John Henry - Part Four

John Henry

Part Four

            Once I had tumbled MY dice and stood all my dominos back up by using inner professional reset buttons to fluff the bed covers of my ‘personal feelings’ about ‘all this’ (this estate’s sequence in process), I offered myself FURTHER internal rumination and... self doubt.  This came as a ‘TOO rethink this” about the first estate visited; the coastal mansion.  It was a simple wobble.  IF the “CAMP” was as good an antiquarian contests as I felt it was; a layered time capsule from the Civil War ‘untouched’... and THAT ‘I felt it was’ was founded on the “NOW I GET IT STUPID” acknowledgement that the estate principals (deceased) and the heirs... instead of being the ‘annoying’, disinterested, insensitive and nonchalant controllers of the estate contents... were actually the benefactors and supervisors (philanthropists?) of the PRESERVATION of the estates in their ‘full glory’  Thanks to them all this IS intact and undisturbed... EXCEPT for ME sticking my...:  WHAT have I stuck in this so far anyway?

            A couple of feeble professional pleas written down in ball point pen ink by a ‘paralegal’ attempting to suggest that there ARE  estates here that... ‘will add up’.  And that the heirs may not realize this.  That’s all I’ve done?

            “I guess that means I’m clean (from having to self-inflict a guilt trip), huh.”

            THEN and there is where the new self doubt alleyway opened:  IF I was so damn smart AND crossed the bridge of “NOW I GET IT STUPID”... and this came AFTER I’d ‘walk through’ the coastal mansion... did I... somehow... ‘miss something’ ‘in there’?  So off I went on a room by room in my mind revisit walk through INCLUDING my ‘getting my notes out (MY yellow legal pad on clipboard) and... well... shuffling through the whole damn estate again... while sitting in an arm chair.

            “NO!” I “shouldn’t have taken a video”.  Pictures.  More notes.  More... mental images.  MORE WHAT?

            I went over this last... after ‘walking through’ again over and over from my armchair... with and without the ‘notes’.  MORE WHAT?  “Simply, Stupid,” I concluded “you only failed to APPRECIATE... the estate’s... contents, its undisturbed setting and its holy creation by the heirs... provided ...on a platter... for YOU... Stupid”.

            Yes; that was it.  I did not discover a ‘missed something’ treasure trove.  No... I HAD assuredly creeped to the far corners TOO... of the garage, the garden shed and even the little lattice doorway allowing access to ‘under the porch’.  I had ‘flashlighted’ into all ‘under’ crawl spaces... including the ‘under eves’ attics... .  I had ‘done it’ and ‘found nothing’ except the supra preservation of all... 1937 Harvard yearbooks and summer camp songster pamphlets.  Old footballs and broken radios.  Clean and never used tools in a clean and never used tool box.  The rugs, again, ‘layered’.  The desk cubby with ‘EVERY’ heating oil bill ‘EVER’ stuffed in it and I mean stuffed; not filed.  The crummy art (framed prints).  The old wool blankets.  The lone file cabinet... full of papers... ABOUT NOTHING.  EVEN the grass growing between the random shaped slate stepping stones in “the garden” ...made ‘perfect sense’... and ...made nothing more than that... when reviewed with the “NOW I GET IT STUPID” amplification.  It (the coastal mansion) was a perfectly preserved specimen of Twentieth Century WASP... from an antiquarian artifacts found cash value perspective... LUNACY.  I understood this personally.  I understood this professionally.  My estate summary rested unchanged; ‘add up to a lot’ from a ‘three day estate auction’... that would include the footballs and busted radios.  Too.

            Next?

            It is hardly any jump-in-mind to be assured that all this armchair ‘TOO rethink this” carried back to “CAMP”.  I revisited.  I concluded.

            I concluded that what was the “REALLY” of the “CAMP” was all the neat real old Civil War era Maine Farm STUFF that was layered UNDER the estate family’s ownership ....WITH a dash of their own OLDER (19^th C.) ‘stuff’ tossed into the mix and:  WITH a ‘topping’ of their 20^th Century ‘Huh; that’s neat’ ‘stuff’ that is best  denoted in their tractor in... perfect hardly used condition with ...no finger prints on it.  “It’s the old Maine farm stuff, stupid”.  And... the fantasy of I arriving with my team of hirelings and fleet of empty trucks to ‘clean it (the whole estate’s contents) out’... after making a successful and well calculated purchase offer... and doing that...just before the FLEET of idling diesel powered bulldozers  ‘begins’ ‘the demolition’.  THAT fantasy was wrapped up with “Dream on, Stupid” that I reset as “Better keep you eye on that one.  Stupid”.

            And did nothing more except put my notes away, go down the river to the next village and ‘door knock’ one of the ‘old sea captain’ estates I’ve been plundering for two decades... just because the old girl was out in her garden “WEEDING”.

            “WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN UP TO?” she said.

I told her about the estates.  I told her “they have ANOTHER HOUSE in ALBANY NEW YORK” realizing as I was saying this that I had ...’forgotten about that’.  “NO.” I said. “I haven’t been there YET.  MIGHT HAVE TO GO.”

