Let's see now....
Where were we?
Oh, yeah. I remember.
Linda asked:
"Questions, how did you get started in the junk business?"
A lot of this has been covered in other posts. I think the best way to handle this is with some quick links to those posts for background, then I'll fill in the blanks in this post.
First off, all my posts with the "junking memories" label. A couple aren't totally relevant, but the ones called "Family Ties" and "Leitchfield Flea Market" kind of lay the groundwork for my junk history. I've kind of let the thread drop on this series. I need to pick that up again. I know I've got a couple of drafts for new posts somewhere in my list.
Another one to read is this one that I wrote after moving out of Dixie earlier this year. It tells the story of my growth there.
Finally, here is the very first post featuring my very first booth, practically from the very first day. You can see pics of a tubby, slightly more clean-shaven, pre-cancer Eddie in this post. I got so wrapped up in doing the booth (plus a few other things) that I didn't blog again for a whole year!
Now that the groundwork has been laid, here are some of the finishing details. Keith and I had been doing some heavy duty yard saling for a couple of years, usually getting stuff for the house, presents (for a long time almost every birthday and Christmas gift we gave was yard saled or thrifted), or stuff for us. From time to time, I would grab something and say that when I got my booth, this would go in it. I had a "someday booth" kind of like Laurie's beach house.
Right after we moved into the house, we went to our very first Peddlers Mall and I was in love with the idea. People were selling junk! I had junk! I could sell my junk! But it was just a dream I never did anything with. A little later, the friend we used to have yard sales with took a booth in a secondhand store. We kind of had a ringside seat at learning how to do it. When I finally bit, I had an idea of what to expect.
What finally pushed me over the edge was a combination of factors. I had talked with the store where my friend was, but gotten turned down, as that owner only took vendors he knew and selected. I had also placed my name on a waiting list at a Peddlers Mall. I was told they had a six month waiting list. I never heard back from them.
I went to the opening of the Dixie Peddlers Mall and they had open spaces, which would mean no waiting list. Anyone could sign up. No funky vetting procedures. Keith was away that weekend, and I wanted to talk to him before I actually took the plunge.
At that particular time, I needed an outlet badly. I was trapped in a job that I was coming not just to hate, but to despise. Too many reorganizations and shuffles. An overly bloated top tier loaded with incompetent cronies. A toxic atmosphere where secrecy, favoritism, and backbiting were the order of the day. I had watched both a good friend and a supervisor become targets of scapegoating and witch hunting. The supervisor got summarily dismissed. A few months later, it became pretty obvious that my ass was in the target zone.
I needed something to help me keep my sanity and restore a very badly-shattered self-esteem. I had no idea how badly wounded I was by the whole experience until the day I finally got canned along with almost ten other people, barely a month after my mother died. I was pretty shattered.
The booth kept me sane that last year of employment by giving me distraction--something that I could do where I only had to answer to myself. I only had to please me. I could do things my way and learn my own lessons. With so much else out of my control, having something where I was making the decisions meant so much to me. Any money that I made was a bonus.
Doing well proved to me that I was not the incompetent fool that I was being made out to be by the people who kept changing the rules at work to make it so. Having a place to put energy, initiative and creativity that I was not allowed to exercise at work allowed me to reinvent myself.
After I lost my job, grieving my mother and full of a lot of rage, I threw myself into selling junk. Keith says it saved me. I tend to agree. Junk healed me, as melodramatic as that sounds.
There are the germs for two or three Junkin' Memories posts in this one. Look for a flurry of those to come sometime in the future. After I finish all the Ask Eddie Anything questions, of course.
Showing posts with label junking memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label junking memories. Show all posts
Thursday, September 03, 2015
Friday, April 18, 2014
Stations of the Cross
Since it's Good Friday, I've got three to share with you this time. First is another Liguori Stations, this time with a brilliant red cover.
The illustrations in both the first and second booklets remind me a lot of the style of art used in vintage Protestant religious materials I've seen. When I was a kid, it was still pretty common to have posters and pictures from the 40's and 50's still in use in Sunday School.
I spent a summer in college working at a church in Miami with a couple of retired missionaries. They had been retired by their agency, but insisted on continuing their work on their own. It was a trip, let me tell you. They had been there over 40 years, by that point. One day, they asked me to take some stuff to their storage closet, which was actually a large room. It was stuffed to the brim with every picture, book, Bible, hymnal, poster, magazine, flyer, leaflet and booklet they had ever used. These ladies threw nothing away.
I ended up spending a half hour up there. They thought I had left for the day, but I had to check stuff out. The graphics and things were so amazing! I slipped a couple of old church fans out to take with me. (Shhh!) I think about all of that stuff there days and wish for just one more chance to visit that room.
But I digress. Back to the Stations of the Cross.
The cover to this second booklet is my favorite of the bunch. I love the somber, moody feel. The image is almost ethereal, like it's being projected by that little flame on the "W" in the word "Way." Cool effect, that.
This last booklet is not really a Way of the Cross, but rather a devotion for Good Friday itself. There are no illustrations aside from the cover, but I wanted to include it, since the service may also include the Stations. The church name stamped on the front is a local church that is still in operation. I always love finding things with local connections, even if it's just a name stamp.
This series wraps up tomorrow!
The illustrations in both the first and second booklets remind me a lot of the style of art used in vintage Protestant religious materials I've seen. When I was a kid, it was still pretty common to have posters and pictures from the 40's and 50's still in use in Sunday School.
I spent a summer in college working at a church in Miami with a couple of retired missionaries. They had been retired by their agency, but insisted on continuing their work on their own. It was a trip, let me tell you. They had been there over 40 years, by that point. One day, they asked me to take some stuff to their storage closet, which was actually a large room. It was stuffed to the brim with every picture, book, Bible, hymnal, poster, magazine, flyer, leaflet and booklet they had ever used. These ladies threw nothing away.
I ended up spending a half hour up there. They thought I had left for the day, but I had to check stuff out. The graphics and things were so amazing! I slipped a couple of old church fans out to take with me. (Shhh!) I think about all of that stuff there days and wish for just one more chance to visit that room.
But I digress. Back to the Stations of the Cross.
The cover to this second booklet is my favorite of the bunch. I love the somber, moody feel. The image is almost ethereal, like it's being projected by that little flame on the "W" in the word "Way." Cool effect, that.
This last booklet is not really a Way of the Cross, but rather a devotion for Good Friday itself. There are no illustrations aside from the cover, but I wanted to include it, since the service may also include the Stations. The church name stamped on the front is a local church that is still in operation. I always love finding things with local connections, even if it's just a name stamp.
This series wraps up tomorrow!
Friday, July 26, 2013
Junking Memories: End of an Era?
Last week, I talked about a barn sale for a thrift that apparently has closed. I say "apparently" because no formal announcement has been made, but the store web page says "closed until further notice." The fact that they have cleared out their storage garage so that it can be torn down kind of lends a little more credence to the "closed" idea.
I'm kind of bummed about it. Losing a thrift is always sad, even though this one, of late, has been pretty low on my list. It wasn't always that way, but more on that in a minute. I think Louisville is pretty thrift-poor for a large city. We mainly have only the "name brands"--Goodwill and the like. We have none of those little church-run thrifts staffed by little old ladies who mark things for fifty cents. Heck, we're even poor in the "name brand" department. Salvation Army closed its stores here a couple of years ago.
When this thrift first opened, it kind of filled that need for a little church-run thrift. It's connected with a Catholic children's home, and in the old days was run by a couple of nuns and a bunch of volunteers, most of whom were older folks. They had several rooms in three different buildings that were just crammed with all kinds of donations. It was like they took anything that was offered to them. It was a wonderful jumble of all kinds of stuff. You could literally find anything there.
Mostly, the stuff wasn't priced. You'd gather your armload and sister or one of the volunteers would price it, usually for a dollar or less. They had this awesome section of religious articles that I would beeline for and load up! I wasn't selling in those days justhoarding collecting, but it was a dream. Room after room of fascinating awesomeness. Cheap awesomeness. To say that I loved it would be an understatement.
The one problem with the place was the hours. It was only open Monday and Thursday mornings, along with one Saturday morning a month. It really made hitting the place rather difficult.
Slowly but surely, the place started to change. First they moved the bulk of it into one small house. Then, it started to become less and less cluttered. Then, the price tags started appearing. By this time, I was selling. The prices weren't bad. It was just a shock to see them.
Somewhere along this time, they hired a manager or some kind of staff person. They got moved into a smaller place. There was less selection. They adopted regular hours. Prices went up. Ironically, as it became more accessible, everything about the place that made it unique and worth going to kind of dropped away. I used to try to get there every chance I could make my schedule work. By the end, I was hardly going at all.
I know that some other stuff happened. There was a fire that closed it down for a while, but it opened back up. Now, I just don't know what they are going to do with it. It's kind of sad. Even if it does reopen, it'll never be the way it was in the beginning. I'll definitely miss what it used to be.
