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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.

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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.

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

(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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!)

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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.

Karmatic Snow Storm

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.

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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.

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Flat Iron long an narrow restaurant…

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Flat Iron Bar

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Only burners in the house…

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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?"

“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.

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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?

February Garage Sale?

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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!

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

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

Chaddy Daddy

Sale Classifications 101

17 Thursday Jan 2013

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

≈ 1 Comment

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. yard sale

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.

Losing an iPad – by Chaddy Daddy

08 Thursday Nov 2012

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

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Tags

antique, auction, collecting, ipad, picking, VINTAGE

There are going to be bad days.  Lots of them.  Sometimes it seems that the bad days pile on and consume what few good days we are fortunate enough to have.  Of course, that sentiment is usually reflected while in the eye of a really bad day.  And even though our pickin’ days are usually filled with fun, sun and lots of bidding, this would not be that type of weekend.

The day started dreary and cold.  There had been so many nice days leading to this day, you would think I could remember those nice days just recently in my wake, but I couldn’t.  Bone chilling air tends to erase the memory of anything other than the previous cold breath hanging in space in the form of a personal dark cloud.

I was already a bit grumpy because I was to strike out on my own this morning.  Business was doing well so Jill opted to man the warm shop while I set out in search of elusive goodies.  To clarify, I was grumpy since I would not have Jill to chat with while riding the rolling hills of Kentucky, not because she would stay behind in the warm shop.  Ok, I have described it as “warm shop” twice, so maybe I was a bit envious.

The first sale was a couple going thru, what the locals tell me, a bitter divorce.  I speculated that the morning matched their expectation for the mood the sale would soon establish.  Not much to pick from, but I did find some unexpected treasures in the form of a custom dresser, a sewing table and a couple of hand-made wood sculptures.  The church pew went for way too much.  As did the pie safe.  As did all the miscellaneous beer signage and collectables.  The auctioneer thought they should have gone for even more money!  “What, no Catholics in the crowd?  They usually pay tons for these things!”  Auctioneers are not yet bound by the laws of political correctness, far as I can tell.

I enlisted the help of a skinny armed 15 year-old to load my trailer.  This time I had the open trailer, regardless of the possibility of inclement weather.  Fuel prices had killed us on the last run with the covered trailer so I was determined to use my pilot abilities to dodge the weather, and use my expertise in tarp-tying to protect the goods.  The skinny armed boy huffed and grunted to help me with my purchases.  He finally gave up on the dresser and I was left to load the big unit myself.  We chatted about his upcoming car fantasies, even though that dream was a good year off being realized.  He told me of some possible treasures he saw hidden in the basement while they were staging the auction.  I gave him a few bucks for the info and assistance, finished the auction and headed down the road.

While en route, I passed a downed road sign.  I have a thing for road signs.  My garage is nearly covered with them.  I even have friends and family bring me signs they have found or purchased.  The way I figure, if the sign has been laying there long enough to grow grass, it’s fair game. I chalk it up as my own Kentucky beautification project.  I went past the sign, turned around in a driveway and headed back for my roadside prize.  Checking that the coast was clear, I stepped from my truck and begin masquerading as though I was looking at my trailer.  Then I heard it!  “GRRRRRRRR!”  I turned around to find a pair of Pit Bull dogs staring at me with the same intensity as a Grizzly stares at a steak.  As a Biker stares at a Beer.  As a West Virginian stares at a math problem.  I mean intense.  I eased around the back side of my truck, always facing the dogs and occasionally gruffing “No!” or “You be good.”  I got to the front the same time they did…damn dogs, always finding a short-cut.  I eased in the driver’s seat as a car popped the hill.  The dogs scurried away, and so did I, although only one of us had their tail between their legs.  Those beasts can have their sign!

Chased by a dog!  Hmph…not a bad day yet.  I continued down the road to the next auction.  I knew I would be arriving late, but I figured I would give it a shot.  By the time I found the place, parked and found the entrance it was pretty much over.  I didn’t even bother getting a bid number.  I asked one of the ring men if they were wrapping up.

“Yep…we’re ’bout done.”