            “All the way over to ALBANY NEW YORK MY land you DO get around”.

            “Any chance you want to get around up into your ATTIC this afternoon?” I said.

            “BE too STUFFY up THERE today.” she said.

            “WELL how about selling me ALL that OLD REDWARE out in the MILK ROOM today?  ALL OF IT... WILL ADD UP.  Four... FIVE HUNDRED dollars.  IF you sell me ALL OF IT.”

            Her head come up and then she straighten up holding a hand full of pulled weeds.

            “I NEED to spend TOO MUCH this afternoon on some OLD STUFF like that.  NEED to CLEAR MY HEAD.  SELL ME that old redware I’ve wanted.  To buy.  YOU know what I mean.”
            “You really think you’d PAY FIVE HUNDRED today?” she said.

            “GOT TO today.  I’m all DIZZY from those people’s ESTATES.  I NEED to get back to old FARM antiques.  You know; like out in the shed.  The MILK ROOM.  NO ONE goes in there EVER anymore.  Not even YOU.”

            “Well.” She said and looked over past a shed toward the far corner of the old barn where the box shaped building of the milk room was ‘butted on’ to the barn side. The outer door; the in and out door... was in clear sight.  The sun beat on the door... and the room.  That means it’s ...hot in there.  I didn’t say that.  I didn’t say anything. “YOU’D be PAYING CASH as always?” she continued.

            “Oh yeah; on the barrel head; cash in YOUR hand, like always.

            “Well... I suppose then... we better go look... if your gonna be... that foolish with your money today.”

            After about thirty minutes of excavation to be sure we found “EVERY PIECE” of redware “IN THERE” and a trite one sided dickering that was trite and one sided because once she got ‘FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS’ in her sun bonnet it was a FIXED NUMBER that only I finding “EVERY PIECE IN THERE” acted to ...reduce... the MY cash in HER hand ‘cost basis’.

I bought the lot.

            I loaded it with her helping me by making local small talk.

            I drove away.

            I’d forgotten about the “TOO rethink this’ of the estates.

            I’d forgotten about the Albany house.

            I forgot about ALL OF IT.

            For two days.

            Then a paralegal from the law firm called ‘to ask’ if I ‘would go’ to ‘Albany’.

           

John Henry - Part Three

John Henry

Part Three

            I did not... and do not... carry my developed-while-in-the-field personal resentment anger about the estate heirs’ “CAMP” property, the ‘original old Maine farm’ aspect of that property, their land development value fixations, their full disinterest in the property’s contents...or even of them having the perception that there was a contents to be disinterested in... carried further to their probable failure to even note that there was some sort of ‘a contents’.  The only qualifier to all that is their “the tractor” awareness.  In the end, that was a fair starting point for them.  For the moment... I suppressed my personal and ...reported as a professional.

            To the lawyer’s roost I reported at the appointed time as instructed only to find him ‘busy’ and I alone with ‘a woman at the roost wrote all that down’.  She and I did that with I making a professionally worded case that there was a deceptive and strong inner contents within the “CAMP” property of ‘an old Maine farm’ “full of antiques” that WILL ADD UP (as money) “if properly managed”.  I emphasized... in a professional verbiage... that I felt the heirs were not aware of this inner contents and its value. 

I stopped talking.  She stopped writing.  I was out of the inner office and nearly clearing the firm’s reception desk ...to reach the elevators (that is significant to mention for here in Maine a departure from ANYWHERE that involves passing a reception work station and ‘taking’ an elevator... is, at the least, a ‘scarce’ directive) when I was haled back by the lawyer.  BACK into the inner office I followed him

Inside, with the door closed, I re-summarized what was written on the legal pad.  I lost some of my momentum-of-the-emphatic, of no surprise to me, in expressing this but did enough of a rally on the heirs’ probable ‘no idea’ to hold attention and receive a “About how much?”.

“How about a quick twenty-five K as an opening kick.  When they move the stuff down the field using the tractor, the amount will go up.  And up.” I replied.

            He shrugged.

            I left.

            The biggest glitch for anyone turning their eye to the ‘antiques’ in the ‘old Maine farm’ is found in the “The SITE is the BEST on THE LAKE” utterance that rapidly had the dollar value of ‘a million dollars’ attached to it.  THAT ‘held everyone’s attention’.  My report was a... tiny rubbish removal problem... to everyone but me.  I ruminated personally.  Then I salt and peppered that rumination professionally.

