by Joyce Harmon
Amy did a lot of buying. Old stuff that I’m sure she’d call vintage. The other major buyer was Rose, and frequently she and Amy were in direct competition for the same items. When the green glasses went to Rose for fifty bucks, Amy sat back with a scowl. “That woman is my nemesis,” she grumbled. “If she weren’t here, I’d be getting this stuff at half these prices.”
“What does she do with it all?” I asked. “Does she have a store?”
“She’s another eBuyer,” Amy explained. “This was pretty much virgin territory for me before she got into the game. Plenty of items that are considered old and unfashionable out here are seen as vintage and kitschy in New York and Los Angeles. It was a happy hunting grounds before Rose showed up.”
“Tough luck,” I said. “But it is an auction after all.”
“I know,” Amy admitted, “but look at this.” She gestured toward the front, where a carnival glass bowl was undergoing a brisk bidding war. When the gavel fell, it went to Rose for $125.
“Wow.” I said.
“She’s not going to get that on eBuy,” Amy said. “Oh, she’ll list it, but it won’t sell, not with the price she puts on it.”
“Aren’t some people here just collecting, though? They can pay as much as they want.”
“But they aren’t taking a tax write-off for it as merchandise,” Amy said. “Oh, I don’t know that’s what Rose is doing, but she must write off merchandise purchases, and then if it doesn’t sell, oh well, it’s hers. And I know she’s got a reseller tax ID so she doesn’t pay sales tax on her auction purchases.”
Then she gave herself a little shake. “Oh, don’t listen to me,” she said. “I’m just resenting the competition.”
“Did she just move here?” I asked.
“No, she just retired,” Amy explained.
Julia chimed in. “Come on, Cissy, you remember Rose.”
“I do?”
“Sure, she was in the County Administrator’s office just about forever. Of course, she dressed for the office and wore makeup back then, and wasn’t hauling Paco around with her everywhere.”
With an effort of memory, I managed to connect Amy’s nemesis with the stubbornly efficient woman behind the counter at the county administration building. Of course, with Julia’s dress down warning, I was wearing blue jeans and one of my numerous Kingdom of Qu’aot teeshirts; I wondered if anyone who’d met me at our holiday open house at the winery would recognize me today.
Julia brought the subject back to the online auctions. I was surprised at such an interest from my tech-shy friend, but turns out she collects McCoy cookie jars. (Huh! I’d seen those jars in her kitchen countless times, but never realized it was officially a collection.) There were a few rarities she was still looking for, but was leery about buying sight unseen from someone she’d never met in person.
Amy explained some complicated process about ‘feedback’ which supposedly kept sellers on the straight and narrow, lest they garner enough negative feedback to get them booted off the site. It sounded chancy to me.
At first it was interesting to listen to the two of them have a detailed conversation while at the same time watching the front of the tent for interesting items coming up for bid. But after a period of being leaned into and talked over, I decided to investigate the BBQ Hut. Excusing myself, I eased out of the row of chairs and wandered out of the tent.
It was nearing noon now, and other people had the same idea. I found myself in line behind Rose and Paco. I don’t dislike small dogs (though I don’t see much point in them, frankly), but purse dogs annoy me. The little dog eyed me with disfavor and growled deep in his throat. I wondered if I could befriend him. “Hi, there!” I told Rose’s purse in the chirpy voice I use when I talk to our four-legged friends. “Aren’t you handsome?”
Rose half-turned and said in a goopy voice, “He thinks he’s so fierce.”
I cautiously extended my hand. “Does he bite?”
“Sometimes,” Rose admitted.
I withdrew my hand. “Who’s your trainer?” I asked. There are only two in Queen Anne County.
“Oh, we don’t need a trainer,” Rose said, shaking her purse like a cradle. “He hasn’t gone in the house since he was a puppy.”