I'm kind of bummed about it. Losing a thrift is always sad, even though this one, of late, has been pretty low on my list. It wasn't always that way, but more on that in a minute. I think Louisville is pretty thrift-poor for a large city. We mainly have only the "name brands"--Goodwill and the like. We have none of those little church-run thrifts staffed by little old ladies who mark things for fifty cents. Heck, we're even poor in the "name brand" department. Salvation Army closed its stores here a couple of years ago.
When this thrift first opened, it kind of filled that need for a little church-run thrift. It's connected with a Catholic children's home, and in the old days was run by a couple of nuns and a bunch of volunteers, most of whom were older folks. They had several rooms in three different buildings that were just crammed with all kinds of donations. It was like they took anything that was offered to them. It was a wonderful jumble of all kinds of stuff. You could literally find anything there.
Mostly, the stuff wasn't priced. You'd gather your armload and sister or one of the volunteers would price it, usually for a dollar or less. They had this awesome section of religious articles that I would beeline for and load up! I wasn't selling in those days just
The one problem with the place was the hours. It was only open Monday and Thursday mornings, along with one Saturday morning a month. It really made hitting the place rather difficult.
Slowly but surely, the place started to change. First they moved the bulk of it into one small house. Then, it started to become less and less cluttered. Then, the price tags started appearing. By this time, I was selling. The prices weren't bad. It was just a shock to see them.
Somewhere along this time, they hired a manager or some kind of staff person. They got moved into a smaller place. There was less selection. They adopted regular hours. Prices went up. Ironically, as it became more accessible, everything about the place that made it unique and worth going to kind of dropped away. I used to try to get there every chance I could make my schedule work. By the end, I was hardly going at all.
I know that some other stuff happened. There was a fire that closed it down for a while, but it opened back up. Now, I just don't know what they are going to do with it. It's kind of sad. Even if it does reopen, it'll never be the way it was in the beginning. I'll definitely miss what it used to be.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Junkin' Memories: The Big Flea Market
This year, they're down to four. That really bothers me. Not that long ago, there was one a month. I think it's due to the economy, which means that they'll be bouncing back as things improve. I hope so. The Kentucky Flea Market, which I lovingly call "The Big Flea Market," has been a part of my junking life for decades now.
I cannot remember for sure when I first came to Louisville to go to the big flea market, which is held at the state fairgrounds. I know I was aware of it when I was in high school, because I remember reading an article about it in the paper. I know I was going by the time I was in college. One of my roommates was from the same part of the state as me, so we would ride home together for the holidays and such. I made a couple of trips to the flea market with him and his family then.
It was when I was in college that I went one time with my dad when I was really sick. We made it through like two rows and I had to leave. He called my mom, and the consensus was that I must be really bad sick if I couldn't stay at a flea market! Buncha comedians in my family.
I know that I've been a regular at the big flea market ever since I moved to Louisville. It was a really wonderful deal in those days--all kinds of sellers selling all kinds of stuff at really good prices. I've bought tons of comics there over the years, plus books, CD's, religious articles, and just general fun stuff. (Not to mention the occasional practical item.)
The flea market was a monthly deal in those days. If there was a holiday in the month, then it was held on the holiday weekend. If there wasn't, then it was usually the last weekend of the month. Like I said earlier, I think they were still having monthly shows as late as last year. The holiday shows were the ones to be sure to attend. Lasting four or five days (depending on what day of the week the holiday fell), they would often fill up two wings of the fairgrounds exhibit space. That's a heckuva lot of room!
In the past few years, the two wing shows have fallen off considerably. It finally settled into a pattern where the Labor Day and New Year's Day flea markets would take up one wing, plus an extra hall. Not quite as much room as before, but still considerable. The extra hall is dedicated to antique sellers and there's always some awesome stuff during those shows.
For at least a decade before she died, my mother and I would make a trip to either the Memorial Day or the 4th of July flea market. It was one of our traditions. Going with Mom was about the people watching as much as the shopping, but we did a lot of that too. She had opinions about everyone and everything and didn't mind sharing them. We could have a ball just sitting on a bench watching the world pass us by.
The entire thing is run by one family-owned company that also does flea markets in Indianapolis and Knoxville. They used to do one in Nashville as well, but discontinued it a while ago. A few years back, the man that started the company passed away, but his family is carrying on.
I'm kind of surprised and a little disappointed to see them cut back so much this year. I know part of it is the economy, which is hurting both vendors and customers. The presence of so many vendor malls and flea markets here in town can't be helping either. People don't have to wait for a special weekend any more. They can come on over any time and get their bargain shop on! It's kind of ironic to be involved in a retail system that might be hurting the flea market I have loved so much over the years.
Another factor that doesn't help is the fairgrounds itself. They've let some of their fees and things get really out of hand. It costs eight bucks to park now! Outrageous. When I actually go to one of the shows with an antique wing, I have to plot to get around the parking fee. Those are the shows I am most likely to be looking for merchandise, so I need to not pay 8 bucks to park because I don't want to have to add that in to the cost of the items. I've ridden my bike. We've parked somewhere else and walked in. I've had Keith drop me and the granny cart off outside the gate and pick me up later. I've flapped my arms and flown over the fence. (Okay..maybe not that last one...but if I thought it would work, I'd give it a try!)
I'm remaining hopeful that, as soon as it is feasible, the big flea market will increase the number of shows again. I may not be able to go to all of them like in the good old days, but I'll definitely go to two or three a year! Old habits die hard. Whether shopping for me or for a booth, I'll always look forward to a visit to the big flea market.
I cannot remember for sure when I first came to Louisville to go to the big flea market, which is held at the state fairgrounds. I know I was aware of it when I was in high school, because I remember reading an article about it in the paper. I know I was going by the time I was in college. One of my roommates was from the same part of the state as me, so we would ride home together for the holidays and such. I made a couple of trips to the flea market with him and his family then.
It was when I was in college that I went one time with my dad when I was really sick. We made it through like two rows and I had to leave. He called my mom, and the consensus was that I must be really bad sick if I couldn't stay at a flea market! Buncha comedians in my family.
I know that I've been a regular at the big flea market ever since I moved to Louisville. It was a really wonderful deal in those days--all kinds of sellers selling all kinds of stuff at really good prices. I've bought tons of comics there over the years, plus books, CD's, religious articles, and just general fun stuff. (Not to mention the occasional practical item.)
The flea market was a monthly deal in those days. If there was a holiday in the month, then it was held on the holiday weekend. If there wasn't, then it was usually the last weekend of the month. Like I said earlier, I think they were still having monthly shows as late as last year. The holiday shows were the ones to be sure to attend. Lasting four or five days (depending on what day of the week the holiday fell), they would often fill up two wings of the fairgrounds exhibit space. That's a heckuva lot of room!
In the past few years, the two wing shows have fallen off considerably. It finally settled into a pattern where the Labor Day and New Year's Day flea markets would take up one wing, plus an extra hall. Not quite as much room as before, but still considerable. The extra hall is dedicated to antique sellers and there's always some awesome stuff during those shows.
For at least a decade before she died, my mother and I would make a trip to either the Memorial Day or the 4th of July flea market. It was one of our traditions. Going with Mom was about the people watching as much as the shopping, but we did a lot of that too. She had opinions about everyone and everything and didn't mind sharing them. We could have a ball just sitting on a bench watching the world pass us by.
The entire thing is run by one family-owned company that also does flea markets in Indianapolis and Knoxville. They used to do one in Nashville as well, but discontinued it a while ago. A few years back, the man that started the company passed away, but his family is carrying on.
I'm kind of surprised and a little disappointed to see them cut back so much this year. I know part of it is the economy, which is hurting both vendors and customers. The presence of so many vendor malls and flea markets here in town can't be helping either. People don't have to wait for a special weekend any more. They can come on over any time and get their bargain shop on! It's kind of ironic to be involved in a retail system that might be hurting the flea market I have loved so much over the years.
Another factor that doesn't help is the fairgrounds itself. They've let some of their fees and things get really out of hand. It costs eight bucks to park now! Outrageous. When I actually go to one of the shows with an antique wing, I have to plot to get around the parking fee. Those are the shows I am most likely to be looking for merchandise, so I need to not pay 8 bucks to park because I don't want to have to add that in to the cost of the items. I've ridden my bike. We've parked somewhere else and walked in. I've had Keith drop me and the granny cart off outside the gate and pick me up later. I've flapped my arms and flown over the fence. (Okay..maybe not that last one...but if I thought it would work, I'd give it a try!)
