About shadflyguy

Owner/ operator of Shadfly Antiques.

Born to be Wild – Friday 13th in Pt. Dover

Posted on May 13, 2016 by shadflyguy

I was going to write on another subject, but here it is 3 p.m. in Port Dover, Ontario on a sometimes sunny, sometimes raining Friday the 13^th of May, 2016, and there are over 100,000 bikers in town. The air is a rich mixture of gasoline fumes, rock and roll, and Harley grunts, and well, it’s damn near impossible to think about anything else.

I don’t own a motorcycle. Have never had any inclination even to ride one, other than dirt bike fun as a kid, but I can see that it is a great pleasure for those who are so inclined. After living here for 13 years we have experienced a half dozen or so of these events. The other times we would just get out of Dodge, but occasionally we have friends who want to experience it, or we just don’t feel like clearing out, so we stay put. The experience is always much the same. The crowd has gotten bigger each year and the management of said crowd has gotten smoother, but basically it’s the same routine. A few hundred come in on Thursday and keep the Norfolk Hotel (our neighbor) hoppin’ until about 2 a.m. It was a little earlier last night because a thunderstorm arrived about 1 am and drove everyone to their tents or hotel rooms. This morning starting about 8:30 am the police direct the throngs that arrive, up St Andrew Street past our house, through town until they hit Chapman Street where they go left past the Main Street which is reserved for walking traffic, to St. George Street, where they descend back down to Harbor St. Here, they hang a left and head out the way they came in. During this procedure most stop and park somewhere along the way, buy a coffee and doughnut, or later a beer and pulled pork sandwich, buy the t-shirt and perhaps some dope paraphernalia or leather goods. They walk around checking out each others bikes and outfits, and then about now 80% of them get back on their bikes and go home. Some will stay over and rock the night away, but by noon tomorrow there will just be a handful of bikes, things will be cleaned up, and you will have trouble finding evidence that anything out of the ordinary has occurred.

Other than a chance to see bikes and chat with those with similar interests Friday the 13^th is fundamentally a fashion parade. It strikes me that in spite of the bad ass, counterculture persona of the bike culture, the end result is that everyone dresses in some version of the same components; black t-shirts and jeans, black leather everything, spooky jewelry that would not be out of place at a Mexican day of the dead celebration, and other death and rock imagery which when put together has the effect of making everyone look like they are members of the same tribe. What’s with that? I suppose there is comfort in those numbers.

Thong man prepares

And I would like to state that although I don’t “get it”, I ’m not judging or putting anyone down. It’s good for the economy of our little town and I have no problem with people having fun. Enjoy yourselves and live the dream. I recognize it’s the restrictions of my perspective that excludes this as really good fun. In spite of trying, I just can’t find anything to be interested in. Admittedly some of the bikes are interesting as sculptural form, and some of the people very photogenic, but it only goes so far when balanced against the discomfort of being in a dense crowd, listening to bad cover versions of songs you were quite happy to leave in the 70’s, and waiting forever in line to overpay for a greasy pulled pork sandwich.

thong man poses

There’s a guy who has become a genuine Friday 13^th celebrity which best illustrates the cultural depth of the pond in which we are swimming. He comes to every one of these and for some reason has chosen the boulevard beside our house in which to change wardrobe three or four times over the day. Meet “thong man”. Pleasant enough fellow who seems delighted to show us his aged bum in a variety of thong based costumes. Today he had a Police officer based costume with police badge patch covering his genitals, and fuzzy pink handcuffs. Then he changed into a pink bunny outfit with white pompom tail; then it was a fluorescent green number which may have had something to do with leprechauns. As you watch, older and younger women approach to have their picture taken with this star. Quite often, with their full acceptance and encouragement he is photographed grabbing the subjects breast and looking lecherous. Boyfriend or husband nearby, grinning behind their cell phone as they click for posterity. Thong man’s wife looking bored and disinterested, wondering when he will have had enough and they can just go home. And so it goes.

Ahh, I hear that the rock and roll has started again. Time to go and get myself a greasy pulled pork sandwich. Happy Friday the 13^th from Port Dover.