            I went home and did nothing.  Except ruminate.  I concluded personally that there was ‘no hope’ for proper attention to the inner ‘old Maine farm’ contents and that this would eventually be improperly disposed of within the hubbub of selling the “CAMP” for “a million dollars”.  Therefore it would pay me well... professionally... to keep an eye on that whole and be ready to act ...to my advantage... if I sensed that contents was going in motion.  “WELL” I self conferred, they might just drag all the stuff outside one morning and have a YARD SALE... that included selling the stuff INSIDE the house they didn’t bother to DRAG OUT.  That... could happen ‘anytime – anyway’.  “YIKES” to that I said.  Then there were the rest of the routes; auction, auctioneer, competing auctioneers.  Dealers.  Dealers bidding.  Competing bidding antiques dealers.  “I’m there.” for that I “well”.  Then there’s the ‘do it yourself’ ‘new wayS’ (‘the internets’).  AND the ‘executor’s’ say.  The heirs say?  The estate lawyer?  The... “I better keep my eye on this” ...my conclusion.

            Within that rumination... about the “CAMP” ...that also included the coastal mansion... “that’s full TOO and IS actually worth a million dollars... TOO”...  I developed a side rumination that went back to my private anger management issues of ‘just what is all this and who are these creepy heirs anyway.  That lead to the inner ruminations of ‘they never bought anything ever (antiques) , they’ve always had all this stuff  (antiques) in there anyway, since they (the antiques) have always been there no one notices them or cares because that ...is just... the way... it is... stupid.  YOU (me) ARE THAT WAY TOO, stupid.

            NOW I GET IT.

            What am I getting?

            It is subtle.  I will use a specific example... found in these estates; a big time specific example:  ‘Threadbare rugs’.

            A ‘threadbare rug’ is a traditional... outside the antiques realm... title for rugs (“carpeting”) found on the floors of WASP homes.  More close to home; NEW ENGLAND... Maine... WASP homes.  Generally, in this region, they are ‘scatter rugs’ with an occasional LARGE (usually a single specimen) ‘room size’ ‘oriental’ and some more medium sized ‘room size’ ‘orientals’ appearing in, foremost in order, the living room, the dining room, the ‘den’... or ‘library’ or ‘TV room’ or... whatever they call ‘that room’.  They are; the scatter rugs and the ‘room size’... old, worn ‘oriental rugs’ AND... for scatter AND TOO (but very rarely) for ‘room size’, old, worn ‘homemade’ braided or hooked ‘rugs’ that are ON... in rising order of WASP New England aesthetic... ‘hard wood floors’... ‘old stone (slate tile) floors’, ‘parquet floors’ and, at the top... old, worn, with old finish remnants, 18^th and early 19^th century ‘wide pine floors’.  No vinyl.  No wall-to-wall. No refinished, sanded and varnished hardwoods or pine.  At all.  Ever.

            This last is key... to ‘now I get it... stupid’.  A refinished WASP floor-on-display specimen... is pandemic these days.  They are “EVERYWHERE” so assure the premium exclusivity of those NOT ‘ruined’ ‘by doing that’.  In the two estates visited in this tale so far... one hardwood floored, one 19^th century wide pine... NEITHER estate has ‘refinished’ ANY floor EVER.  The only... ONLY.... ONLY ‘surface’ ‘treatment’ or ‘work’ done to ‘them’ is an occasional ‘spill’ and... and ...and.... family pets peeing on them.  That last is a fundamental symbol of WASP floor treatment.  The next (and only further) fundamental treatment is putting ‘threadbare rugs’ on top of the ‘dog peed on it’ floor wood.  What those threadbare rugs are and how they are placed is the coup de grace KEY to this KEY.

            Properly done... the threadbare rug coverage is comprehensive with layers of old threadbare scatter rugs ‘piled’ on top of one another ...sort of... that is... truly ‘scattered’ and that these layered, scattered threadbare rugs are of all different sorts, ages, conditions, sizes, colors, patterns, types and ‘being’ from sources UNKNOWN over as many generations as possible... with no one ever moving them, lifting them, touching them, looking at them and ONLY ‘family pets peeing on them’... with no one doing anything about that most of the time because, usually, they “didn’t see that”.  The older the resident, the more ‘didn’t see that’.

            A counter pendulum swing shows best the DEPTH of this WASP ‘threadbare’ ‘thing’.  In a refinished floor setting one most often finds ‘placed’ ‘rugs’.... including actual true ‘threadbare rugs’ ‘displayed’.  These tend to be ...selectively and consciously acquired ‘rugs’ ‘displayed.  On ‘restored’ floors.  Getting it?

            Most often many of these displayed rugs are ‘too new’, ‘too good’ and too not threadbare enough (“I’M NOT GOING TO PUT THAT ON MY FLOOR I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU SAY!”) so ‘self eliminate’ any chance of ‘doing it right’.  That’s right; doing it right... is a lot harder and more comprehensive (including dollar outlay) that one ever would imagine.  THAT’S WHAT MAKES IT REAL.  And the “now I get it... stupid”.

            There are two avenues for I to further report.

            The first is easy.  It starts with the summarial point of the second:  I grew up with this; the threadbare rug ‘thing’.

            Since I grew up with myself standing, crawling, lying, watching TV, sitting in front of a fire with, on and ALL of ‘threadbare rugs’ including all the pet pee... I ‘am that way’ about all this so... never gave it a thought EITHER.  Except, of course, that from day one of ‘being an antiques dealer’ I ‘bought and sold’ ‘them’ (threadbare rugs of ALL types) ALWAYS.