I'm remaining hopeful that, as soon as it is feasible, the big flea market will increase the number of shows again. I may not be able to go to all of them like in the good old days, but I'll definitely go to two or three a year! Old habits die hard. Whether shopping for me or for a booth, I'll always look forward to a visit to the big flea market.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Junkin' Memories: The Early Louisville Years
When I lived in Old Louisville, there was a DAV store a few blocks from where I lived. Down the street from it was a thrift that supported a neighborhood charity. Sadly, they're both gone now and have been for quite a few years. The DAV closed because of shoplifting problems.
I first went to that DAV when I was in seminary. I took the bus through Old Louisville to get to a job interview and saw it. I remember going there to buy some props for a scene I was doing in a church drama class.
I used to take stuff over to the neighborhood charity shop to donate from time to time. One time, I left a couple of bags of donated things at the counter, then went shopping. I found a huge stash of vintage Peanuts paperbacks there. When I went to check out, the cashier got all confused and tried to price all the items I had donated so she could ring them up for me. It took me like five minutes to explain to her that THOSE were the items I was bringing in for them and THESE were the things I wanted to give them money for.
One of my first thrift purchases after I moved to Louisville was a vintage black London Fog overcoat that I paid five bucks for. I loved that thing and wore it everywhere. I even bought a hat in a consignment shop near the seminary to wear with it. When I went home for Christmas that year, my brother took an immediate liking to the coat and wore it a few times. He then started working on me to pass it on to him.
His argument was that he was a poor college freshman who didn't have any money for clothes. I tried to tell him that he was in he right demographic to start thrifting, but he told me the town where he was going to school didn't have any thrifts! (As if!) Eventually, my mother convinced me that I could always find another one, so I let him have it. Of course, he lost it and I've never seen another one like it.
Interestingly enough, when my brother was in seminary himself, he discovered the Goodwill in the nice part of town and would go there all the time. He told me that he was getting a fabulous brand name wardrobe at a fraction of the cost. I went there a couple of times when I would visit him and we'd both load up our carts. For the seminary record: His was Presbyterian and he graduated. Mine was Southern Baptist and I dropped out so I could come out.
Speaking of my limited run at the seminary, there was a convent down the road that used to have regular indoor yard sales and book sales in the basement of one of the school buildings. I never missed one, if I could help it. I bought tons of stuff there, including several Madonnas and rosaries that made my dorm mates at the Southern Baptist seminary look oddly at me. Awesome stuff at awesome prices. The basement was stuffed with all kinds of stuff!
They even had a rack of clothing that was mostly habits--nothing old, but rather the more modern modified habit. I wanted one so bad, but never had the nerve to even go over and look through them. Suddenly, the sales just stopped. I later learned that the particular nuns who organized the sales got too old to continue and none of the others were interested in doing it, so they just stopped. I've always wondered what happened to that basement full of stuff. I've also always regretted not getting a habit when I had the chance.
One last seminary memory: One Sunday, I chose to attend a particular church, so I could go to some yard sales that were happening down the street. Seriously. Maybe it's a good thing I didn't pass muster as a seminarian.
I first went to that DAV when I was in seminary. I took the bus through Old Louisville to get to a job interview and saw it. I remember going there to buy some props for a scene I was doing in a church drama class.
I used to take stuff over to the neighborhood charity shop to donate from time to time. One time, I left a couple of bags of donated things at the counter, then went shopping. I found a huge stash of vintage Peanuts paperbacks there. When I went to check out, the cashier got all confused and tried to price all the items I had donated so she could ring them up for me. It took me like five minutes to explain to her that THOSE were the items I was bringing in for them and THESE were the things I wanted to give them money for.
One of my first thrift purchases after I moved to Louisville was a vintage black London Fog overcoat that I paid five bucks for. I loved that thing and wore it everywhere. I even bought a hat in a consignment shop near the seminary to wear with it. When I went home for Christmas that year, my brother took an immediate liking to the coat and wore it a few times. He then started working on me to pass it on to him.
His argument was that he was a poor college freshman who didn't have any money for clothes. I tried to tell him that he was in he right demographic to start thrifting, but he told me the town where he was going to school didn't have any thrifts! (As if!) Eventually, my mother convinced me that I could always find another one, so I let him have it. Of course, he lost it and I've never seen another one like it.
Interestingly enough, when my brother was in seminary himself, he discovered the Goodwill in the nice part of town and would go there all the time. He told me that he was getting a fabulous brand name wardrobe at a fraction of the cost. I went there a couple of times when I would visit him and we'd both load up our carts. For the seminary record: His was Presbyterian and he graduated. Mine was Southern Baptist and I dropped out so I could come out.
Speaking of my limited run at the seminary, there was a convent down the road that used to have regular indoor yard sales and book sales in the basement of one of the school buildings. I never missed one, if I could help it. I bought tons of stuff there, including several Madonnas and rosaries that made my dorm mates at the Southern Baptist seminary look oddly at me. Awesome stuff at awesome prices. The basement was stuffed with all kinds of stuff!
They even had a rack of clothing that was mostly habits--nothing old, but rather the more modern modified habit. I wanted one so bad, but never had the nerve to even go over and look through them. Suddenly, the sales just stopped. I later learned that the particular nuns who organized the sales got too old to continue and none of the others were interested in doing it, so they just stopped. I've always wondered what happened to that basement full of stuff. I've also always regretted not getting a habit when I had the chance.
One last seminary memory: One Sunday, I chose to attend a particular church, so I could go to some yard sales that were happening down the street. Seriously. Maybe it's a good thing I didn't pass muster as a seminarian.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Comics: The Gateway Drug! (Junkin' Memories)
Scratch most resellers deeply enough and you'll find a collector/lover of something, be it antiques, pottery, books or music. Many of us started buying secondhand because of our collections and selling secondhand because the collections were about to get out of hand. For me, it was comic books.
Actually, comics were the first serious collection I had. If I had stuck there, I might or might not have gone on to sell. Collectors rarely stick to one area, though. Catholic religious items came along. My library grew wildly out of hand. I had a flirtation with anime fandom. I fell in love with penguins. As my music interests grew, so did my CD collection. From time to time, I would pick up the oddball tchotchke, just because it was cool looking. I kept telling myself that if I had time, space and money, then I would collect older toys and children's books. Then, one day, I realized that it was out of hand. One person just does not need this much stuff. And Eddie's Attic was born!
But it all began with comic books.
I can't pin down the exact moment I became I comic book collector. I can remember reading them as far back as seven years old. A friend of my parents had made a massive toy chest for my brother and I. It was basically a huge wooden box with no lid, but several large shelves above it. We could keep practically everything we owned in it. I used to arrange stuffed animals on the top and lay down in it to read comics. There was a Superboy comic that was my favorite.
Around this time, Dad was transferred to Germany by the Army. He went several months before we joined him, so I could finish the school year. When we got off the plane, he had a stack of comics for me. I remember the one on top was a Spider-Man. It seems like my reputation for comics was already cemented, at least in my family.
When my dad was stationed in Germany, all of the kids read comics. We traded back and forth all the time. Whenever someone got transferred back to the States, they would make their kids give all their comics away. I amassed a nice collection this way. I kept them in a wooden toy chest. The one I was talking about above was too large to ship over, so we had a much smaller, more conventional one with a lid. I filled it with comics and would lay on top of them and read.
One would think that gathering a collection of comics from departing kids would start to make me aware that my collection might one day be given away, but I was completely oblivious. So I was blindsided when my parents made me do the same to mine. It was probably the first traumatic event of my childhood.
Not nearly as traumatic as the one that immediately followed. Mom decided that my brother and I were getting too old for stuffed animals, so we had to throw them all away. Yes, throw them all away! What was she thinking? That included my much-beloved Beartrack, the Teddy Bear I had owned as long as I could remember. I had loved all the fuzz off him at one point, so my grandmother had sewn washcloths on him as a new covering. I had to carry him and all the others to an unmarked grave in a dumpster at our Army housing in Germany. I think I still have scars from that. Even Mom told me much, much later that tossing him was a mistake.
When we got back to the US, Dad was stationed in Texas. I started buying comics at the Circle K. Things just kind of grew from there. By the time I was in high school, I was getting off the bus early on Wednesdays, because that was the day they put the new comics on the rack at the convenience store. I'd walk the rest of the way home.
I did an oral report about comics in my ninth grade English class that scandalized my teacher, who happened to be my very gossipy preacher's wife. Guess what they talked about in my mother's Sunday School class that Sunday? My mother's response was classic: "Who is the best reader in your class?" Gossipy Pastor's Wife: "Eddie." Mom: "Who reads the most in your class." GPW: "Eddie." Mom: "Who has the best vocabulary?" GPW: "Eddie." Mom: "Who is your best writer?" GPW: "Eddie." Mom: "And your problem is what, exactly?"
My best friend and I would spend Wednesdays in the summer at the local flea market looking at back issues. After my parents divorced, my dad would take us to other flea markets and buy me other comics. I went to my first comics shop when I was a senior in high school. The idea that there was a whole store with nothing but comics blew my teen-aged mind.