The Toronto Harbourfront Market in its Heyday

Posted on May 6, 2016 by shadflyguy

Our Harbourfront offerings circa 1983

Every Sunday morning from the early 80’s to the late 90’s, the alarm would go off at our house at 4 a.m. The truck would be packed and the load tied down the day before, the lunch would be made and ready in the fridge, and our cloths would be set out. We would hop out of bed, get dressed, grab a coffee and get underway. An hour and a half later we would be pulling in to the Toronto Harbourfront Market, ready for another day of buying and selling. Rain or shine, we would make the journey, full of hope that the furniture and small items that we were offering would meet the approval of someone there.

When we started in the early 80’s the market would be held on about an acre of parkland near the terminal building, with the 100 or so vendors being set up in parking lots and green spaces right alongside the water. In the winter we would go across the road and inside an old one story warehouse. These were the glory days. It’s hard to imagine now just how “hot” the market was. The boomers in general had done well enough that their Toronto houses were paid for and they were madly buying up all the charming little farms and cottages within about a three-hour drive of Toronto. These rural places demanded antiques of course, being sympathetic to the rural environment, and a refreshing contrast to the city digs.

A loaded truck ready to go.

So in these days there was a large number of motivated collectors and dealers arriving about 6 a.m. vying to pick the best of what was being offered as it arrived. It was a thrill to arrive in our open pick-up truck, and have people run along beside us, racing up to the window to ask the price of the pieces they could see tied to the load. Often they would just say “yes, I’ll take it” even before it was unloaded, because they knew the competition was right behind them. It would happen occasionally that by the time we arrived at our spot, most of the furniture which could be seen was sold. Sometimes we had completely sold out by noon, but would still have to stay until five as to not create a disruption. We had our regular dealers whom we got to know would buy certain items without hesitation if the price was reasonable. You had to pay close attention. Sometimes two or three dealers would be right there as a piece was coming off and you had to be very conscious of who asked about the piece first, and who was next in line. It was easy with two people selling, under this kind of pressure to even sell the same piece to two different people. Tempers would flare. It was not always easy to sort out, and have everyone be happy with the results. It didn’t happen often, but it was difficult to avoid altogether.

Then by the mid-nineties, the Harbourfront development had other plans for the summertime parkland, and the wintertime warehouse, and so they built a brand new market at 390 Queen’s Quay W. As so often is the case, these new quarters under new management meant higher rents and lower sales. It continued to deteriorate until it was not profitable for us by the late nineties, and it eventually closed in early 2003.

Our friend, and avid collector Rod Brook used to say that he wanted to produce a book which presented exclusively all the incredible pieces that had been bought by collectors at the Harbourfront market during those glory years. Sadly, he died before he could accomplish this, but I’ll bet if someone took up the cause it would be an amazing document. For a while there it felt like it would never end, but then like everything else in life, it did.

loading the truck for another Harbourfront Sunday.

Meeting Aime Demeules , folk artist from St. Paul-de-la-Croix, Quebec

Posted on April 29, 2016 by shadflyguy

Speckled horse by Aime Desmeules

In an earlier post I recall our meeting Felicien Levesque in the early nineties while touring the Bas -St. -Laurent region of Quebec. Well, the very next day we rose early and made the half hour drive From Cacouna to St Paul de-la-Croix, knowing it was the hometown of the well-know carver Aime Desmeules. We had been buying his animals for years from Victoriaville picker Marcel Gosselin, and we had always wanted to meet him. It was not hard to get directions to his house in this small town of 367 people, and we were soon pulling in to the driveway of a neatly kept, small ranch style home.

moose by Aime Desmeules

Jeanine and I rang the bell, and were soon greeted by a puzzled looking older lady we took to be his wife. We explained that we had come from Ontario and being big fans of Mr Desmeule’s work, we had made the trek to their home with the hopes of meeting him. “Oh no, that will not be possible. He doesn’t like to meet new people, and he has no work for sale in any case. No, I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.”Just as she was about to slam the door in our faces, Jeanine added sweetly, “Well we don’t mind if there is no work for sale, but please we have come a long way and we would be very grateful just to have the opportunity to make his acquaintance.” She looked us up and down. Long pause. “Very well, he’s not here right now as he is fetching wood, but I suppose if you come back in an hour he may be willing to talk to you.” Whew, nice work Jeanine. “Great, thanks, we’ll be back.” So we went into town and had a delicious big breakfast, and lingered over our coffee to fill in the time.