I bit back a response. Too many ignorant dog owners, not enough time. Canine bad behavior means they have negligent owners, and here was a perfect example. There are other kinds of training than housebreaking, and biting dogs can become non-biting dogs with work and patience. But did I want to get into it on a beautiful fall day with a woman I don’t even know? I did not. So we just had a general ‘aren’t dogs great?’ conversation while waiting in line.
I got my pulled pork and fries, and wandered the yard for a while. There was a separate auction line going on out by the barn. This was the manly stuff, the farm equipment, tools, yard implements, and of course the guns. I saw quite a few familiar faces in addition to Bob.
Gene Abernathy for one. He never struck me as the farm type, but after a moment I realized he was schmoozing the crowd. Of course, he was up for reelection next year. Gene represented my district on the Board of Supervisors. It’s a part-time job, and I was always amazed at the people willing to take the nominal pay for the amount of work involved. Better him than me.
Drat, he saw me! Gene eased through the crowd to sidle up beside me and give me a sideways hug, almost causing me to spill my fries. He was probably the only man within twenty miles wearing a suit on a Saturday.
“How’s the prettiest winemaker in the county?” he asked. (I was the only female winemaker in the county, if you count my help with Jack’s work as ‘winemaking’, which Jack probably wouldn’t.)
I allowed Gene to engage in some heavy-handed banter. Even though his notions of gallantry are a bit grating, Gene and I are allies of a sort. His role in the county is as our local tycoon, the main mover and shaker in construction and development. He is also the member of the Board of Supervisors who considers it his mission to drag Queen Anne along with the rest of the nation into the 21st Century, which he keeps reminding us all, is ‘right around the corner.’ That means better roads, better schools, and better infrastructure. As a tech junkie, I was in his corner.
“Got my cell phone towers yet?” I asked him.
“Workin’ on it, hon,” he assured me with a wink. No, Queen Anne County does not have cell phone coverage yet. And I dearly want one. “You’ll have to come to the next Supervisors’ meeting. We’ll get those towers if enough people show up to support me.”
“Who’s against it?” I asked.
“Oh, the usual mix of obstinate reactionaries,” he said. “Not all natives, either. A lot of the ‘come-heres’ become more hidebound than the natives; you and Jack are exceptions.”
“I know what you mean,” I told him. “They moved here for the rural charm, but don’t let anyone else in. They’d like their moving van to be the last vehicle over the drawbridge before it’s raised and locked for good.”
He laughed. “Exactly like that.”
I watched the outside auction for a few more minutes. Bob won the bid on the table saw and pumped a victorious fist.
I got back to the tent just as Amy was spending fifty dollars for a box of tablecloths. I looked into the box and saw they were printed cotton from the Fifties.
“You didn’t need to spend that much for these!” I said. “I have a box of them my mom gave me when I got married, I would have let you have them.”
Amy laughed. “If I had no conscience, I’d take them. Cissy, I’ll be surprised if I don’t get fifty bucks apiece for these.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You should list yours on eBuy since you’re willing to part with them.”
“Maybe I will.” I sat back down and considered the possibilities. Mom gave me a lot of things to help outfit me as a new bride. I’d thanked her for the tablecloths and stuck them in the linen closet, because I privately considered them too kitschy and old-fashioned to use. La
st time I looked, they were pristine. Online auctions sounded intriguing.
I sat back and watched the auction thoughtfully. Seeing the accumulation of a person’s lifetime spread out on a lawn had reignited my frequently expressed and seldom realized resolution about decluttering. It was time to pare things down. Of course, my original intent had always been to throw out a lot and take a lot more to the thrift store. Now I determined not to discard anything before I checked on eBuy to see if it was worth anything. The junk of my youth might have acquired vintage status while I wasn’t paying attention.
The auction was winding down. Half the crowd had already left. Amy was surrounded by boxes of items she’d purchased, and Julia had a respectable pile herself. I was the slacker of the group, having spent less than ten dollars on a couple boxes of paperback books. I had almost bid on the mantle clock, but remembered my decluttering resolution and let it pass. Looking across the tent, I saw that Rose had an accumulation that rivaled Amy’s, and was already carrying boxes out to her truck.