From there it was on to the big flea market in Louisville, which is where my hunt finally expanded to include other items. A junker was born! I spent my college years hitting this flea a couple of times a year. After graduation, I moved to Louisville, home of the both the flea and the comic shop, and I would say that my destiny was kind of sealed.
Of course, I wouldn't become a seller for several years yet, but when I did, one thing I was determined to sell was comic books. Might as well put a lifetime of knowledge and experience to use somehow.
I don't buy very many new comics these days, except for resale purposes. I've lost interest in a lot of the contemporary comics market. There's probably something out there that would appeal to me, but I just don't have the time any more. Instead, I concentrate on filling holes among my older issues and enjoying the classic issues I still have. It's still a great past-time.
And it led me into a wonderful world.
Actually, comics were the first serious collection I had. If I had stuck there, I might or might not have gone on to sell. Collectors rarely stick to one area, though. Catholic religious items came along. My library grew wildly out of hand. I had a flirtation with anime fandom. I fell in love with penguins. As my music interests grew, so did my CD collection. From time to time, I would pick up the oddball tchotchke, just because it was cool looking. I kept telling myself that if I had time, space and money, then I would collect older toys and children's books. Then, one day, I realized that it was out of hand. One person just does not need this much stuff. And Eddie's Attic was born!
But it all began with comic books.
I can't pin down the exact moment I became I comic book collector. I can remember reading them as far back as seven years old. A friend of my parents had made a massive toy chest for my brother and I. It was basically a huge wooden box with no lid, but several large shelves above it. We could keep practically everything we owned in it. I used to arrange stuffed animals on the top and lay down in it to read comics. There was a Superboy comic that was my favorite.
Around this time, Dad was transferred to Germany by the Army. He went several months before we joined him, so I could finish the school year. When we got off the plane, he had a stack of comics for me. I remember the one on top was a Spider-Man. It seems like my reputation for comics was already cemented, at least in my family.
When my dad was stationed in Germany, all of the kids read comics. We traded back and forth all the time. Whenever someone got transferred back to the States, they would make their kids give all their comics away. I amassed a nice collection this way. I kept them in a wooden toy chest. The one I was talking about above was too large to ship over, so we had a much smaller, more conventional one with a lid. I filled it with comics and would lay on top of them and read.
One would think that gathering a collection of comics from departing kids would start to make me aware that my collection might one day be given away, but I was completely oblivious. So I was blindsided when my parents made me do the same to mine. It was probably the first traumatic event of my childhood.
Not nearly as traumatic as the one that immediately followed. Mom decided that my brother and I were getting too old for stuffed animals, so we had to throw them all away. Yes, throw them all away! What was she thinking? That included my much-beloved Beartrack, the Teddy Bear I had owned as long as I could remember. I had loved all the fuzz off him at one point, so my grandmother had sewn washcloths on him as a new covering. I had to carry him and all the others to an unmarked grave in a dumpster at our Army housing in Germany. I think I still have scars from that. Even Mom told me much, much later that tossing him was a mistake.
When we got back to the US, Dad was stationed in Texas. I started buying comics at the Circle K. Things just kind of grew from there. By the time I was in high school, I was getting off the bus early on Wednesdays, because that was the day they put the new comics on the rack at the convenience store. I'd walk the rest of the way home.
I did an oral report about comics in my ninth grade English class that scandalized my teacher, who happened to be my very gossipy preacher's wife. Guess what they talked about in my mother's Sunday School class that Sunday? My mother's response was classic: "Who is the best reader in your class?" Gossipy Pastor's Wife: "Eddie." Mom: "Who reads the most in your class." GPW: "Eddie." Mom: "Who has the best vocabulary?" GPW: "Eddie." Mom: "Who is your best writer?" GPW: "Eddie." Mom: "And your problem is what, exactly?"
My best friend and I would spend Wednesdays in the summer at the local flea market looking at back issues. After my parents divorced, my dad would take us to other flea markets and buy me other comics. I went to my first comics shop when I was a senior in high school. The idea that there was a whole store with nothing but comics blew my teen-aged mind.
From there it was on to the big flea market in Louisville, which is where my hunt finally expanded to include other items. A junker was born! I spent my college years hitting this flea a couple of times a year. After graduation, I moved to Louisville, home of the both the flea and the comic shop, and I would say that my destiny was kind of sealed.
Of course, I wouldn't become a seller for several years yet, but when I did, one thing I was determined to sell was comic books. Might as well put a lifetime of knowledge and experience to use somehow.
I don't buy very many new comics these days, except for resale purposes. I've lost interest in a lot of the contemporary comics market. There's probably something out there that would appeal to me, but I just don't have the time any more. Instead, I concentrate on filling holes among my older issues and enjoying the classic issues I still have. It's still a great past-time.
And it led me into a wonderful world.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Junkin' Memories: Leitchfield Flea Market
I started early as a junker. I didn't realize it at the time, of course, but I was on my way by the time I was in high school. I may have only been hunting comic books at the time, but I was hunting something. Everybody's gotta start somewhere, you know.
There's an awesome rural tradition that's particularly prevalent in the South, the local flea market. At one point in time, most small towns had them. Many still do today. Not to mention all those "wide spots on the side of the road" kinds of flea markets.
I was lucky enough to grow up in a town that had a flea market every Wednesday. It was down at the stockyards, so we called our junking trips "going to the stockyards." When I was younger, I went with my mom, who went from time to time. When I was a teen, I would walk down there with my best friend. We went every week.
It's pretty common for these kinds of flea markets to be associated with stock yards or produce markets. A lot of them grew out of the idea of the "market day" when everybody brought their produce or livestock in to sell. These days also became a day for peddlers to hark their wares, and junking was born!
Back in the day, my main objective was comic books. The flea market was a way to fill in holes in my collection and also find older issues without spending a lot of money. When you're into comics, you have to always remember to have some money on hand to get the newest arrivals each week. That means you can't spend too much on older stuff, especially if you're a kid.
There was one guy that we used to buy from just about every week. I remember going to another flea market with my dad and seeing him there. It was kind of shocking to see him at "some other" flea market. It was my first exposure to the idea that there were people who would go from place to place selling their stuff.
One week, this guy was selling out his stock. All the comics were ten cents each! I was supposed to meet my dad there, but I got there first. I ended up borrowing money from my grandfather (who conveniently wandered by) until my dad got there. That was a close one!
That flea market holds a lot of good memories for me. It's probably where I cut my teeth as a junker, even though I didn't realize it at the time. I'm glad to say that it is still there, every Wednesday, just like always. Not even the presence of a Super Wal-Mart nearby has put a stop to it.
There's an awesome rural tradition that's particularly prevalent in the South, the local flea market. At one point in time, most small towns had them. Many still do today. Not to mention all those "wide spots on the side of the road" kinds of flea markets.
I was lucky enough to grow up in a town that had a flea market every Wednesday. It was down at the stockyards, so we called our junking trips "going to the stockyards." When I was younger, I went with my mom, who went from time to time. When I was a teen, I would walk down there with my best friend. We went every week.
It's pretty common for these kinds of flea markets to be associated with stock yards or produce markets. A lot of them grew out of the idea of the "market day" when everybody brought their produce or livestock in to sell. These days also became a day for peddlers to hark their wares, and junking was born!
Back in the day, my main objective was comic books. The flea market was a way to fill in holes in my collection and also find older issues without spending a lot of money. When you're into comics, you have to always remember to have some money on hand to get the newest arrivals each week. That means you can't spend too much on older stuff, especially if you're a kid.
There was one guy that we used to buy from just about every week. I remember going to another flea market with my dad and seeing him there. It was kind of shocking to see him at "some other" flea market. It was my first exposure to the idea that there were people who would go from place to place selling their stuff.
One week, this guy was selling out his stock. All the comics were ten cents each! I was supposed to meet my dad there, but I got there first. I ended up borrowing money from my grandfather (who conveniently wandered by) until my dad got there. That was a close one!
That flea market holds a lot of good memories for me. It's probably where I cut my teeth as a junker, even though I didn't realize it at the time. I'm glad to say that it is still there, every Wednesday, just like always. Not even the presence of a Super Wal-Mart nearby has put a stop to it.
Thursday, June 06, 2013
How I Feel Sometimes
Being a comic nerd means that sometimes you come up with interesting analogies and images. I was thinking about my insides being a swirling mass of toxic chemicals the other day, when it hit me:
In the mid-to-late-sixties, DC Comics were sometimes flat out weird. Seemingly any idea they came up with got thrown into its own comic. This is my favorite era, period, and type of comics. If you were a kid in the early seventies reading your first comics, like I was, you got exposed to a lot of reprints of this great stuff for years. When I started seriously hunting flea markets for back issue books as a teen, this is the stuff I was looking for and I could often find it for 50 cents or less back then. It was a dream.