            So one day this very well to do snobby New England family grand-dame MRS. comes to I and says “I want to buy some rugs”.

            “WELL” I say, “MRS. ***** YOU KNOW that MOST ALL of the rugs I SELL are very worn and dirty so I can hardly imagine that ANYTHING I have to offer EVER would appeal to you”.

            “On the contrary” she replied, “I am coming to you because I know that you sell EXACTLY that and THAT is the type of rugs I need to BUY.”

            “AH... BUT... MRS.*****.”

            “NOW LISTEN.  I have just bought a house in Exeter (NH) and its DREADFULL but the FLOORS are original so I NEED some rugs.  And I come to you because I KNOW you KNOW the rugs I NEED:  I NEED RUGS that I can say came from my grandmother.”

            Period... but reminding to note her valuing the floor wood condition.  SHE; ‘Mrs.; proceed to ...over a TEN YEAR period ‘buy’ threadbare rugs and LAYER THEM.... not display them... on her ...wide pine wood floors ‘original untouched’.  The only thing she ever has done to the floors and the rugs is have ...the family pets pee on them.

            She may have (I acknowledge her craftiness) actually encouraged this last.  Is this; the smell of old pet pee... a New England WASP estate ‘thing’.  Yes it is.

            The second is ‘get it stupid’ ‘I do’ why?  Because it is “I”.  Too.  Like the rest of ‘em all I am always ‘in there’; the estates, too.  Always, since birth, I am there... threadbare.

            Beyond the simplistic of growing up so threadbare...  it is so ‘is that way’, so ‘I am that’’, so... stand on it sniffing to old pet pee WITHOUT realizing that it IS DIFFERENT from ‘other people’ so creates ... that I DO need to... ‘now I get it... stupid’.

            “Why then this peed on bare threads?” one asks?

            “Because of where it comes from.”
            “Come from?  Threadbare rugs comes from somewhere?”

            “Yes.  And it is a Maine seafaring saga.  Once, a long, long time ago on the coast of Maine and New England, daring sea captains traveled the world round buying and selling cargos for profit.  In the Middle East, a regional market of trade, the boat cargo was sold and the boat cargo was bought and ... this last was loaded aboard to be homeward bound to be ...sold... at the dock of an exotic port like Portland or Bucksport MAINE and... AND the sailors packed that cargo tight in the belly of the ship and ... in the Middle East they wadded that cargo tight with... old ‘old oriental rugs’ they could get for NOTHING on the shore; from on the ground in old tents. It packed the cargo so, so, tight that the sailor took ALL of the rugs they could possibly find ....and many of these were ‘threadbare’ and worn so no good to anyone except for packing... and... off they sailed.

            At the coastal Maine port the cargo was unloaded and sold and... the old threadbare worn rugs tossed off the boat onto the dock where... for free... men in horse drawn wagons and wheelbarrows loaded them and hauled them away and... went ever further inland peddling them to... to.... TO:  Old Maine Farms.  While keeping the ‘better ones’ to ‘sell’ to the homes ‘on the coast’.

            Denuded of their old rugs; the Middle East was STRIPPED, by Yankee sea captains.  The result is that the threadbare worn rugs peddled and placed on the FLOOR OF THE BARN of the ‘old Maine farm’ can often be a ...17^th, 18^th or 19^th century ‘authentic tribal weaving’ and THE BEST PLACE IN THE WHOLE WORLD to find a “THAT” is... New England.  In old undisturbed estates... with undisturbed floors... covered with ‘layered’ old ‘scatter’ rugs.  That the family pets from six generations ...have peed on.

            I grew up with oriental scatter rugs on the floor of the barn.  I never ever questioned that.  I DID learn... pretty fast... as an antiques dealer... that those scatter rugs are ‘good’.  In my opinion, this corrupted my eye... to the actual pure tradition.  I ‘know’ a ‘good one’... from quite a distance.  In true threadbare estates... like these of the story, discrimination of good is a... never.  Scattered is truly scattered... quality.  No knowing eye ‘ever’.  That’s what I had to remind myself of with the “NOW I GET IT” “STUPID”.  They; the heirs, were right in their behavior toward their estate’s contents and their floors and floor coverings PROVED IT.

            “NOW I GET IT.”

John Henry - Part Two

John Henry

Part Two

            Somewhere, in the micro moment between my parking my truck in the “driveway”...(that was actually STILL a ‘farm yard’)... of  the “CAMP” and my START of walking to the side door of this...  “CAMP” ...that was ‘obviously’ an ‘old’ and the... ‘original’ ‘farm’ ‘here’... I saved myself from the false mental stand that this “CAMP” was just the way it ‘always was’.  I ‘gut felt’ that I was at an... old farm... that was in the last moments of ‘its about to die’ second life.