Amy was slouched in her seat, looking half asleep as she lifted her bidder card indifferently. And yet, sitting beside her, I could feel that she was almost quivering with tension. I looked toward the front. Up for auction was a box of glassware. The auctioneer’s assistant was holding up samples from the box, some of the grubbiest and most misshapen items I’d ever seen. Good lord, who would want that? I started to say something, but Amy forestalled me, a low murmur out of the corner of her mouth. “If you get Rose’s attention, I’ll never forgive you.”
Baffled, I sat back and assumed nonchalance. The box of ugly glassware started at two dollars, and finally ended at eight. The assistant delivered the box to Amy’s pile. Amy eyed it mistily, whispering in awe. “I can’t believe she missed this.”
Rose was returning from the parking lot, having missed this lot, and loaded up her dolly for another trip to the truck.
Amy began tenderly wrapping the pieces of glassware in bubblewrap.
Finally, I had to ask. “What IS that, and why are you so excited about it?”
Amy laughed. “Ruba Rombic. I’ve never seen a piece outside an antique store, and look, a whole box of it, some still with the original stickers!”
“I guess they’re valuable? They don’t look particularly attractive.”
“Just wait till I’ve washed them. And watch my auctions. The ashtray will go over a hundred, and the rest of it for a lot more than that.” She pulled another piece out of the box. “Oh my god, the pitcher!” she squealed.
Julia and I exchanged looks. “I guess that’s good,” Julia said.
I pulled a notebook out of my purse. “How do you spell that?” I asked Amy. “I’m going to look online when I get home.”
Amy spelled it. “It’s from the late ‘20s,” she explained. “From Consolidated Glass.” Then she laughed. “Rose is going to look up my online auctions next week and just about wet her pants. She’ll know my new listings are from this auction and that she missed the boat.”
After that, it was all over but the packing and hauling. My two boxes of paperbacks were quickly stowed, and I helped Julia wrap and haul out her finds. Walking through the parking area, I saw that Rose had managed to put Gene to good use; he was hauling boxes out to her car and she was bending his ear about something. I was glad to see that she’d finally allowed Paco out of her purse; he was frisking along beside her on a little flex leash. Bob drove up in his pickup, showing off his haul like a conquering hero displaying booty. I didn’t know enough about power tools to be suitably impressed, but I tried to fake it.
Amy stopped by the Expedition on her way out, and offered to get together for an eBuy tutorial. “I’d like that!” I told her sincerely, and she promised to call and set up a time.
TWO
My welcome home varied according to species. Enormous galloping mixed-breed Polly, representing canines, greeted me with a delirious display of welcome and relief. So long had I been gone, she had obviously given me up for dead and was thrilled beyond measure to learn she had been mistaken. Tough Stuff was our adopted stray tuxedo-cat, his greeting was feline and blasé. “Oh. It’s you,” he might have been saying.
And Jack, representing humanity, and male humanity and husbands in particular, asked, “You were gone all day for two boxes of old paperbacks?!”
“I went for the experience,” I told him loftily. “And I learned an amazing amount and will soon learn more, and it might even prove profitable.”
I looked around the kitchen for a few minutes and then suggested, “Call out for pizza?”
Home delivery of prepared food was a new experience in Queen Anne County, and something I missed from our more urban lives pre-retirement. Just several months ago, a chain pizza place opened up locally and was doing land office business.
Jack agreed and we negotiated on toppings. “Medium or large?” I asked.
“Just a second,” Jack answered, and leaned out the back door to hollar. “Hey, Craig, we’re getting pizza – you want some?” After a moment, he withdrew back into the kitchen and said, “Get a large, Craig’s joining us.”
Craig came into the kitchen while I was on the phone placing our order. Craig was a slow-moving man of few words. The slow moving was a legacy of Viet Nam, shrapnel in one hip and a badly repaired knee. The lack of conversation appeared to be innate to his personality.