When I did my great comics purge a few years ago, I made sure that these comics formed the core of the batch that I kept. In fact, that's pretty much all I am looking for when I go hunting for myself these days.
Lest this turn into a "Junkin' Memories" segment (of which I promise there are more to come--two are almost done), let me return to Chemo. One of those wacky DC Comics of the late Silver Age was called Metal Men. It was about a goofy bunch of robots that had sort of human emotions but were very aware that they were just robots. Each one was named after a different metal and displayed all the chemical and physical properties of that particular metal. Big, goofy, fun.
One of their enemies was named Chemo. He was this walking repository of toxic waste who could shoot deadly sludge everywhere. Kind of an environmentalist's nightmare. (I will confess here that I believe the name is supposed to be pronounced "cheh-mo" with an "e" as in "chemistry," but I don't know for sure, as I have never heard it pronounced aloud. Work with me people!)
As far as my own situation goes, while I have spewed forth from my mouth on a few occasions here lately, none of it has been deadly, as far as I know. Unsightly, yes. Unappealing, yes. Deadly, not so much. Still, it's an image that works on some levels, so I am keeping it.
I've also never fought a silly band of talking robots, but that might be fun. Speaking of the Metal Men, like so many other comic characters, they've been reinvented and rebooted several times over the years (so has Chemo), but the version I am most familiar with (and love) is the originals. Some things are never better than when they are first created. Most comic characters fall into that category.
For more information, you can read the Wikipedia for the character here. Or the DC Comics Database entry here. Or the Comic Vine here.
I
AM
CHEMO!!!!
I AM CHEMO!!!
In the mid-to-late-sixties, DC Comics were sometimes flat out weird. Seemingly any idea they came up with got thrown into its own comic. This is my favorite era, period, and type of comics. If you were a kid in the early seventies reading your first comics, like I was, you got exposed to a lot of reprints of this great stuff for years. When I started seriously hunting flea markets for back issue books as a teen, this is the stuff I was looking for and I could often find it for 50 cents or less back then. It was a dream.
When I did my great comics purge a few years ago, I made sure that these comics formed the core of the batch that I kept. In fact, that's pretty much all I am looking for when I go hunting for myself these days.
Lest this turn into a "Junkin' Memories" segment (of which I promise there are more to come--two are almost done), let me return to Chemo. One of those wacky DC Comics of the late Silver Age was called Metal Men. It was about a goofy bunch of robots that had sort of human emotions but were very aware that they were just robots. Each one was named after a different metal and displayed all the chemical and physical properties of that particular metal. Big, goofy, fun.
 |
| A whole new ball game, indeed! |
As far as my own situation goes, while I have spewed forth from my mouth on a few occasions here lately, none of it has been deadly, as far as I know. Unsightly, yes. Unappealing, yes. Deadly, not so much. Still, it's an image that works on some levels, so I am keeping it.
 |
| Ew. |
 |
| Gotta admit, this is the way the last round felt. |
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Comic Buy
Eddie-tor's Note: I have been trying to write a Junkin' Memories post about comics for a while now, but I can't seem to keep it from being four or five parts. They've been just so intertwined in my life for so long that it's hard to be brief when I talk about them. While I wrestle with that issue, another opportunity to talk about comics popped up for me. Let's see if I can do this one in just one post.
A couple of weeks ago, the best local comic shop was having a sidewalk sale, which they do every so often. It's the kind of thing I never miss, if I can help it. It used to be that I was looking for finds for my own collection. Now, I go looking for stuff to sell. When the comics are a quarter or less, I can usually find it, too. I sell a lot of comics, you know.
My relationship to comics has changed over the years, but this store is still kind of special to me. It's the first comic shop I ever visited, way back in my senior year of high school. My best friend and I came up right after Christmas that year. It was an amazing experience for me. So many comics in one little spot.
That was 30 years ago, and when you consider that the store has been open for 35 years, that means that I have been shopping there, in one form or another, for most of its existence. Most of mine too, now that I think about it. Even though I am not a regular any more, one of the managers still knows me by name. It's that kind of place.
Anyway, back to the sidewalk sale. Usually, these sales are about clearing out overstock of titles from the past couple of years that didn't sell through as expected. I'm looking for these "event" issues that were hyped up and sought out then, but have cooled waaaay off now. If I can pick several up in the 25 cent range, I can make decent money reselling them at a fraction of the cover price. It's a strategy that seems to work. With prices of comics these days, not everyone can afford to run out and buy every issue of the big crossover story any more.
When I was digging around in the boxes, though, something else happened. I found memories. For some of us, the nostalgic aspect of junking is a motivating factor. It's just that instead of striking the nostalgia chord by buying something to keep, we buy it to pass on and strike someone else's nostalgia chord. I've found that it's just as satisfying to own something for as long as it takes to sell it, as it is to hang onto it for life.
You have to understand that when I was a young lad trolling the quarter boxes at flea markets and in shops, they were treasure bins. Classics from the late sixties and early seventies would fall into my hands. Eighty page giants. One hundred page specials. Classic stories. Classic art. I built an awesome collection a quarter at a time.
This was pre-eBay, pre-internet, when things were abundant and cheap and you never knew what you would find. Quarter boxes haven't been like that for years, if you can even find them these days. Mostly, they're fifty-cent boxes any more. For a few moments that Saturday afternoon, things were almost like they used to be. I was finding treasure scattered amongst the merchandise.
This was one of the first Marvel comics I can ever remember buying with my own money. I got my copy at the old drug store on the square in my hometown, the one with the soda fountain where they cut your hot dog in half down the middle and fried it on the grill. They never had very many comics, but they did have a few on their magazine rack.
I was never that into Marvel as a kid. I just always preferred the color and wonder of DC's to Marvel's angst and bombast. But I liked the Invaders. Until I got into the X-men a few years later, it was the only Marvel comic I followed.
This was a reminder of quarter boxes past. You used to be able to find these old giants all the time. You sure can't find them on eBay for that price! I didn't get to the sale until about one o'clock, so I was surprised this was still there. Kids these days don't know what they're missing. I already have this one (and the Invaders above), so they'll go to the booth to be passed on to someone else.
My mom would go through these phases when she would try to "clean up" my comic collection. Mind you, this was in the late seventies and early eighties. Mainstream, newsstand comics were pretty tame in those days. One year for my birthday, she got me a whole stack of Spire Christian comics. Another time, it was a bunch of these literary adaptations.
After Wonder Woman and Teen Titans, this was my favorite title, drawn by one of my favorite artists. I am pretty sure I have both of these, but I'm hanging onto them until I know fir sure. I've been paring my collection way down over the years, but some things you keep.
Finally, a find I could not believe. You never find these Classics Junior issues for a quarter, even when they're in rough shape. These babies are keepers. I've always loved the Classics Illustrated titles. I read a ton of them when I was young and they were still being published. I think my mother may have had a hand in that as well.
One of the wonderful things about junking is that you just never know what waits for you when you set out. This is true no matter what the reason you go out searching for junk. Sometimes the unexpected find is tangible and will bring you dollars. Other times, it's just a memory that makes you happy. I'm not sure which I prefer more.
A couple of weeks ago, the best local comic shop was having a sidewalk sale, which they do every so often. It's the kind of thing I never miss, if I can help it. It used to be that I was looking for finds for my own collection. Now, I go looking for stuff to sell. When the comics are a quarter or less, I can usually find it, too. I sell a lot of comics, you know.
My relationship to comics has changed over the years, but this store is still kind of special to me. It's the first comic shop I ever visited, way back in my senior year of high school. My best friend and I came up right after Christmas that year. It was an amazing experience for me. So many comics in one little spot.
That was 30 years ago, and when you consider that the store has been open for 35 years, that means that I have been shopping there, in one form or another, for most of its existence. Most of mine too, now that I think about it. Even though I am not a regular any more, one of the managers still knows me by name. It's that kind of place.
Anyway, back to the sidewalk sale. Usually, these sales are about clearing out overstock of titles from the past couple of years that didn't sell through as expected. I'm looking for these "event" issues that were hyped up and sought out then, but have cooled waaaay off now. If I can pick several up in the 25 cent range, I can make decent money reselling them at a fraction of the cover price. It's a strategy that seems to work. With prices of comics these days, not everyone can afford to run out and buy every issue of the big crossover story any more.
When I was digging around in the boxes, though, something else happened. I found memories. For some of us, the nostalgic aspect of junking is a motivating factor. It's just that instead of striking the nostalgia chord by buying something to keep, we buy it to pass on and strike someone else's nostalgia chord. I've found that it's just as satisfying to own something for as long as it takes to sell it, as it is to hang onto it for life.
You have to understand that when I was a young lad trolling the quarter boxes at flea markets and in shops, they were treasure bins. Classics from the late sixties and early seventies would fall into my hands. Eighty page giants. One hundred page specials. Classic stories. Classic art. I built an awesome collection a quarter at a time.