“I guess I should have been here sooner huh?” I said, just trying to be nice.

“Yea man!  Things went cheap!  I mean, you see that couch right thar?”  I looked where his crooked finger abstractly  pointed.  Now I am not exaggerating…before me sat the ugliest couch I have ever laid eyes upon.  It was so ugly, it wasn’t even cool ugly.  I was just plain-ole UG-LEEEE!  “Well sir, that thar couch only sold fer a doller!”

“No kidding.”  I returned, again just being nice.  And a little sarcastic.  “That’s pretty cheap.”

“Hell yea it is.  Tell you what, what’ll ya give me fer it?”  He bought the couch!  And he was trying to up his UG-LEEE investment on me!

“Oh, I don’t have any room left on the trailer, but believe me, I would!  That’s a nice ‘en.”  I quickly scurried off for the second time in a day.

Chased by a dog and missed an auction.  Ok, still pretty good day.  Afterall, I was heading to the shop to unload my finds and see my Jill.  After a quick assessment and needed validation of the days labor, Jill and I headed out for a bite-to-eat and beverage.  We chatted about the day, the dogs, the couch and such.  I could tell she missed going to the auction, so I told here about one more sale within driving distance that didn’t start until 6:00.  It wasn’t far away.  We woofed down our final bites of food and headed to the house for a quick equipment change (unloading the trailer and putting on clean clothes) and headed out.

The drive was a bit longer than I calculated.  I usually under-estimate time figuring I can make up the difference by driving a smidge below maniac classification.  But this was a narrow two lane highway and we got stuck behind a school bus.  To make matters worse, the school bus had one of those flashing bulbs on the roof.  Why do they do that?  I know the claim is that the flashing lights make it easier to see the bus, therefore more safe, but you can’t see when you are behind flashing lights in the darkness.  It practically blinds you!  Can’t imagine how that makes if safer, having a bunch of blinded drivers bearing down on the little ones.

A short while later, following the recovery of my rods and cones, we arrived at the last auction of the day.  We walked inside to find this little middle-of-nowhere packed to the ceiling with people.  And although the stuff was really neat, it was going for astronomical prices.  Where did this auction house get such cool stuff?  And where did all these people come from?  It was a little Twilight Zone-ish.  I was tired, Jill was tired, and the horrible PA system was getting on our nerves.  I can only assume the auction house bought their speaker second-hand from an old Long John Silvers drive-thru because that is what it sounded like.  We decided to ditch the auction, lick our wounds and head home to a warm bed.

Chased by a dog, missed an auction and had to ditch an auction after a long drive.  Still a good day.  At least we would be home soon.  We arrived home about an hour later.  Jill headed to the computer to check her emails and I hit the couch for a much needed review of some bad television.  I had just gotten comfortable when I decided to check my email.

“Jill, where’s the iPad?”

“I dunno, you had it last.”

“I thought you had it.”

“Well I know we had it at the auction…”

Any married couple knows the scene that followed.  Code red, thrashing thru the house, dismantling the Suburban, searching every nook and cranny…to no avail.  We had somehow left the iPad at the last auction house.  It was a two hour trip far, far away from my comfortable couch.  We weren’t sure who left it, but it didn’t matter.  We had to go get it.  We called and called, trying to reach the auction house to see if our trip was even necessary.  We figured it was long gone.  We finally did reach the auction house about 10 minutes out.  They hadn’t seen the iPad but promised to make an announcement to see if anyone had found it.  By the time we arrived the iPad was sitting up front waiting for us.  GREAT!  What a relief.  We gave each other a glance and finally…finally…were headed for home.

Chased by a dog, missed an auction, bad auction house, lost iPad.  Ugh…what a rough day.  The final nail in the coffin came from my trusty GPS.  Apparently the “Geep-Us”, as I call it, was tired as well.  It routed us home a different direction than our inbound route.  I just figured she must have found a quicker route.  Maybe the “Geep-Us” knew of an unpublished route, or maybe a bridge to a teleportation wormhole that would instantly return me to my couch.  No such luck.