            The first life was its Victorian – Civil War era as a ‘Maine farm’ ‘on the lake’.  The second life is ...after this family ‘got ah hold of it’.  THAT was NOT LONG after its first era... probably by the Centennial.  Yes; that long ago... ‘on the lake’... a ‘summer place’ “CAMP” it became... fully old Maine farm furnished too... including ‘hay mow to cellar’ equipage ‘untouched’.   AFTER the family’s occupation began the whole romantic and spiritual eloquence of the farm, the site, the land and the lake... gradually... yet increasing in speed and scale... with each new generation’s ‘taking over’... ‘declined’ and was now ‘about to DIE’.

            This I ‘gut felt’ as I walked up to the side door, was greeted, admitted and “Please sit down”.

            Said the oldest (?) sister who had told me at the coastal mansion that she is “the executor”.  I didn’t sit down and she only set her tote bag down next to a chair and... stopped herself from sitting down in that chair because I did not move.

            And said I didn’t need to sit and just needed to do a ‘walk through’ “quickly” like at the coastal mansion and then would... be... gone.

            “Oh.  Fine.”

            I did the walk through.  Quickly.  It was stunning.  MY favorite part of the stunning was that here... beneath all... was STILL a very, very, very undisturbed ‘old Maine farm’ contents ‘untouched’.  NOTHING ‘great’ mind one for ‘antiques’ but FULL of ‘old Maine farm’ antiques... ‘untouched’.  For example, several generations... of the family’s occupancy... had failed to ever even once ‘go down in the cellar’... ever.  Or ‘up in the barn’.  Ever.  OR... in the attic... in the shed...  or ‘UP’ in the shed.  Or... ANY WHERE except in the most immediate summer usage areas of the “CAMP” house, the front of the barn, the porch, the... not much else since they’d ‘had a well drilled’ and ‘stopped using the old well(s)’ ‘in the yard’.  Etc.  Yes; etc... for it was a comprehensive separation of old Maine farm state... from these summer people’s “CAMP” estate.  It was down to the hatchet resting on the splitting block in the wood shed being ‘not touched’.  “These people” “never do ANYTHING here” I ...stated mentally to myself.  The actual qualifier was that this metal affirmation applied only to the ANTIQUES ‘my favorite part’.  FROM THERE OUT... the bomb had exploded after being “developed” (their word) over time.

            The bomb and its explosion was that THIS GENERATION, with the approval, help and supervision of the previous generation... who began to ‘do that’ under the approval, help and supervision of the generation before... “DEVELOPED” (again; THEIR WORD) “THE PROPERTY”. As I approached the side door I had already ...driven through the rubble of the bomb explosion titled ‘development’.  The ‘old Maine farm’ ‘on the lake’ stood forlorn among very closely fitted small lots on the lake shore that had... very large, expensive and modern ‘vacation homes’ “ON THEM”.  These ‘front’ ‘shore’ lots had behind them FOUR tiers (a roadway maze) of ‘house lots’ WITH large, expensive and modern ‘vacation homes’ built on them... “back from the shore”.  All of the original farm land had been... “developed” by the family... during the past three generations... “successfully”.

            There was some development remorse.  NOT that kind of remorse.  THIS KIND:  Once the first sold shore front lots began having third owner buyers purchase them and tear down the existing vacation home to build the biggest fattest ugliest tackiest and ‘on the cheap’ NEW “CAMP”... the family had remorse that THEY did not “GET” “that much” (money) for those original “best lots”.  Especially galling was that “NOW” the few remaining ‘crummy’ “back lots” the family had recently and “FINALLY” sold... sold for considerably more than the “shore frontage had originally been sold for”.  AS I WALKED up to the side door of the ‘old Maine farm’ ‘on the lake’ THIS  ...structure... was in the ...in total agreement on this... crosshairs... of ‘being sold’ “FOR A LOT”...for this ‘lot’ ...including the understood “excluding” of the farm house that “who ever buys it will tear it down” “IS” “The SITE is the BEST on THE LAKE”.

            So I affirmed... without solicitation... my ‘gut felt’ as I ‘walked through’.  HEARING the stop & start and opinionated saga interfered with my ability to appreciate and BE LOST IN A PRIVATE DREAM WORLD as I peeked through time inside and outside this... ‘old Maine farm’ “ESTATE PROPERTY” (currently for sale) ‘carte blanc’. (?).

            I separated from these “them”; the heirs, on “OUR” walk through.  I separated commercially, politically, figuratively, financially, fundamentally and FLAWLESSLY.  Their crude burp and fart attitude to what I was doing... and doing there... enhanced my box-turtle-hides-in-shell FLIGHT.  Slow and steady I... ‘hate you’.  I said nothing.  I took long, long, long romantic gazes at all monumental overlook turnout vistas of ‘undisturbed old Maine farm’ contents; the cellar, the barn floor by floor and then a whole ‘looking down’.  Each shed.  The outhouse.  The wells.  The old millstone.  The stone wall behind the milk room.  The clothes line.   “There”, “there” and “THERE” I found, saw, felt and peeked at... and, and, and... ALL OF IT; the whispered truth of this state of estate.  Exploding to smithereens.