This was pre-eBay, pre-internet, when things were abundant and cheap and you never knew what you would find. Quarter boxes haven't been like that for years, if you can even find them these days. Mostly, they're fifty-cent boxes any more. For a few moments that Saturday afternoon, things were almost like they used to be. I was finding treasure scattered amongst the merchandise.
This was one of the first Marvel comics I can ever remember buying with my own money. I got my copy at the old drug store on the square in my hometown, the one with the soda fountain where they cut your hot dog in half down the middle and fried it on the grill. They never had very many comics, but they did have a few on their magazine rack.
 |
| What If? (first series) #4 |
I was never that into Marvel as a kid. I just always preferred the color and wonder of DC's to Marvel's angst and bombast. But I liked the Invaders. Until I got into the X-men a few years later, it was the only Marvel comic I followed.
 |
| Superboy #208 |
This was a reminder of quarter boxes past. You used to be able to find these old giants all the time. You sure can't find them on eBay for that price! I didn't get to the sale until about one o'clock, so I was surprised this was still there. Kids these days don't know what they're missing. I already have this one (and the Invaders above), so they'll go to the booth to be passed on to someone else.
My mom would go through these phases when she would try to "clean up" my comic collection. Mind you, this was in the late seventies and early eighties. Mainstream, newsstand comics were pretty tame in those days. One year for my birthday, she got me a whole stack of Spire Christian comics. Another time, it was a bunch of these literary adaptations.
 |
| Marvel Classics #18 |
After Wonder Woman and Teen Titans, this was my favorite title, drawn by one of my favorite artists. I am pretty sure I have both of these, but I'm hanging onto them until I know fir sure. I've been paring my collection way down over the years, but some things you keep.
 |
| Two more Superboys, for which I did not note the issue numbers. |
Finally, a find I could not believe. You never find these Classics Junior issues for a quarter, even when they're in rough shape. These babies are keepers. I've always loved the Classics Illustrated titles. I read a ton of them when I was young and they were still being published. I think my mother may have had a hand in that as well.
 |
| A gaggle of Classics Illustrated Juniors |
One of the wonderful things about junking is that you just never know what waits for you when you set out. This is true no matter what the reason you go out searching for junk. Sometimes the unexpected find is tangible and will bring you dollars. Other times, it's just a memory that makes you happy. I'm not sure which I prefer more.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Dorothy
This past Saturday, we pulled up at a sale, and I realized that I recognized the building. I turned to Keith and said, "Honey, it's Dorothy's place!" All of a sudden, we were both lost in memories.
Dorothy passed away about ten years ago, after a life of rabble-rousing and hell-raising. She had lived in an apartment in that building for decades. Back in the days when we were young and idealistic, she was one of the core members of a group called Honesty. We were Southern Baptists. We were gay and gay-friendly. And we were determined to try and change our church.
Dorothy was in her late 70's when I met her, I think. She smoked a couple of packs a day most of her life and had the loud, gravelly smoker's voice and cough to go with it. She spoke her mind, no matter what the circumstances. She also had two cats, a sweet long-hair named Gypsy and a stray tom that she took in and called Clyde. He was huge and not very friendly. Dorothy and Clyde had a running battle to see who would control the household. Those cats were her family, and she turned one room in her apartment over to them.
I met Dorothy when I was in the process of coming out. I was a young, active Southern Baptist raised in church, and I had dated several different women over the years. I struggled for a long time to make the pieces fit together. Eventually, I settled on bisexuality as kind of a temporary stopping point. I identified as bi when I joined the group. Dorothy told me later that she was thinking, "Poor thing. He just doesn't realize he's gay." It took me a few more weeks, but eventually I figured it out.
Dorothy and I kind of clicked right away, but ours was never an easy relationship. I've always been bad with returning phone calls, and she would get mad at me for weeks over that. Eventually, she would forget why she was mad and say something like: "You little shit, I can't remember what you did to make me mad, so I'm not mad anymore. Get over here and give me a hug!"
We liked the same soap operas, so she would save her soap magazines for me. We would look at them and argue about which actor was the cutest. After we got our first cats, we would swap cat tales. I had a few houseplants when we got ours, but could not keep the cats out of them, so I put them all on the porch. I promptly forgot to water them and they died a slow, withering death. One time when she was leaving our apartment after a meeting, Dorothy looked down at the pathetic, withered pots of plants and said, "Eddie, your flowers are looking lovely!"
She was truly a treasure, and we were privileged to know her. Eventually, the group disbanded. Slowly, but surely, we were all leaving the church and didn't see the need to keep fighting to change it. Most of us realized it was a dysfunctional, abusive relationship, and the best thing for us was to get out of it. Dorothy advocated strongly for keeping the group together. I don't think any of us realized that we were her primary source for socialization.
We kept up for a while, but then slowly drifted apart. A few years later, we got a call that she had passed away.
It was kind of odd to buy stuff out of that yard. We ended up telling the kids that were having the sale all about her. It turned out that two of them were living in her old apartment! Yard sales are often about memories, but usually it is the memories of the people selling their stuff. Sometimes, someone shopping will find something that they used to have and remember it. This is the first time I can remember that I've gotten lost in memory over the place having the sale.
We're no longer quite so young. We're no longer quite so idealistic. We're no longer Southern Baptist. We are, however, still gay! One thing we'll always carry with us from those days is the memory of Dorothy and how she touched our lives.
Dorothy passed away about ten years ago, after a life of rabble-rousing and hell-raising. She had lived in an apartment in that building for decades. Back in the days when we were young and idealistic, she was one of the core members of a group called Honesty. We were Southern Baptists. We were gay and gay-friendly. And we were determined to try and change our church.
Dorothy was in her late 70's when I met her, I think. She smoked a couple of packs a day most of her life and had the loud, gravelly smoker's voice and cough to go with it. She spoke her mind, no matter what the circumstances. She also had two cats, a sweet long-hair named Gypsy and a stray tom that she took in and called Clyde. He was huge and not very friendly. Dorothy and Clyde had a running battle to see who would control the household. Those cats were her family, and she turned one room in her apartment over to them.
I met Dorothy when I was in the process of coming out. I was a young, active Southern Baptist raised in church, and I had dated several different women over the years. I struggled for a long time to make the pieces fit together. Eventually, I settled on bisexuality as kind of a temporary stopping point. I identified as bi when I joined the group. Dorothy told me later that she was thinking, "Poor thing. He just doesn't realize he's gay." It took me a few more weeks, but eventually I figured it out.
Dorothy and I kind of clicked right away, but ours was never an easy relationship. I've always been bad with returning phone calls, and she would get mad at me for weeks over that. Eventually, she would forget why she was mad and say something like: "You little shit, I can't remember what you did to make me mad, so I'm not mad anymore. Get over here and give me a hug!"
We liked the same soap operas, so she would save her soap magazines for me. We would look at them and argue about which actor was the cutest. After we got our first cats, we would swap cat tales. I had a few houseplants when we got ours, but could not keep the cats out of them, so I put them all on the porch. I promptly forgot to water them and they died a slow, withering death. One time when she was leaving our apartment after a meeting, Dorothy looked down at the pathetic, withered pots of plants and said, "Eddie, your flowers are looking lovely!"
She was truly a treasure, and we were privileged to know her. Eventually, the group disbanded. Slowly, but surely, we were all leaving the church and didn't see the need to keep fighting to change it. Most of us realized it was a dysfunctional, abusive relationship, and the best thing for us was to get out of it. Dorothy advocated strongly for keeping the group together. I don't think any of us realized that we were her primary source for socialization.
We kept up for a while, but then slowly drifted apart. A few years later, we got a call that she had passed away.
It was kind of odd to buy stuff out of that yard. We ended up telling the kids that were having the sale all about her. It turned out that two of them were living in her old apartment! Yard sales are often about memories, but usually it is the memories of the people selling their stuff. Sometimes, someone shopping will find something that they used to have and remember it. This is the first time I can remember that I've gotten lost in memory over the place having the sale.
We're no longer quite so young. We're no longer quite so idealistic. We're no longer Southern Baptist. We are, however, still gay! One thing we'll always carry with us from those days is the memory of Dorothy and how she touched our lives.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Junkin' Memories: The Auction Guy!
I moved to Louisville in 1987, the year I graduated from college to attend seminary. Boy, have things changed since those days! That was back in day when the seminary had a social work school, women could preach in the chapel, and you could actually take a scripture class that didn't rely solely on biblical literalism as the basis for interpreting scripture. It's also where Keith and I met. Make of that what you will.
Back in those days, there was a street a couple of blocks away that was, well, a little bit decayed. Oh, it was wonderful in its decayedness. Nowadays, it's all "revitalized" with galleries and restaurants and such. But in those days, there were a couple of small music shops where you could find just about anything, an awesome used bookstore with a quarter box full of Silver Age comics, a couple of antique stores, and the auction guy. More on him in a minute.