For some reason she took me the long route, increasing our time home by half.  I had been on the road over eight hours thru the course of the day and never left Kentucky.  Hell I hadn’t even gone more that about an hour and-a-half from home at any given time.  I was exhausted.  Ok, to sum up:  chased by a dog, missed an auction, went to a bad-loud-expensive auction, lost my iPad and “Geep-Us” took the long way home.  Pretty bad day.  But I still wouldn’t change it for anything.

Ziggin’ and a Zaggin’ – by Chaddy Daddy

04 Sunday Nov 2012

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

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

amish, collecting, driving, estate sales, picking, VINTAGE

After an entire weekend of zigging and zagging America’s backroads to bring unique goods to our customers, I figured this would be as good a place as any to begin our blog.  Obligatory introductions are in order:  I am Chad, Jill’s sometimes partner, full time husband and overtime muscle.  If you ever venture to her shop, I will be the one grunting and sweating to lift cool items in to your vehicle.

Jill had the wonderful idea to begin blogging about all our misadventures in the relentless search for the unique, odd and cool items we bring to her shop.  And since I usually have a respectable amount of downtime between lifting stuff, I was nominated to put pen to paper, or rather fingers to keys, to tell the tale of how we came to posess some of the coolest stuff in Lexington.

Now, let me first preface by saying that you will not find out any secrets here.  Sorry.  A good fisherman won’t divulge their honeyholes and neither will we.  If you are in fact interested in learning the antique, junk, collectable, oddities market, I will tell you this…there is no one place we go.  We go everywhere!  (cue Johnny Cash.)  Estate sales, garage sales, auctions, abandoned warehouses…you name it, we’ve probably been there.  Rather the real reason for keeping this journal is to document the truly odd and wonderful adventures we have had while on the road, much like American Pickers but without being staged!

This past weekend proved to be a great weekend to begin our blog!  We left Saturday morning with high hopes of filling our (borrowed) covered trailer with all kinds of goodies.  At least enough goodies to get us thru the desolate winter months when auctions and garage sales dry up.  The first sale we targeted was mostly a bust.  I say mostly because we did get to see some beautiful fall foliage and the drive was magnificent.  But there weren’t any items we deemed worthly of a seat on the Opidell Express back to Lexington.  After nearly getting the trailer hung on an electric wire while departing the auction, we continued down the road…

We happened upon a bizarre scene after getting moderately lost leaving our last location.  We topped a hill to find the entire road littered with some sort of sale lining both sides of this tiny two-lane stretch of road.  Could we have found a Picker’s Oasis?  I dropped Jill at what looked to be the source of the sale then began looking for a place to park my mammoth machine.  When I finally did settle on a landing strip, I departed my vehicle and began searching for Jill.  She was already knee deep in negotiations when I found her.  The trailer would have some passengers after all.  We continued up and down the road until all was seen.

Turns our there was a festival in the works.  I believe the main reason God created fall was for festivals.  The cool air never seems to transport the smells of chili and the sounds of Bluegrass music as efficiently as during Fall.  Since we had already put in a hard day of sitting, driving, and raising our bidding arms, we decided to treat ourselves to a much deserved snack.  The fare was fair food…both in style and quality.  But that didn’t stop us for enjoying the culinary version of a walking heart attack.  I chose a cheeseburger and Jill settled on a fried-balogna sandwhich (which was thicker than the burger!) and we both had Frito Pie.  If you have never had Frito pie, then your Hillybilly card may be challenged.  Frito pie is a wonderful concoction consisting of Fritos covered in Chili then nacho cheese.  It is known by others names, but regardless of it’s title, believe me when I tell you…it is job security for Cardiologists everythere.

Feeling full and guilty, we continued onward.  Our next unscheduled stop was a strange little impropt junk market filed with wonderful treasures and friendly hosts.  We found an awesome min-century modern chair, a great retro lamp and a display case formerly used as a Woodford Reserve Bourbon rack.  Unfortunately the brown water was not included.  Then something odd happened.  I struck up a conversation with the owner that focused on interesting things we each have purchased in the last few weeks.  Some how, I related that I had purchased an old 8mm projector and she had just sold a projector.  Nothing earth shattering.  Just chit-chat.  I left the conversation to wander one last time thru the maze of goodies when the owner approached me.  Her husband had just delivered a box of new wares and inside were two 8mm reels.  She said I could just have them since I would need something to test my new projector.  I asked how much and she again said they were free as she could not charge me for something like that, you know, given the title and everything.  I looked down.  Right there in big black letters said “Slave and Master.”  Oh great…Chris Hanson is monitoring this conversation, I just know it.  I bade her thanks, we paid, left, and promptly discarded the reels at the next receptacle.