Aime and his wife Marie-Jeanne at their home in 1993

One hour later we were greeted at the door by Aime. Surprisingly, he was as friendly as can be, and invited us in to his work shop which was fairly full of finished carvings. “Pardon us for saying, but your wife gave us the impression that you had no work for sale, so I suppose these pieces are commissioned.” He Laughed. “No these pieces are for sale, it’s just that when you arrived unexpectedly with your accents, she was worried that you may be from the tax department.” I was starting to think that this would be the standard greeting we could expect arriving unannounced at Quebec carver’s homes, and upon reflection, I understand where they are coming from.

The next hour was pleasantly filled by Aime telling us the story of how he was 64 years old before he took up carving and at that time he was taught by his father to create the various animals in his father’s repertoire to be precisely like his father’s work. It was only after his father’s death in 1986 at 95 years of age that Aime developed a few new animals of his own, along with some pieces depicting people such as the blacksmith shown here.

“Blacksmith” by Aime Desmeules

Mrs. Demeules joined us after awhile and expressed that she was sorry for the rude greeting, but that she could see now that we were truly fans and not inspectors, and she was happy that we came. We bought a lot of his work, about twenty pieces or so, and we spent a pleasant morning getting to know each other, before loading up and heading out of town.

What I find interesting about Aime, is how he was content, to the point of taking pride in creating exact copies of his father’s work. He even signed the pieces with a stylized “A” “D” with the “A” looking very much like a “G” as his father had signed. It is quite difficult to distinguish the father’s work from the son’s, and you are pretty much dependent on patina and provenance. My understanding is that George quit working in the early 70’s, but then Aime only lived on until 1997.

Aime’s signature on cat

f you consider other carving families, such as Damase Richard and his son Wilfred; although there is a similarity to their work, when you study them closely you can see quite a few differences which make them easy to distinguish. When considering father and son carvers, Aime and George’s bond seems unique.

“brown Cow” by Aime Desmeules

Finding Fournier – how we met the acclaimed Quebec folk artist, Leo Fournier

Posted on April 22, 2016 by shadflyguy

Leo and Jeanette Fournier at home

Leo Fournier has always been one of our all time, favorite folk artist for his whimsy, elegance and balance. Leo’s sculptures cover a wide range of subjects from the religious to the erotic, as well as animals and everyday life scenes. The work is composed mostly of figures and animals in various forms of shared or confrontational activities. .

pig, by Leo Fournier

He had a keen eye for detail, a great sense of fun and a love of life. You can recognize a Fournier from across the room, and we would purchase the work when we came across it, in picker’s barns, shows, or auction. It was always our desire to find and meet Leo, but of course the pickers were not anxious to have us contact him directly so would not provide information, and his address was not listed in the reference books. All we had to go on was that he lived in the town of La Prarie (pop 23,000), on the south side of the St. Lawrence River, across from Montreal.

last supper, by Leo Fournier

Sometimes our trips to Quebec were straight there and back affairs, but on other occasions we would take a few days to meander and explore, and it was on one such occasion in the early nineties that we found ourselves in La Prarie late in the afternoon with some time to kill before we hit one of our favored road side motels. I pulled up to a phone booth, and said to Jeanine “let’s see if we can find Leo Fournier in the book. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Our hearts sank a little when we realized there were over thirty Fourniers listed in town and only one L. Fournier. Of course we tried this number first and it was not Leo, and furthermore they did not know of him, but we were not so easily discouraged and just started with the first listing and kept dialing. Jeanine was getting a little tired after about a dozen dead ends, with not everyone being delighted to participate in our little search, but she persevered, and low and behold after about another six calls she spoke to someone who was a relative, and she was happy to provide his number. “Well that was sort of easy.” I quipped. “O.K. well not that easy, and yes it was you doing all the calling”. In any case we dialed him up directly. and spoke to his wife Jeanette who said he was out momentarily but would be home soon, and he would be happy to meet us. She gave us good directions to their house which we soon found on a quiet little street right across from a Depanneur , or variety store.