            “IT” (the “CAMP”) “WAS ROBBED TWICE”.  Once twenty years ago.  And again ten years ago (?).  “THEY TOOK” seemed to be the new stuffs; tools, two canoes, a row boat, motor boat engine, fishing tackle and ...not much else ‘they said’.  “THE TRACTOR EVERYONE WANTS TO BUY” referred to a post World War Two purchased and forever very, very, very lightly used mid size farm tractor that... never had a fingerprint on it or “dirty oil” “EVER”.  They “are going to sell it”.  The proceeds to be divided by the estate heirs ‘at settlement’.  THAT estate settlement procedure becomes important so take note of it.  Meanwhile I couldn’t care less because I was SOOOOO wrapped up in “EVEN THE RUGS ARE UNTOUCHED” kind of LOST in this antiques everywhere just the way and where they should be ...inter-galaxy mind space trip.  “The robbers weren’t professionals” I heard myself say.

            “That’s what the Sheriff said too”. the executor said.  She was old enough to “remember”.

John Henry - Part One

John Henry

Part One

            I traveled to Albany, New York this week.  On business.

            I scheduled two days; over and back, ‘on business’.

            I took five days total... ‘on business’.

            My business

            With the other business ‘scheduled’ within the ‘took five days’.

            A nice trip.  Left Maine traveling Route 25 to Route 4 to Hanover, NH, for lunch.  Then Woodstock, Vermont southward and wandering until day’s end near Manchester, Vermont.  The next morning a wandering into New York State via Arlington-Cambridge-Greenwich.  Then down to Albany.

            For lunch BEFORE the appointment ‘scheduled’ ‘on business’.

            I ate a roast beef club sandwich...with fries... at the Gateway Diner.  It was good mood food to buttress me for the ‘appointment scheduled on business’.

            What is my ‘appointment scheduled on business’?

            Please understand that I do not do appraisals; appraise antiques.  I do not do that.  For anyone.  I do have, by personal development, a supple variation of that industry that in traditional business ecosystems would make me called a ‘consultant’... I suppose.  It is that... in the end... to the end user... I suppose... but... it isn’t actually what I do; what I am paid to do.

            What that is; what I actually do ...is a little known... old and narrow... alley in ‘antiques’ land... that I do not encounter others traveling in or... even knowing one may travel there... and get paid to do ‘that’.

            Refusal to ‘do appraisals’ created a frustrated contact group... primarily law firms with specialization in estate services... that “NEED” “SOMEONE” “who knows” that they “can depend on” “TO TELL THEM” “WHAT” ...is an ‘in there’ ‘that’s good’.  So I created a way for them to hire me where I didn’t have to do appraisals and they received the precious cargo of information they ‘can depend on’.  I am their bird dog... flushing birds?

            Yes.

            I scamper to the estate of their direction... at THEIR (the law firm’s) direction.  I scamper through the estate at their direction.  I scamper back to their roost at their direction and ...speak concisely at their direction... to summarize ‘what I saw’... for them.  Usually a woman writes down a lot of what I say.  Then I am done and leave.  And send a bill.  Traveling through four states to scamper the to, through and back is unusual but not a ‘hasn’t happened’.  That ‘big trip’ prerogative is fabricated by the estate setting having multiple properties ‘with antiques’ that the law firm involved with the estate “find it cheaper to send YOU there and back than it would be to find and hire someone to do the same” “over there”.  I saved the receipt for my club sandwich

            “My, my.” arrival at ...two minutes before one... 1:00 PM being the appointed time of the my appointment... AT the ...Albany estate property... comes, in this case, AFTER I had already been to two other estate properties ‘in Maine’ ‘at THEIR direction’ (the ‘a law firm’).  The first property was the “Maine Home”; the ‘a mansion’ ‘on the coast’.  The second property was the “CAMP”... upon a well understood to be splendid interior Maine lake.  The camp was twice the size of my home... and “has been robbed twice”.  This ‘Albany House’...was the original family estate that was still the ‘main’ (as opposed to ‘Maine’) house of the estate... in the eyes of the heirs... although for the past forty years “our parents lived in Maine” “mostly”.  “Other members of the family lived (live?) at the Albany house”.

            My scamper to and through the Maine coastal mansion started my eye roaming.  I returned the law firm’s roost and reported that “there are a lot of antiques but no biggies”.  ‘Biggies’ are stand alone major value fine arts or decorative arts.  Or rare book collection.  Or all three. “BUT”:  “There is a lot there that WILL ADD UP for the estate is large and ...full (‘imbedded generational layers’)... with, principally, 'descended in' fine arts, decorative arts and... almost no printed matter at all except that relating to a.... very well to do WASP family who pushed all of the that family through all the right schools and ...kept every college course book read, college essay written, and... etc, forever, for everyone, in the family, forever ‘too’... with a few ‘Christmas gift’ books for (aging) Dad... on top of the ...coffee table.  The library of the home, I could summarize, was solid between the words ‘Hebron’ (academy) and ‘Harvard College’, et al and of ‘no money’ value “from what I can see”.