Continuing down the highway we stumbled upon more garage sales, odd folks, and even a pair of first class airline seats in a town far far away from any airport.  Our final spot Saturday was an auction that began earlier in the day.  We hoped to catch the tail end and maybe some good bargains.  Now, I know we all have mental hobbies.  That is, hobbies that we keep to ourselves in our own mind.  Punch bug could fit this description.  Trying to figure out vanity plates.  That’s a good one.  I once had a friend who loved to spot mullets.  Just little mental games we play inside our own head for entertainment or a laugh.  Well, one of mine is Amish people who bid at auctions.  I love it!  I really don’t know why, but it makes me giggle every time!  Given our location, it’s not even rare to see Amish men (never women) bid.  Mostly tools, sometimes livestock, but occasionally they bid and win a very peculiar item.  Like a hat!  Their hats are basically issued.  I saw one Amish fellow bidding on a steering wheel.  WHY?  It’s like me bidding on a quantum phisics text…it just plain ain’t gonna be used.

Let me back up for a second.  For anyone who is unfamiliar with the auction format, I will give you a basic tutorial.  When you arrive at an auction, you show your driver’s license and are given a bidder number.  This number is usually on a piece of paper that is assigned to you and you alone.  You and others will bid against each other in an effort to win the item on which you are bidding.  At the conclusion of the sale of a particular item, the auctioneer will say something like, “Sold…$5.00 to bidder number 43.”  The Amish gentleman bidding this weekend didn’t have a bidder number.  He didn’t have a driver’s license so he didn’t have a bidder number.  I guess the auction house knew him and allowed him to bid regardless of his lack of proper state issued identification.  Fine with me.  Here’s the funny part though…when he won an item, he gave an initial…EB.  Now, that in inself wasn’t funny.  But I heard a gentleman speaking with him at one point during the evening.  The gentleman called the Amish person by his name, and although I don’t know if it was the Amish fellow’s first or last name, I am damm sure the name he gave started with neither an “E” or a “B.”  So what could the “EB” stand for?  My friends, it will just have to remain a mystery.  I know the Amish don’t like their photo taken, so I assumed they didn’t like being asked what their bidder initials mean either.  Might take their spirit or something.  And why, if you lead a semi-eventless existense as the Amish do, why not for a day be uber-cool.  Why not say something like, “Oh yea, I won the butter churn.  But that on Sparrow’s tab my good man.”  Or, “that’s right.  $10.00 for the bonnett.  Bidder number Crazy Train if you will.”  Time will tell.

We wrapped up the auction and pointed the old Suburban and trailer southward.  Then east.  I dunno exactly which direction we headed, but since we were headed home I can say with some certanity I had a big smile on my face.  As the sun dropped behind the hills to begin its encore for the other side of the world, I began to ponder the luck we had that day.  We saw so much of the world few get to see.  Anyone can book a trip to Hawaii or head to the Biltmore and although neither should be missed, true America can’t be found on the pages of a travel brocure.  It’s on the two lane highways and in the backwoods.  That’s where you will truly find us, as Americans, and you, as a person.

With the trusty GPS guiding the direction and a fresh Mountain Dew helping me guide the wheel, I suddenly felt very lucky to be able to lead the life I am leading.  With Jill’s SNORE-SLURP-AHEM-SNORE cadence resonating thru the truck and the highway noise humming underfoot, I grinned and allowed myself a daze into appifinay. I was transporting cool items and products from one location to the next on a wonderful roadtrip.  And although many will never see the backroads and byways I am describing, that stuff trailing behind the trusty truck got an all inclusive journey just to make their way to our shop, then maybe to your home.

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