Old man fantasy by Leo Fournier

Leo met us at the door and warmly invited us in to the sunporch, where he liked to entertain visitors. Leo was a very charismatic storyteller, and he launched right into some great stories while sit ting in his rocking chair sipping on a big can of Molson Export. “ I like my beer but I only buy them one at a time. That’s why I’m happy there is a depanneur right across the street” he laughed.” I noticed there were four empty cans next to his chair, but then again it was getting on in the day. Jeanette arrived directly with some coffee for us and we spent a very pleasant hour or so listening to his stories. He was a retired auto body man of good reputation, and was involved in the scrap business. He told us about and showed us his first carving which was a crucifix done in 1967 when he was 43 yrs. old. Since that time until his death in 2007 he continued to be a prolific carver, selling to friends and the occasional picker, Nettie Sharpe among others who would come by to see what he had been up to.. He was aware that his work was included in books and exhibits, but he never felt he was really appreciated until sometime in the nineties when the Quebec government commissioned him to produce a series of about a dozen sculptures on food production.(See the butcher with hog’s head below) With this big pay cheque he chose to go to Leningrad on his own where he spent two weeks at the Hermitage studying the art there, rather than fix the roof on the house which was what the rest of the family was pushing for. Leo was that kind of guy. He lived his life the way he wanted to and never thought twice about convention. We bought the six or seven pieces he had available that day and his house became a favorite stop on subsequent trips. We always took the time to stop and listen to his stories. According to his pal Andre Laport who phoned to tell us of his death in 2007 “he lived his life just the way he wanted to right to the end, with no lingering illness, and a beer in his hand”. Like so many others who knew him, we really miss him , and his infectious spirit. One of the greats.

one of the works commissioned by the Quebec government

“Your Cat is on Fire” – adventures with Albert

Posted on April 15, 2016 by shadflyguy

Our adjoining shed workshops

We were just on the phone with our daughter Cassandra, and she reminded me it’s Friday. Somehow with the jet lag I was thinking it’s still Thursday. It always takes me a couple of days to get back in to swing of things. So as not to tax my tired brain too much, rather than going into something more serious, I turn to a little tale of barely averted disaster from back in the days when we lived and worked at the old church in Wyecombe Ontario. Back in the days when we were called Old Church Trading.

Albert

This story involves our faithful, for the past thirty years, assistant Albert. Albert is a wonderful guy. We continue to be good friends. He is actually more a member of the family at this point, and at 70 years old he is still happy as a clam to come over from time to time to help us with the garden or whatever, and he can still out work a man half his age. We met him early on after moving to the church when we bought some children’s yard chairs that he was making and selling from his trailer home in nearby Courtland. During the conversation over the chair purchase he became aware that we had lots of work to do on the property and asked if we would be interested in hiring him. He seemed like a nice fellow and his price was right so we said “sure let’s give it a try.’ Well Albert turned out to be a real blessing. He would come on time very morning and work hard with enthusiasm and dedication, without ever a complaint. I have always been more likely to say to Albert to slow down and take it a little easy, rather than to hurry up and get on with it. Salt of the earth kind of guy. We soon noticed that he never brought or ate a lunch, and so asked him why, and expressed our concern as to his well being. He said, “oh I eat a good breakfast and then have dinner when I get home so it’s o.k. That’s when Albert started having lunch with us. Albert we came to find out, was a ward of the court and had never learned to read or write. He had lived almost as a slave on a nearby farm until he was 18 and legally able to leave. I will not denigrate him by suggesting that he is unintelligent because in spite of his lack of education he is very creative in finding ways to do things his own way, and very capable at many things. Let’s just say that he is an original thinker, and because he is always working so hard to please, everything is great as long as you don’t leave him too long unattended, because sometimes he is a bit overzealous. So understanding this, we come to our story.

It was an unusually hot, and windy spring morning, and I had spent it working indoors, while Albert on instruction raked up the leaves and limbs that had fallen on the yard over the winter. At noon Jeanine had prepared some delicious soup and so we called Albert in for lunch. As usual we had enjoyed our lunch together and conversation and was just finishing a cup of coffee when there came a frantic knock on the door. We opened it to find a local farmer shouting “your cats on fire, your cat’s on fire”. We looked across the room and saw our cat Elvis sleeping there so we were puzzled to say the least. “He’s o.k. he’s right over there.” We had misunderstood. “Oh, our shack is on fire” What the…?