Now, this is not one of those "things were better in the golden days" kind of posts. There were a lot of empty storefronts and buildings going to waste, for sure. It's just that the shops that were there were all small businesses of the sort that are hard to find these days. Thankfully, in the course of revitalization, local businesses seem to have prevailed, and most of the shops on the street are still locally owned and run. There are still quite a few interesting, quirky business operating as well.
But that's neither here nor there. I want to talk about the auction guy.
One of the empty storefronts was full of nothing but boxes and piles of junk, to the point that you really couldn't tell what all was actually in there. Twice a week, the little old guy who owned the space and his wife would open the door and start dragging stuff out onto the sidewalk. They would work through the afternoon doing this. At about 6, a small crowd would gather, and he would hold an auction. There were never more than ten people there, and sometimes less than that. However, he would carry on with the auction nonetheless.
He'd hold something up in the air and try to start the bidding at five or ten dollars, then keep dropping the starting bid until he ended up selling it for a quarter or fifty cents. It was kind of amazing to watch and definitely great for shopping. Everything was great, old, dusty, vintagey junky stuff. You know, the kind of stuff I bust my ass to find these days. And this guy was practically giving it away! I wish I knew then what I know now.
You didn't have to be present to win, either. If you saw something while he was setting up that you wanted to bid on but could not make the actual auction, you could tell him and he would write it down. Usually the early bidder would win. I did that one time for an old Beany and Cecil comic when I had to work on auction night. I got it for a quarter.
One of my friends and I went to just about every auction night and usually bought something. I can't remember it all now, but I remember getting a rustic looking mirror with a wood frame for 2 bucks (had to fight for that one) and a lot of books for a quarter. My friend got several cast iron skillets for fifty cents each.
Finally, we went up there one auction night, and he was nowhere to be found. There was no stuff on the sidewalk, and the building was locked up tight. We stopped back a couple of other nights, only to find the same thing. The auction man was gone, taking the awesome bargains with him.
I did see him one more time. He was set up with a bunch of books at the big flea market at the fairgrounds. I never saw him again after that, not even at other flea markets. That was twenty-five years ago, and he was already pretty old at that time. I would imagine that he has long since passed on. I wonder whatever happened to all that stuff? They never even scratched the surface of what was in the building with all of their auctions combined.
Nowadays, that building houses a fitness club.
Back in those days, there was a street a couple of blocks away that was, well, a little bit decayed. Oh, it was wonderful in its decayedness. Nowadays, it's all "revitalized" with galleries and restaurants and such. But in those days, there were a couple of small music shops where you could find just about anything, an awesome used bookstore with a quarter box full of Silver Age comics, a couple of antique stores, and the auction guy. More on him in a minute.
Now, this is not one of those "things were better in the golden days" kind of posts. There were a lot of empty storefronts and buildings going to waste, for sure. It's just that the shops that were there were all small businesses of the sort that are hard to find these days. Thankfully, in the course of revitalization, local businesses seem to have prevailed, and most of the shops on the street are still locally owned and run. There are still quite a few interesting, quirky business operating as well.
But that's neither here nor there. I want to talk about the auction guy.
One of the empty storefronts was full of nothing but boxes and piles of junk, to the point that you really couldn't tell what all was actually in there. Twice a week, the little old guy who owned the space and his wife would open the door and start dragging stuff out onto the sidewalk. They would work through the afternoon doing this. At about 6, a small crowd would gather, and he would hold an auction. There were never more than ten people there, and sometimes less than that. However, he would carry on with the auction nonetheless.
He'd hold something up in the air and try to start the bidding at five or ten dollars, then keep dropping the starting bid until he ended up selling it for a quarter or fifty cents. It was kind of amazing to watch and definitely great for shopping. Everything was great, old, dusty, vintagey junky stuff. You know, the kind of stuff I bust my ass to find these days. And this guy was practically giving it away! I wish I knew then what I know now.
You didn't have to be present to win, either. If you saw something while he was setting up that you wanted to bid on but could not make the actual auction, you could tell him and he would write it down. Usually the early bidder would win. I did that one time for an old Beany and Cecil comic when I had to work on auction night. I got it for a quarter.
One of my friends and I went to just about every auction night and usually bought something. I can't remember it all now, but I remember getting a rustic looking mirror with a wood frame for 2 bucks (had to fight for that one) and a lot of books for a quarter. My friend got several cast iron skillets for fifty cents each.
Finally, we went up there one auction night, and he was nowhere to be found. There was no stuff on the sidewalk, and the building was locked up tight. We stopped back a couple of other nights, only to find the same thing. The auction man was gone, taking the awesome bargains with him.
I did see him one more time. He was set up with a bunch of books at the big flea market at the fairgrounds. I never saw him again after that, not even at other flea markets. That was twenty-five years ago, and he was already pretty old at that time. I would imagine that he has long since passed on. I wonder whatever happened to all that stuff? They never even scratched the surface of what was in the building with all of their auctions combined.
Nowadays, that building houses a fitness club.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Junkin' Memories: Family Ties
Finally, the long-awaited first segment in my Junkin' Memories series!
In some ways, it's my family's fault that I am a junker. They weren't really junkers, but I gathered a lot of the ingredients that make a good junker from them. And, while they didn't exactly encourage me to grow up and become a vendor in an indoor flea market set-up, they certainly provided me with more than enough inspiration.
To begin with, I was very close with both my grandparents and great-grandparents as a kid, so I saw and heard a lot about the ways things used to be done. My grandmother would open up the attic sometimes and I would sit up there and look through the boxes of old stuff. I remember reading some of the comics and kids' books that belong to my mother and uncles. When I was taking Algebra in middle school, my grandmother brought down her Algebra textbook to show me.
One of the real treasures at my grandparents' house was the box of family photos that was kept in a closet in the bathroom. Why the bathroom? I have no idea, but that's where they were. Every so often, the box would come out and we would look through them and listen to my mom and grandparents name off the people and share stories. I've got a lot of those photos now. When I look at them, I wish I had listened closer and tried to remember more.
My mom was the one who really taught me to respect what the older generations had to give, especially the stories. A lot of the family mementos that are now in my possession came down through her. She taught me to love and value things with history in them and save them to pass on. When we bought our house, she gave me a few of the old Christmas decorations that used to be hers when she was a kid. And every year after that, I got some kind of family item as a present: an old spoon from one of my father's mess kits, two settings of my grandmother's china, my grandmother's tablecloth.
Interestingly enough, it was also my mother who traumatized me in a way by getting rid of a lot of my childhood stuff when I was younger. As an Army family, we moved a lot and it seems like a lot of the stuff that we got rid of each move was mine and my brother's! I know I rebuilt my comic book collection at least three times. (Although, to her credit, when I went to college, she held on to the whole thing until I had a place of my own to put it in. And that was through three or four more moves.) The worst one, and one that she said she later regretted, was getting rid of Beartrack, my child hood Teddy. I had loved all the fuzz and both eyes off him and my grandmother recovered him with washcloths and gave him new button eyes. He didn't make it back from Germany. Mom said I was going on fourth grade and too old for a Teddy Bear, so out he went.
I think somehow both sides of my mother imprinted on me and affect me as a junker. I know the impact things can have on people and I also understand people who search and search for that lost childhood treasure. My mother was also the one who introduced me to the local flea market. (More on that in another post.)
It was my dad, however, who broadened my junking horizons without realizing it. I had a really strained relationship with him after my parents split. He had been stationed away from the family the last three years of his time in the Army, so when he retired and came home, he was a virtual stranger. My folks divorced soon after, and he didn't handle it well. Frankly, neither did I. I was already 15 at the time, living in small town Kentucky, and feeling the urges of same-sex attraction beginning and unable to talk to anyone about it. In short, I was isolated and confused. My parents' divorce isolated me from my church group, which was my primary peer support at that time. My own feelings cut me off from myself. And I pretty much took it out on my dad.
Visiting Dad became about shopping. He would take me anywhere and buy me just about anything in order to spend time with me and maybe get me to open up. And I took advantage of that. Yes, I was a brat. Totally. I didn't know how else to be. I was young and hurting and totally unable to express it. So on one visit, he said a fateful sentence to me, one that was to open me up to a whole avenue of shopping heretofore unknown to me: thrifting! "Ever been to the DAV?" he asked. I'd never even heard of it. And, wham! My life changed!
Old books! Old comics! Dishes! Clothes! Furniture! Strange items! You could find it all in a thrift. My wardrobe and library grew. And my love for thrifting has never gone away. It's amazing what a dollar or two will get you.
