Sharon Korbeck Verbeten Once upon a Thursday night, just a few weeks ago, I stopped by a local small-town auction selling the estate of a 90-year-old woman. While I’ve attended many auctions – from the ones featuring a fast-talking guy in overalls in a cornfield to the refined atmosphere of Sotheby’s New York gallery – but I didn’t know what to expect on a weeknight at 4 p.m. in the middle of the first blinding snowstorm of the season. I thought I’d be the only one crazy enough to venture out in the biting wind and blowing snow. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The parking lot – its lines of demarcation now obliterated by snow – was packed, the auction room was abuzz with activity, and there was already a line for both bid numbers and beer (at the pub in the next room). It had been a while since my last in-person auction; my stomach was fluttering with anticipation … and my right hand was getting itchy. I attended this auction mostly on a whim. When I saw the ad, the sale didn’t appear to offer much I’d be interested in. It was mostly housewares, some smalls and utilitarian, low-end furniture. But as a toy collector, one item caught my eye – an early 20th century Gong Bell toy phone – so I figured I’d check it out. New to the area, I scanned the crowd to assess the demographics. Scores of senior citizens poured over tables of old photographs, sheet music and photo albums. Some late baby boomers examined glassware and old Christmas ornaments. Other than myself, though, I only spotted perhaps one or two people in their 30s or 40s. One man wearing a Teamsters jacket yelled past me, “Hey, Ralph! How’s it going?” Seated next to me, two gentlemen talked about the old woman whose estate was now splayed across the room. Two women nearby discussed their holiday plans. One man showed me where the folding chairs were kept. The two auctioneers on the podium, Dave and Andy, invited everyone to get comfortable, pull up a chair and forget about the snowstorm outside; they had beds to sell if we got snowed in. The camaraderie and familiarity in the room were contagious. Everyone seemed to know everyone, yet I didn’t really feel like an outsider. But even before the auction began, I had an epiphany. This auction wasn’t just the liquidation of an old woman’s estate. It wasn’t just a venue to buy collectibles and antiques. It was a one-stop social event, complete with popcorn and beer, good friends, local gossip and some healthy competition. The auction started slow, with items pokily being offered for starting bids of $5 and $10. The man called Ralph bid often – and won – sundry items, from a pair of old cowboy boots to a box lot of linens to a rickety lamp. There was no rhyme or reason to his purchases; he was paying too much for resale, but he didn’t seem to be a collector either. I was completely baffled when Ralph and others started bidding “$10, $15, do I hear $20?” on box lots of five boxes of unopened facial tissue (apparently the consignor wrapped everything fragile with them). Why on earth would people pay more for such staples than they could buy new? As I watched the toy phone inch toward the auctioneer’s podium, a revelation hit me like a gavel. These people weren’t here necessarily to buy something; they were here to buy anything. Once their hands warmed up, they bid on everything from torn quilt batting to boxes of old, signed greeting cards … amassing a pile of has-been items that would surely be back at this auction in another 20 years or so when their estates are sold. Some people go to a casino to spend, sit and socialize. Others go to a bar for happy hour. But for most at this auction, this was their happy hour. They could meet their friends, have a few drinks, drop some dollars and leave with a little more than they came with – tangible and otherwise. I have to admit I almost felt guilty when the little phone came up for bid. Even I got so wrapped up in wanting to take home something, anything that I bid higher than I planned, but the phone did come home with me … even though I was bidding against Ralph! Not only did I leave with my toy, I also acquired a new respect for small-town auctions – their methods, their madness and the people who live to be part of it all. I’m now addicted, thankfully, to a new happy hour, and I’ll be back … but maybe I’ll wait until the roads are better! Sharon Korbeck Verbeten has been a writer and editor in the antiques/toys industry for more than 10 years, covering many shows and auctions nationwide. She is now a full-time freelance writer and editor in Green Bay, Wis., writing about topics as diverse as antiques, library science, business and funeral service. |