            I am very adept at the ‘what I can see’.  And fast.  And do not miss much.  Especially this last because at the slightest signal of there being a ‘something’... I slow way down.  In this case... the skimpy and well dusted book... case... in the stuffy with door closed “library’ ...needed only my spine ends quick scan... before I left their ‘our library’.  That did include the perpetual nuisance of having ONE of the ‘people who were there’... upon observing my observing their ‘library’ book’s... spine ends ...announce to the room that they “DO HAVE” a “HEMINGWAY FIRST EDITION” I “NEED TO LOOK AT”.  I said, as I left the library room to ‘on to’ the NEXT room, that I “only need to look over the estate books for the law firm”.  This misty verbalization on my part of ‘what I am doing’ caused no response from anyone and ...I never heard about or saw the ‘Hemingway first’.

            Shortly, I was back outside driving away with my “bailed right in there mostly 20^th Century rich people stuff with tig and tag 19^th century ‘stuff’ ‘descended in’ (as opposed to ‘inherited’) the family and house WITH a few ‘paid a lot’ 20^th century furnishing and decorative arts NEATLY arranged and dusted clean, clean, clean in lived in settings AND a few ‘by chance’ fine art things with a few oil paintings that are NOT WORTH sweating but again it is BAILED RIGHT IN THERE enough for a ‘three day on site auction’ that, again, WILL ADD UP”.

            A woman at the roost wrote all that down.

            I was told about the Albany property then.

            I went home and waited.

            I went to the “CAMP” ‘next’.

Getting In ...and Writing It Down

Getting In... and Writing It Down

            “First off:  You go up there and rascal your way in.  Somehow.  Then you’s BUY.  THEN.. you’s write it down; what you did.  Now THAT is my argue about you.”

            “Getting in, buying or writing the story?”

            “CARN-SOUND-YOU ALL OF IT.  Jesus.”

            “Because you lost out?”

            “Because you DID THAT.”

            “Well I’d been watching Tallmadge’s for YEARS”.

            “WELL SO HAVE I.”

            “So GO IN THERE.”

            “SHE WON’T LET ME IN.”

            “Never let me in before either.”

            “YES you rascal BUT WHY NOW.”

            “I told you; I wrote it down.  YOU READ IT.”

            “I CAN’T READ.”

            “I know that.  But she read it to you you said.”

            “SHE READS IT TO ME OK:  So I get up and tell her that’s that and to stop.”

            “Then you drive right over here with the hissy fit?”

            “WELL WHAT DID YOU EXPECT ME TO DO?”

            “Come over and admit defeat like a gentleman.”
            “OH Jesus YOU’S IMPOSSIBLE.”

            “That’s what you always said about Tallmadge’s.  So I thought you’d LIKE my story”

            “SHE IS IMPOSSIBLE.”

            “Not anymore she ain’t; I’m in now.”

            “So what you gotta write it DOWN FOR.  Ain’t that ENOUGH.  You’s TELL’EM HOW you DO IT.  DON’T DO THAT!”

            “They ain’t do’en anything WITH IT.  CAN’T.  Couldn’t even FIGURE a place.  See ‘em STANDING out there all ah gawk. 

            “Well never you mind TELL’EN ‘EM; I don’t NEED THAT anymore than I NEED YOU.”

            “Tallmadge’s is WIDE OPEN.  You don’t OWN that place.”

            “TRIED TO.”

            “But we’ve TALKED about it for TWENTY YEARS.”

            “So you got the barn door open and her STANDING THERE.”

            “Nope:  She was in the back.  Walked all the way through the barn.  She was at her sheep out back”.

            “Jesus she’d ah RUN ME right off if I’d DONE THAT.”

            “She ain’t NO HARM.”

            “WELL; to YOU.”

            “I waited on Mrs. Tallmadge.  Call her that.  Not Kitty.  YOU call her KITTY?”

            “JESUS:  Went to SCHOOL with her.  She ain’t MRS TALLMADGE.  She’s KITTY.”

            “Right.  That’s IT right there.  Probably.

            “NOT probably AT ALL.”

            “Well... she sees you; knows you can’t READ.  Knows you can’t SPELL.  KNOWS you and Frankie STOLE HER DONUTS”.

            “THAT’S ALL a LONG TIME AGO.”

            “All the MORE reason NOT to want-ta SEE YOU.’

            “You’s a miserable rascal is WHAT you ARE.

            “She MARRIED FRANKIE.”

            “An then he DROWN-DEAD.”

            “If you call falling of a boat DRUNK drown-dead.”

            “WHAT do YOU CALL IT?”

            “Suicide”.

            “You’s a MISERABLE RASCAL.”

            “That’s what I was saying about her while I was walk’en BACK through her BARN.”

            “NOW SHE ain’t as TUFF AS ALL THAT.

            “She was wrestling her sheep so figured she’d WRESTLE ME.”

            “You stink’en... THEN WHAT?”

            “Went RIGHT AT HER; SAID ten bucks on that TRUNK.  She had the damn sheep upside down pull’en on its LEG.”

