momzonroof

… she's not coming down 'til it all makes sense again…

Collecting Names at the Farm Auction

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Hangin out yesterday with Dad at the farm auction… Was supposed to be gorgeous and sunny, turned out windy and cloudy and warm, with enough little drizzly rain to make for a challenge, keeping the gorgeous antique table I took to sell dry until the auctioneer could reach it… I was the last person to pull up and unload, and so, yay, my stuff was the last to get sold, praying for the clouds to hold, just hold…drizzle drizzle drizzle… The auctioneer finally made it down the row around 6pm, and I made out pretty well, mostly due to my Lincoln Logs, a rocking horse, and that table…

Dad and I had the traditional hot sausage sandwiches and fresh cut fries, sat at a picnic table between the vendor’s trailer and the crappy little creek that runs through the place. Kids were playing in the creek, piling rocks across in an attempt to build a little kid type creek bridge…well.. you know how a creek can be kinda picturesque and gurgling and babbling and rocky and quaint and trundling along through the trees and make you wanna build a little boat of sticks with a leaf for a sail and an acorn for a captain? This creek AIN’T THAT.  Instead, it trundles through a giant 70 acre flea market field, with 14 porto-johns upstream, and where some amazing humans roam, ohhhhh, the people watching at Roger’s farm auction… Oh the amount of hawkerin’ and spittin’, and chewin’ and chawin’ at Roger’s farm auction… oh the miles and miles of exposed, unwashed, hairy, sun-scorched weather wizened beer guts… I’ don’t mean to generalize, there are clean, lovely people there, but they are mostly the auctioneers. I should talk,  I went with 3rd-day unwashed hair, flat,brown, and stringy… But my clothes were clean. And I had clothes on most of my body. I had the proper number of clothing items.

Dad’s hand is all bummed up, he was in a lot of pain and tried to keep it elevated. He cut his middle finger, left hand, and banged up the other fingers in an unfortunate encounter with a home-made table saw.. He says he picked it up at a sale, it was a really neat little table, with a circular saw inverted and mounted beneath it! (Dad owns approximately 14,000 REAL store-bought, name-brand table saws, but he had to have this jerry-rigged outfit, onaccounta the table was, in his words “really a neat little table”)  So he says his good table saws had a bunch of crap piled on them,  (AHEM…sound familiar?) so he decided to use this little one to cut a few boards, real quick. He doesn’t know how it happened, but suddenly,ZINGO, he’s hurt, he says he must’ve jumped up and down and run about for 10 minutes from the white blinding deafening pain, before he finally staggered towards the house and knocked on the window for my mom… She’s used to it by now, sometimes he’s standing, sometimes he’s crawling, sometimes he’s laying on the porch reaching up, doesn’t matter, she knows the knock.. It must’ve been awful, because Dad actually consented to go to urgent-care. Who promptly sent him on his way to the actual hospital for stitches. Dad also said he had had a “preemonition” that he was gonna get hurt on that saw, he says premonition with a long e, he said he felt like something was gonna happen while he was setting up the “saw”, he said he did use another board to guide through with his right hand, and then KABOINGO, out of the blue his left hand decides to join in? Weird.Maybe he reached for the little scrappie waste piece or something…  Ohhhhhh I just remembered, he said the saw was set to always be TURNED ON when it’s plugged in, no shut off!! Yeah, that would exponentially increase the danger factor by about a million! Pretty sure that wasn’t a preemonition he had, pretty sure that was his Common Sense talking to him…

But we’re sitting at the table, enjoying the sewer creek, and the sights, and the hotcha sausage… and he sees an old friend from the plant, Gene, we’ll call him Gene Henry, for that is his name. Gene sits for a spell and they talk about Dad’s stitches, and other injury stories. Dad’s got a lot of ’em. Gene says he should write them all down. The nice lady who’s also sitting at table with us, eating her steak hoagie, she’s listening to Dad’s stories, and she says to me, jeesh, he sure does have a lot of things happen to him!! Dad asks Gene, hey, have you run into Dick? They have a mutual former coworker, whose given name is Richard. His last name is Seaman. Dick Seaman. And so I said, WUH? SERIOUSLY?!! I went to school with a “Richard Head,” but this one tops even that. So we had some laughs at Dick’s expense, I’m sure he’s used to it by now, he’s probably in his 70’s too…

Sometimes my dad wanders away to check out another auctioneer (they have 5 or 6 going at once, up the rows), and so I might lose him for a while, in a sea of dad-lookin-like dudes… they have a uniform, I think, these retired auto workers, they stand out from the unwashed crowd, fly their own colors, with the gray hair and glasses, ball cap front-ways and straight, brim bent to some custom curve, neat jeans, always belted, tucked in t-shirt, keys going jingle jangle, if there’s a jacket it’ll be camo or carhart… Sometimes it can be hard to find my own Dad. I want to tie a balloon to his beltloop, is what I want to do. Or give him a hot pink ball cap. I don’t much worry these days though, about losing him there… I just mill around and eventually we meet up again. But it sure would be amusing to see a balloon bobbin’ along in the crowd, and know right where he’s at!

Dad sees another dude, this one in a motorized scooter, and he says hey I gotta talk to this guy, it’s the Tire Guy! Dad brought his two new tires to the sale, in the hopes that he’d run into the Tire Guy, onaccounta he’s all bummed up and can’t mount his own tires this month… So he asks the dude, hey, who do you have to mount tires, anyone close by? And the dude says, “yeah, you go up this here road a piece, you’ll come to a dip, bear right, you go one up to the white fence, run along it for a bit till you come to a ditch where a tree and rock and a stick meet, or something… anyways, there’s a guy sits up there, you’ll know him when you see him, he’s got the WORST NAME IN THE WORLD,  i’ll warn ya… ”  He’s chuckling merrily in his little scooter thing when he gets to this part, and he’s eyein’ me up, wonderin’ if he should say this terrible name in front of me… I must’ve measured up okay, because he says “His name is (wait for it….)

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His name is…

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Harry.

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That’s his first name. His last name is

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Beavers. Harry Beavers. And then the Tire Dude busts up, Dad and I roar back on our feet, Harry Beavers?! Seriously?? So I say, DAD, you gotta tell him about your friend DICK!!! And did we have some laughs, now at Harry Beavers’ expense.

And so we go on, collecting injuries, and stories, and very some inneresting names…

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. edited to include some dadisms Amanda reminded me of:  Dad likes to say “I have a two-stall garage and a six-stall two-story barn, and I got no place to park a car!” and then he says about his packed-full barn, he says, “You can’t throw a nickel in there, it spits out 2 cents change!”

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2 thoughts on “Collecting Names at the Farm Auction

  1. Your Dad has some great stories. When I was a kid, one neighbor name was Harry……BUTTS!!!!! Yes it was!

  2. I always love the dad stories. And I want a sausage sandwich now.

And what about Naomi?

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