera. But the thing I like most about people is their comedic presence…their quirky eccentric true-self that somehow eases its way out that even the most polished individual can’t squelch. It’s that goofy commonality that, even though we perceive ourselves as individuals: rich, poor, fat, skinny, smart, dumb…it somehow links us back to each other, making you realize we all do the same stupid…uh…stuff.

In case you are confused, I’ll give you a quick example. Ever see someone slip on ice? Ever slip on ice yourself? Funny as hell isn’t it? No matter where we are mentally when it occurs, we pause for a brief slice of time to flail and fight gravity and no matter whom you are, you become instantly the same as everyone else who has ever slipped on ice: a goofball. How about when you are sitting next to a vehicle in traffic and the car next to you starts to move, but you can’t tell if you are moving or if they are. You become dumb as a brick don’t you? How about when you check your watch to see what time it is. A friend sees you do this and they ask you what time it is…and you can’t remember the time YOU JUST CHECKED! HA! Ignorance may be bliss, but not when you are quite aware of it.

I also like the aesthetics, to be kind, of people as well. Now let me preface…by all rights I am a goofy looking guy. I am 6’1″ and probably nearly as broad as I am long. I wore a size 13 shoe when I was 13 years old, then graduated to a size 14 when I was 14 years old, and have been holding steady ever since. I have a good head of hair, but it never gets long. When it isn’t properly attended to, it morphs one of two ways: either it “fro’s” up, I mean straight up…Don King up, or it turns into what Jill likes to call evangelist preacher hair. Preacher hair is that extra tall, uber-fixed hair that the Sunday morning talking heads sport whilst delivering their fire-and-brimstone sermons. Although mine isn’t the obligatory silver fox color yet, antiquing or Jill may soon be the culprit if that life change does take place.

Since I prefaced by saying I too suffer from chronic goofitis, then I don’t feel as bad poking fun at others for their, ahem, aesthetic oddities. One more thing on the subject and I will get on with my story. I don’t take pleasure in other people’s misfortunes. For instance, if someone was horribly disfigured or something of the like, well that’s just not funny. The aesthetic funny I am talking about is obvious life choices to project yourself a certain way. Take me: if I came to your house with my big foot and gangly stature wearing clown shoes (although they practically are anyway) and spandex, well fell free to jest your fill.

The target auction today was to be held at night. Most of the time we focus on early morning auctions which we believe will give us a full day of lookin’ and buyin’. Night auctions offer their own challenges. Usually nighttime auctions are held by auction-houses and although they have lots of good stuff, it rarely affords us the ability to purchase since most people raising their hand during evening auctions are bidding for items to place in their own home.

We arrived a few minutes late due to a slight miscalculation by the Geep-us, the nickname we’ve given to the GPS. I rustled up a bid number, Jill did a quick scan of the items and we both met somewhere in the middle to choose our seats, a standard practice we have repeated dozens and dozens of times. The auction house was full of characters, a very animated auctioneer and filled to the rafters with the smell of popcorn and soup beans. I immediately liked the place.

We sat in front of a group of older gentlemen who gave a running commentary of the auction.

“Sellin’ a dress, Harold. You gonna bid on ‘er? Don’t you need something to wear on yer tractor? HaHaaaa!” Or, “What tha hayle is that? Well, I threw something away that looked better than that just last week.”

They reminded me of the two old guys in the balcony on the Muppet Show.

There were a couple of ring men that helped catch bids and deliver items to the crowd, via “right field” or “left field” as the auctioneer described direction. The auctioneer himself was wearing a cowboy hat and spectacles. I referred to him as “Tex with Glasses.” When he wasn’t calling the auction he was relatively quiet, a rarity for auctioneers. I have found that once an auctioneer chooses a profession in which he must talk fast, it’s tough to exit that speech pattern. But this auctioneer left the talking to one of the ring men who also had a microphone, another rarity in the auction world. I affectionately called that ring man “Uncle Jesse” due to the similarity between him and the Dukes of Hazzard character. He had the same white beard, the same blue-jean overalls and the same half-moon belly rounding out the overalls. He was funny. It was all I could do to stay in my chair when he belted out his unintentionally comical one-liners.

“Folks, thanks for coming tonight. Without your bids we wouldn’t have an auction.” Tex with Glasses nodded in solidarity.

Lawn darts came across the block. We missed out. Then we got a pair of so-ugly-they-hafta-be-cool chairs. They didn’t look too heavy which, as being the designated muscle, was good for me. While Jill calculates the amount we have spent at auctions, my litmus test was assessing the weight of a particular object. If we were paid by pounds I sometimes feel like I would be a millionaire already. Next was a damaged coffee table, the same one we have in the store. The damaged one went for nearly as much as ours, which is in pristine condition! Amazing how values can be so different in just a short distance.

Two more ring men were running items back and forth, creating a festive scene of items carried over top of peoples’ heads, of stuff entering and leaving the auction block and of Uncle Jesse constantly telling a tale, expressing gratitude or describing the condition of a particular piece.

“Folks, we couldn’t get it to go,” he said while describing an 8-track turntable cabinet, “but there shouldn’t be anything wrong with it.”

The next item was an old radio pre-tuned to a county music channel. He fired up the unit and when the sweet sounds of hillbilly rock bellowed from its innards, the bidding inevitably increased.

The ring men themselves were comical. One had a chiseled lower chin that seemed to constantly fight with his upper jaw producing a little I-know-something-you-don’t grimace. The other, a considerably older gentleman, although you wouldn’t know it watching him dart sold items to and fro with lightning speed, had a Band-Aid on the right side of his head and sported a “Coroner’s” vest. In my own mind I chuckled at the thought of how the two adornments were related. Due to his speedy demeanor, had he reacted too quickly as coroner and, after trying to zip an innocent bystander into a bag, received his mid-head injury? I never got the nerve to ask. Besides, my wit isn’t for everyone and I was well outnumbered. I feared retribution from a man who obviously knows how to get rid of a body.

The items began to slow and I started loading up. I did catch one final Uncle Jesse-ism while moving purchases to my waiting Suburban. “Well now folks I tell you what…this is ’bout ret-ta-row as I’ve ever seen.” Jill bought a couple of ret-ta-row items on principal. And if you come to our shop, we have both styles…Retro and ret-ta-row. Now I have to warn you, ret-ta-row is rarer, thus a little more expensive, but I think worth it.

All razzing aside, that was about the friendliest auction house I have ever visited. On average, the auctioneer said a heartfelt thanks for coming or thanks for bidding after every fifth or sixth bid, especially when there was a little bidding war going on. Even the Domino’s Pizza across the road was amazingly friendly. After a jovial message stating the location and specials, I was transferred to a person.

“I was just wondering what time you closed tonight,” I said. “Well sir, today we are open until 11 pm.”

“Ok thanks, I might call you back.”

“Thank you, sir. And thanks for calling Domino’s Pizza. And may I say, I hope you have a wonderful New Year!” Like I said, very friendly town.

Everyone seemed to like that auction house. We sold most of the items we won within days of the auction. Their price was accommodating, allowing our price to match. We will definitely make the journey back to what must be the friendliest auction house in America. Who knows, if the town in anyway matches the attitude we experienced at the sale, well, me might just have to file it away as a possible place to retire.

opidells

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