Perhaps the biggest family influence on me these days is my Uncle Mike. He's Mom's youngest brother and was a teenager when I was born, so we share a lot of the same memories about things. He's lived across the river in Indiana for years, but we didn't see each other much. Until Mom got sick, that is. One of the positive things to come out of her illness and death was reconnecting with Mike. Mom had always intended for us to be close. I'm named after him. (My first name is Michael, if you did not know.)
He's been a serious junker for several years--eBay, live auctions, booths, and flea markets. He's kind of my idol in that regard. I'd love to be able to make a go of it like he's doing. We get together and go junking at least once a week, and I learn so much about stuff from him. He gives me the unvarnishd truth, rather than the BS you get from a lot of junkers. He knows what I like to sell and keeps an eye out for stuff for me. I do the same for him. It's a lot of fun and I look forward to spending time with him.
I didn't start my booth because of him. We weren't really spending time together then. I did my first one on a lark. Still, it was kind of a thrill when Mom told me he had checked my space out and thought I was doing okay there. When the place he was in closed down, he moved over to the mall where I am.
Junking certainly isn't a family tradition, by any means. My mother never even got to see either of my booth spaces. But a whole bunch of other little influences and incidents added up to steer me on to the junking path, for sure.
In some ways, it's my family's fault that I am a junker. They weren't really junkers, but I gathered a lot of the ingredients that make a good junker from them. And, while they didn't exactly encourage me to grow up and become a vendor in an indoor flea market set-up, they certainly provided me with more than enough inspiration.
To begin with, I was very close with both my grandparents and great-grandparents as a kid, so I saw and heard a lot about the ways things used to be done. My grandmother would open up the attic sometimes and I would sit up there and look through the boxes of old stuff. I remember reading some of the comics and kids' books that belong to my mother and uncles. When I was taking Algebra in middle school, my grandmother brought down her Algebra textbook to show me.
One of the real treasures at my grandparents' house was the box of family photos that was kept in a closet in the bathroom. Why the bathroom? I have no idea, but that's where they were. Every so often, the box would come out and we would look through them and listen to my mom and grandparents name off the people and share stories. I've got a lot of those photos now. When I look at them, I wish I had listened closer and tried to remember more.
My mom was the one who really taught me to respect what the older generations had to give, especially the stories. A lot of the family mementos that are now in my possession came down through her. She taught me to love and value things with history in them and save them to pass on. When we bought our house, she gave me a few of the old Christmas decorations that used to be hers when she was a kid. And every year after that, I got some kind of family item as a present: an old spoon from one of my father's mess kits, two settings of my grandmother's china, my grandmother's tablecloth.
Interestingly enough, it was also my mother who traumatized me in a way by getting rid of a lot of my childhood stuff when I was younger. As an Army family, we moved a lot and it seems like a lot of the stuff that we got rid of each move was mine and my brother's! I know I rebuilt my comic book collection at least three times. (Although, to her credit, when I went to college, she held on to the whole thing until I had a place of my own to put it in. And that was through three or four more moves.) The worst one, and one that she said she later regretted, was getting rid of Beartrack, my child hood Teddy. I had loved all the fuzz and both eyes off him and my grandmother recovered him with washcloths and gave him new button eyes. He didn't make it back from Germany. Mom said I was going on fourth grade and too old for a Teddy Bear, so out he went.
I think somehow both sides of my mother imprinted on me and affect me as a junker. I know the impact things can have on people and I also understand people who search and search for that lost childhood treasure. My mother was also the one who introduced me to the local flea market. (More on that in another post.)
It was my dad, however, who broadened my junking horizons without realizing it. I had a really strained relationship with him after my parents split. He had been stationed away from the family the last three years of his time in the Army, so when he retired and came home, he was a virtual stranger. My folks divorced soon after, and he didn't handle it well. Frankly, neither did I. I was already 15 at the time, living in small town Kentucky, and feeling the urges of same-sex attraction beginning and unable to talk to anyone about it. In short, I was isolated and confused. My parents' divorce isolated me from my church group, which was my primary peer support at that time. My own feelings cut me off from myself. And I pretty much took it out on my dad.
Visiting Dad became about shopping. He would take me anywhere and buy me just about anything in order to spend time with me and maybe get me to open up. And I took advantage of that. Yes, I was a brat. Totally. I didn't know how else to be. I was young and hurting and totally unable to express it. So on one visit, he said a fateful sentence to me, one that was to open me up to a whole avenue of shopping heretofore unknown to me: thrifting! "Ever been to the DAV?" he asked. I'd never even heard of it. And, wham! My life changed!
Old books! Old comics! Dishes! Clothes! Furniture! Strange items! You could find it all in a thrift. My wardrobe and library grew. And my love for thrifting has never gone away. It's amazing what a dollar or two will get you.
Perhaps the biggest family influence on me these days is my Uncle Mike. He's Mom's youngest brother and was a teenager when I was born, so we share a lot of the same memories about things. He's lived across the river in Indiana for years, but we didn't see each other much. Until Mom got sick, that is. One of the positive things to come out of her illness and death was reconnecting with Mike. Mom had always intended for us to be close. I'm named after him. (My first name is Michael, if you did not know.)
He's been a serious junker for several years--eBay, live auctions, booths, and flea markets. He's kind of my idol in that regard. I'd love to be able to make a go of it like he's doing. We get together and go junking at least once a week, and I learn so much about stuff from him. He gives me the unvarnishd truth, rather than the BS you get from a lot of junkers. He knows what I like to sell and keeps an eye out for stuff for me. I do the same for him. It's a lot of fun and I look forward to spending time with him.
I didn't start my booth because of him. We weren't really spending time together then. I did my first one on a lark. Still, it was kind of a thrill when Mom told me he had checked my space out and thought I was doing okay there. When the place he was in closed down, he moved over to the mall where I am.
Junking certainly isn't a family tradition, by any means. My mother never even got to see either of my booth spaces. But a whole bunch of other little influences and incidents added up to steer me on to the junking path, for sure.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Junkin' Memories
Junkers aren't born. They're made. And not instantaneously, either. It takes a lifetime. I see so many people come and go from vendor malls because they didn't have it in them to stick it out. I've seen some people online fretting because right now every auction, yard sale, and barn seems to be overrun with wanna-be American Pickers and their little flashlights.
These idiots are getting in the way of people who actually know what they're doing, driving up prices and acting like asses because they've watched a few episodes of a TV show. Worse yet, they're copying and trying to ride the coattails of the more experienced junkers around them.
In the end, though, I think they're going to be a momentary frustration. Once these insta-junkers see how much real work there is for how much little actual return, they're gonna jump ship. They don't have it in them. They never gave a thought to second-hand goods before they started trying to be junkers, and that is the crux of their problem. You become a junker over a lifetime, not by watching TV shows.
I'm still a relative newcomer to the selling end of things, with only about three years under my belt, but I bring a lifetime of buying secondhand to the table. My parents sort of got me into this, although they weren't really as serious about it as I became. Still, it's thanks to them that I learned about flea markets and thrift stores and such.
So with that in mind, I've decided to start sharing some of my early junking memories from time to time. I've been realizing since both my parents are gone now, how often I did secondhand shopping with them, both as a kid and as an adult. Neither one of them got to see my booths, but I think they'd be proud of what I've done. And I've had many significant friends and others who have played a role in my junking past as well. I'd like to pay tribute to them with a few posts along the way.
Shara has a great expression in the masthead to her blog: "Sometimes it's about the journey. Sometimes it's about the junk." To that, I would add: "Sometimes it's about both." That's what this series is about. I hope you'll join me as I look back on some of those memories of junk gone by.
These idiots are getting in the way of people who actually know what they're doing, driving up prices and acting like asses because they've watched a few episodes of a TV show. Worse yet, they're copying and trying to ride the coattails of the more experienced junkers around them.
In the end, though, I think they're going to be a momentary frustration. Once these insta-junkers see how much real work there is for how much little actual return, they're gonna jump ship. They don't have it in them. They never gave a thought to second-hand goods before they started trying to be junkers, and that is the crux of their problem. You become a junker over a lifetime, not by watching TV shows.
I'm still a relative newcomer to the selling end of things, with only about three years under my belt, but I bring a lifetime of buying secondhand to the table. My parents sort of got me into this, although they weren't really as serious about it as I became. Still, it's thanks to them that I learned about flea markets and thrift stores and such.
So with that in mind, I've decided to start sharing some of my early junking memories from time to time. I've been realizing since both my parents are gone now, how often I did secondhand shopping with them, both as a kid and as an adult. Neither one of them got to see my booths, but I think they'd be proud of what I've done. And I've had many significant friends and others who have played a role in my junking past as well. I'd like to pay tribute to them with a few posts along the way.
Shara has a great expression in the masthead to her blog: "Sometimes it's about the journey. Sometimes it's about the junk." To that, I would add: "Sometimes it's about both." That's what this series is about. I hope you'll join me as I look back on some of those memories of junk gone by.
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