When I was a boy, my Dad would take me to work with him on Saturdays. He worked for a construction company, and many Saturdays were spent at the "shop", the offices, repair shops, and storage area for the construction company.
The storage yard was filled with old trucks of every description, as well as old transport trailers, an old city bus, sheds and shacks holding everything from broken hand shovels to the carpenters shop. This was my Saturday playground.
The old trucks were my favourite. I spent many an hour "driving" pick-up trucks from the 1940's and 50's (no tires or rims) just a steering wheel, gear shift and a seat. What more did I need? Even better were the retired dump trucks. Just climb in and the world was waiting out your window. I carried an important load of dirt, and let no one stand in my way! I did not like or want to play in the new trucks. They held no interest for me. They had no character. (Of course if I had one now...)
The sheds and shacks held many neat items, and searching them was a great way to spend a rainy afternoon. Often I would run to get my Dad to show him my latest find. He would always patiently tell me what it was, how it was used, and that no I could not take it home with me.
At home, my two favourite days (other than Christmas and my Birthday) were the spring and fall "special" garbage days. On these days households were allowed to throw out anything. Normal garbage days were reserved for things like table scraps and tin cans. (This was long before the days of recycling!) On the special garbage days, everything could be thrown out and was. I became the great treasure hunter looking that mythic X that marked the treasure. Radios were a favourite, as were books, record players, furniture and bits of this and that. Anything really, that would fit in my wagon ended up coming home with me. It was junk, but it was interesting junk. It might be fixable. It might work.
Most often these things ended up at the end of our driveway that same day, or in the fall.
But I believe that the longing was awakened in those days. And the passion. The desire to hold and admire old things, to be a part of their story and to pass them on so that their story could go on.
How lucky I am now nearly fifty years later to be able to recognize that this is what I should be doing - buying and selling old and vintage things.
It took a long way around to get here. It's not a living yet.
But it will be, it will be, because the passion is in the bone.
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