Though I like old stuff, I've never particularly embraced the concept of 'antiquing.' The word itself grates me on a number of levels as well as conjures visions of sneezing, wheezing and expectorating wildly as I have an allergic reaction to the prerequisite fog of potpourri as we go from quaint overpriced store to quaint overpriced store. They also tend to have lots of doilies and I hate those things.
As Antiques by the Bay is so large that it's actually held on the runway of a former US Naval Air Station, indoor allergens aren't so much of a problem…though blustery weather can be. The upside of which is that if there were any doilies they'd been blown away by the time I got there.
I managed to coerce Troy—aka friend with a big pickup truck—to accompany Stacy, Shannan, Brock (Shannan's 16-month-old) and I to the sale under the ruse that it would be a Moab trip reunion and that there are really cool old hand tools there.
Running late because of errant power lines across the freeway, Shannan and Brock ended up driving separately and meeting us there. Troy, Stacy and I had been looking around for about 20 minutes—and actually already split off in different directions—when I got a call from Shannan saying they had just parked and could I watch the Brocster as soon as they got inside because she had to pee. I agreed, of course, but began to wonder if the little man would put up a fuss…I see Shannan every day at work, but I'd only 'met' Brock once when he was like a month old…wouldn't he cry or scream when he had to hang out with this stranger?
Brock eyes me with a contemptuous "Whatchu talkin 'bout Willis?" stare as he sizes me up.
As you can see above, 'lil' Brock (actually BIG Brock…at 16 months, he's the size of a two-year-old) looked a little perturbed with the situation but in a manner far beyond his years…er months…he made the most of a strange situation and found common ground—Look! A naked lady!
We we're pretty much buds from this moment on.
After Shannan regained a comfortable bladder disposition, we all regrouped briefly and managed to splinter off again. Stacy and I were looking for some furnishings and eclectica for our nearly-completed new garage space—specifically I had it in my head that I might be able to find an old industrial or agricultural cart to convert into a coffee table. Fleetingly, I had seen such a cart in an antique store window on a recent trip to Portland and did a web search for one when I got home. The only one I could find was this cotton bale cart from a store called NapaStyle that cost $650 + $150 shipping…ouch! I call NapaBullShit.
I figured MAYBE if I was lucky I might be able to find some iron wheels or hardware at the antique thing with which I could make my own cart using some rough lumber. Best case, I thought, perhaps I might be able to find something similar…something with that sorta 'rustic re-use' ethos embodied in it. I honestly didn't think I had much chance of finding an actual cart.
Hopes-in-head, away I went and the first thing that caught my eye was an old Geiger counter. In addition to having that swanky Cold War feel to it, this particular unit had the coolest font on its gauge. At $35 though, I felt it was a bit steep for something that didn't work (was missing its probe) and might actually be radioactive, so I moved on. In retrospect it would make a cool door handle…or something.
Rusty California milk comes from rusty California cows and into rusty...well you get the idea.
Next to catch my eye was a giant orange rusty milk can. I had no particular need nor want for such a thing, but I liked its patina and shape. I liked its orangeness and bigness. After a smidge of haggling I liked its price too—$20. Done Deal.
One of the booths had all kinds of cool printing press letters as well as typewriter keys that you could fashion into jewelry and the like. Stacy ended up getting some typewriter letters and I got a "Don" work shirt patch. Two of 'em actually—a buck a piece.
A couple years ago I bought an old clay olive jar, drilled a hole in the bottom and made a fountain for our backyard out of it. While disassembling it for the garage project a couple months ago, I dropped and destroyed the jar (though I can't bring myself to throw the pieces away). Fortunately, I found this beauty for the low low negotiated price of $30 which initially made me feel pretty thrifty. Then I added it to the cost of the one I broke and it comes out to $110.
A few aisles later I nearly wet myself. For there it was—the very object of my desire—the old as dirt industrial cart! But it was kinda buried…used more as a display table for other stuff more than an object on its own merit. There was at least 20 other THINGS either on it or leaning against, pinned behind it or otherwise supported by it.
Excitedly I looked it over…cast iron hardware…wheels and corner buckles…the top was just plywood, but I could get some planks. Where is the price tag? How much is it?! Everything else here has a price tag--$90 for a stop sign?! Are you serious?! Where is the seller…are you the seller? You are? How much for the cart?
"Well I was just going to sell it to these women for $100 but they said they'd think about it and maybe come back. I think it came from one of the canneries. Tell you what…if you give me $90 right now, you can have it."
"I got $80."
Grumble. Grumble. "Ok! It's yours!"
I'm not one to get excited about shopping, I generally loathe it but I was fucking excited! Yep…forty year old white guy here…getting his yayas by finding shit at an antique sale…that's me!
After the adrenaline wore off, we loaded the behemoth of a cart (it must weigh 150 pounds) into Troy's truck…the truck where Troy had retreated to earlier to warm himself. We all regrouped and Shannan hit Brock in the head with a picture frame (accidentally). He cried for about a minute then forgot about it and went back to being his smiley happy little kid self.
We then retreated to the mainland—Oakland—where I treated to Zachary's Chicago Style Pizza which could have used a little more sausage, but was—all-in-all—a pretty good end to a pretty good day.
Brockman prefers PB&J and applesauce to pizza now...but he'll learn.
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