Several years ago, a con man tried to convince me that Craig was really my late first husband. Craig had nothing to do with the con, or with the murder of the con man, and wound up with us, living in an old trailer and helping Jack in the vineyard. Friends tell me I tend to collect strays and it’s hard to deny it with the evidence all around me.
“Afternoon, Craig,” I greeted him. “Look, I got you something.”
I set one of the boxes of paperbacks on the table. “I thought you might not have some of these,” I told him. “Looks like they’re mainly Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour. You can sort out the ones you want, and I’ll take the rejects to the thrift.”
“Thanks,” Craig said.
I set the table around the menfolk, who had already taken seats. Jack poured from a bottle of the Cabernet. The pizza arrived and we dived in.
I asked about the harvest, how was their day, and so on. It was perfunctory, and so was the response. I knew all about the harvest; I’d been in the thick of it up till today.
Then I told them about my day and what I’d learned about selling on-line. “Amy says that those old tablecloths Mom gave me are worth money,” I told them.
“No way,” Jack mumbled around a crust.
“Way,” I assured him. “Turns out the stuff we thought was old-fashioned and ugly when we were just starting out is now collectible. Amy called it ‘mid-century modern’, and says it’s all the rage now.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Jack said.
“Well, I’m going to check it out.” I told him. “I’m going to go online this evening and look up eBuy. Amy doesn’t even have a job since the hardware store closed; she’s working full time finding things to sell on-line. She bought this box of vases and glassware for eight dollars and says they’re worth hundreds. I thought they were hideous.”
“Huh,” was Craig’s contribution.
“Amy’s going to come over sometime and give me and Julia an eBuy lesson. If those tablecloths are worth money, who knows what else we’ve got around here that someone might want to buy?”
Jack shook his head. “If it’s got to do with computers, you’ll be all over it. But if it gets some of the old junk out of here, I’m all for it.”
“The auction was really interesting, too,” I told them. “I saw a lot of people we know. The estate was Luther Dawson’s grandmother; she’s moved into some elderly community where she’s learning to golf. Buddy Haines was battling Bob over the power tools and losing, and Gene Abernathy was there, gripping and grinning for votes. Oh, and there was this woman there who’d retired from the county government; she�
�s eBuying now too and is Amy’s big rival. Rose Somebody. And she had this obnoxious little chihuahua in her purse!”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Not Rose Jackson!”
“Jackson, that’s right. What, you know her?”
“Sure, don’t you remember when we were buying this place and all the forms and certifications and agricultural regulations? And I was trying to do most of it long distance or on weekends? I’ll never forget Rose, what a thorny woman.”
Actually, I didn’t remember all that much about it. When we bought the vineyard, it wasn’t a vineyard yet, it was an old rundown farm that was destined to be our summer and vacation place. Both Jack and I had full time jobs with the federal government, before I moved into contract tech writing, and our lives were at a very different pace back then. Especially with three kids still in elementary school.
The country place was Jack’s idea, and I was frankly humoring him. I thought it was a phase he was going through. I figured we’d spend some time out here for a few summers and then Jack would get tired of it and we’d sell it, for a small profit or loss. I’d lived in cities my whole life and didn’t understand why some people got so misty-eyed about country living. Now if Jack suggested we move back to the city, I’d have him committed for observation. But at the time the purchase was taking place, I had other things on my mind.
“I remember you griping a lot,” I admitted, “but I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. I figured any real estate purchase involves a lot of red tape.”
“Oh, I’m sure they do,” Jack said. “But there are ways to handle red tape and some people can be helpful. And others can be picky, officious, and snotty know-it-alls.”
Jack is such an easy-going man usually. “Wow, she sure made an impression on you,” I said.
“And then later, when we took the winery commercial,” Jack remembered. “No, I’ll never forget Rose. So she retired?”
“So I’m told. And she’s going to the estate sales and selling on-line, so if she can do it, surely I can.”