            “So she didn’t just SHOOT YOU.”

            “No.  Never seen her GUN.  I don’t think she’s GOT ONE”.           

            “She got one Frankie’s OLD GUN Eddy SEEN IT ON HER.”

            “That was at her POND with the muskrat hunting.  SHE AIN’T a GUNNER.”

            “GUN YOU she will YOU WATCH OUT!”

            “Well I bought that damn TRUNK and she PULLED that SHEEP UP to sell it to me.”

            “THAT I don’t BELIEVE.”

            “DID TOO; showed her TEN.  Just like I wrote:  UP SHE COME.”

            “THAT just WON’T HAPPEN with HER.”

            “Took the ten”.

            “NOT HER.”

            “YOU NEVER TRIED IT:  She wants MONEY like the rest of ‘em.”

            “SHE’S HEELED.”

            “She ain’t THAT heeled.”

            “Heeled good enough.”

            “She took it and kept taking it; I kept hit ‘en her right up through the barn.”

            “HIT HER for what you got; WHAT HAPPENED to THAT STUFF.”

            “Sold it”

            “To?”

            “Flea market.”

            “All of it?”

            “Most all; some wouldn’t go.”

            “But nothing good?”

            “Nothing; firkin old red but lid cancer.  The trunk.  b-chest.  Boston rocker.”

            “B-chest?
            “Wicked beat.  HAD the till lid though.  Best was the rug.”

            “Runner you said”.

            “Nothing but from the HOUSE.”

            “Nothing?”

            “Well; paid her one ten ($110) on that.  Sold it one forty.”

            “You PAID WELL.”

            “HAD too; from the house.  COULD SEE THAT.”

            “WHY it out THERE”.

            “Dog ‘arfed on it she said.  She said it SMELLED.  So she chucked it.  Up in the front stall; hung it.  She knew it was good.  Didn’t want it though.”

            “Barf on it?”

            “Couldn’t see ANYTHING.  I didn’t SAY anything either.  ‘Cept... from a  barn you know”.

            “They sniff it?”

“The sniff test?  No sniff test.  Figured on that.”

            “THAT HOUSE... .  So; well, YOU SAID your going BACK.”

            “But not gonna move on the house yet.  Wait.  Work up through that barn again.  You know; get that in there GOOD.  She’s got plenty in there.  Only USES the back.  That’s all NEW there; that SHEEP pens.  The rest is bailed right in.  Up front.

            “Why was the door open?”

            “Yeah couldn’t figure at first but saw she got some bails of that GOOD hay.  PAID FOR THOSE so I figure THERE GOES THE CASH.

            “Wicked rascal you.”

            “Just doing my job, Sir.”

            “Wicked rascal SIR yourself.”

            “I don’t think I know ANYONE to have EVER been in that house.  ANYONE.”

            “Not since Frankie drown-dead I know; no one.  Ever.”

            “I’m getting in.  Then I’m gonna write it down.”

           

The Photographic History of Junk Dealing

The Photographic History of Junk Dealing

            Be it a box of old baseball cards, a crochet tangle, rusted Tonka trucks from 1960 or the Mattel “Derringer” belt buckle, I find my thoughts saying “I’d like this; I’d keep it.  Too”.

            A Cub Scout banner, a Snoopy poster, a chemical tube, a plastic dump truck, a postcard to someone’s parents from 1969.

            Where were you?  Where are you?  Why don’t you still live in your room, in your sand box and in your bike?

            WHY?

            Because the dirt devil of a short time kisses your lips and sticks your arm out so you shake the hand of every passing stranger telling them “It’s all right.”  Then your home alone inside your head peeking like the little mouse behind your brain down the dark spine to that hole where it somehow always seems to be “getting out”.

            Waiting, waiting, waiting; it never ends?  Ever?

            Slowly, like the logs on the bottom of the old wood pile stacked long ago by the dead man while his wife watched his every mood (move) from the kitchen window to “be sure”,

            You rot.

            Beautiful rot; dark gray-brown turning to dirt first at the feet, then toward the center, then to the core ROT.  Majestic dirt rot like the moist soil you used to kneel in to peer behind the shed to see that it “was” “a turtle”.

            Rot like the broken plastic gun you walked home with from playing war with your life.  You set it down to ponder if it can be “fixed”.

            CAN IT BE FIXED?

            The car is late for it’s inspection.  The life is unsure of the eternal rejection.  The sun shines on the young girl’s face but her shadow falls upon my knees and

            Keeps them cool.

            Like the dirt.  The dark gray-brown dirt from rot.

            I am dirt.  I am a rusted Tonka truck with a bent baseball card in the cab.

            SCREAMING with glee I ran down the dock severing the cables of the barges that clung to my life.  FLOATING astern I watch them wait behind until they slowly turn in the current.  They twist and

            Hang there

            And do nothing more

            That I can see

            From the deck of the dirt devil called short time.

            I am a photographic history of junk dealing.

            I am a bottom log on the wood pile stacked long ago.

            I am majestic brown rot.