At Weeks End
Since colonial times auction sales have had a presence, although in more recent years their frequency has waned a bit. Thats understandable. Each one that goes in the books means there is one less on the horizon.
An auctions prime purpose is to give retired farmers or folks downsizing also relatives of those whove passed on an opportunity to divest themselves of things they no longer want or need.
Angus and I, on a short ride through Humboldt late Thursday, stopped at such a sale. His mission was to sniff everything that didnt move, mine to look up some buddies I figured would be at the sale. He wasnt disappointed, nor was I.
Right away I noticed a few things I was certain would enhance my life at least thats my rationale and Im sticking to it.
As luck would have it, I outlasted a couple of bidders, who exhibited more common sense in their restraint than did I.
The result: I filled the better part of my little pickup trucks bed with boxes and cans of what I assured wife Beverly were very important things, and that I would sort through the trove in quick time whatever that means to someone who is a junker at heart.
I came by my affection for auctions honestly enough.
When I was young I tagged along with Dad when he went to such sales. Sometimes wed tote home one of those wooden ice boxes, after winning the bid at 25 or 50 cents, so he could remove the brass hardware and sell it for scrap, maybe doubling his money.
Now anyone who has a clue about antiques knows old oak ice boxes, refinished and with brass hinges polished to a fine sheen, will fetch several hundred dollars. Then, they were cast off, and often hauled to the local trash dump.
Another rarity today that didnt draw much attention in the 1950s was wall telephones, the kind with a crank to alert a real, live operator that a call was pending. They also usually were fashioned from nicely grained oak.
A couple of times Dad bought those, so he could reclaim the magnetos. Although illegal then as now, Im sure there are few old fisherman around who remember when two copper wires dangled over the side of a boat after being attached to the posts a magneto was a sure way to call up a catfish slumbering under a brush pile in a deep hole of the Neosho. Lorraine Cleaver was a master.
Crying the sale Thursday was Ross Daniels, a young fellow who I claim as elbow relation. I remember when he cut his teeth in the auction game helping out at livestock sales in Fort Scott, and, I have to tell you, Ross is a dandy. He has a clear and clever chant and a way with words that is so important for an auctioneer to hold the interest of his crowd.