We ran out and indeed one of our three little out buildings was indeed engulfed in flames along one wall. It didn’t take long to realize that Albert had piled up the refuse at the edge of the property, and had taken the initiative to light it. Then when called him he had then come in for lunch, assuming I guess that it would be fine. Well the wind had picked up and it wasn’t fine. The fire had run along the dry weeds and caught under the edge of the little building. The dry hot wind had fanned it, and it was already burning pretty convincingly all along the wood siding. Yikes! Crap. Albert get out the hose and shovels and get over here pronto. Albert is pretty darn fast when he needs to be so within seconds he was back and we were throwing dirt on the fire and spraying the side of the building with all the water that our little well pump could muster. It didn’t take a minute to realize it was a losing battle so Jeanine ran in and phoned the fire department. Albert and I continued to fight the blaze as best we could but it had now jumped on to the pile of one hundred year old pine barn planks which we had stacked neatly with two inch spacers in between so they would not rot. Well let me tell you, when that hot dry wind blew the flames across that dry stacked wood, whoosh, up she went like a match shooting flames into the sky. Holy Crap! Our main effort at this point was to just stop the flames from reaching our two adjoined work shop buildings which were a mere three feet away. All we could do was to spray the walls to try to keep it from igniting. Of course the work shop was full of valuable antiques and combustible chemicals, and also was just a few feet away from the church so things were beginning to look pretty bad. Just when it seemed hopeless the entire Langton volunteer fire department arrived with both their trucks because they had understood from Jeanine’s frantic call that the whole church was on fire. They got out one of their big hoses and within five minutes extinguished the burning pile of boards and the burning shack, and left us with a cautionary note and a bill for $175. Whew, thanks fellows for coming out so quickly and getting this situation back in control. I lost my two big pile of pine boards and we had to restore one side of our little shack but we were so grateful that things had not been worse that we just took a moment to thank our lucky stars and the brave men who volunteer to fight fires. Albert, of course felt bad enough as it was without reprimanding him further, so we just got on with cleaning up the mess. However, we all learned a valuable lesson that day.

Let’s visit a French antique market

Posted on April 8, 2016 by shadflyguy

FullSizeRender (2) The first Sunday of every month, there is an antique market in the town of Soumoulou, 10 km from the city of Pau in the South West of France. It goes from 8 am until 6 pm, and on average has about 100 dealers in attendance. Twice a year, in the spring and fall they have a large show which brings in about another 100 dealers. In this it is roughly equivalent to the Aberfoyle antique market held near Guelph, Ontario. Because my wife Jeanine is from this area, we have been visiting this market from time to time over the past thirty years, and like Aberfoyle we have seen changes. Primarily, a rise in interest and prices until about 2008, followed by a precipitous fall. There is still good attendance and sales taking place, but the packages being carried are smaller and fewer in number.
Still, it is a wonderful way for a person of my persuasion to spend a morning and so it was with great excitement that I woke, had breakfast, and got everyone underway, determined to get first dibs on anything special that may arrive. You’ve got to be on your toes. I remember a few years back being very disappointed missing out on a 100 years old terra cotta bust of an aristocratic French gentleman because I was still trying to figure out the exchange while a more astute dealer stepped in and bought it. Another time I almost cried because I was a few seconds behind a man from Provence in committing to what remains in my mind the most beautiful wrought iron butterfly panel which had graced the entrance of an old restaurant. IN A GADDA DA VIDA baby, indeed.

Pictured here are confit pots. They are a local redware which are glazed on the inside, and part way down the outside. They were used to preserve cooked duck in goose fat before the days of refrigeration. As long as the pieces did not touch each other they would keep for about three years like this, getting more tasty all the while. To my mind Duck confit is one of the most delicious things you will encounter on this earth. Be sure to try it, if you get the opportunity. Today, these beautiful pots are used mostly as patio pots. At one point about twenty years ago you would do well to find one available because they enjoyed such popularity in the States that all of them seemed to end up there. These were offered from 45 to 65 Euros. Hard to transport or I would have been tempted. For the scores of them that we have carted back over the years , we have kept only a few for ourselves.

FullSizeRender (4)

These little birch-bark storage boxes were very tempting ranging from 35 to 45 Euros each. The dealer said he bought them in Biarritz, and thought them to be local, but I was uncertain as I have never seen other examples here. Lovely patina and in excellent condition. Looking at the picture I wish I had bought them. I find I never regret the things I buy, only the things I pass on.

FullSizeRender (5) I have brought back several of these wine bottle drying racks over the years. People made and bottled their own wine here so the bottles would be cleaned out and dried to be reused.

I love the exchanges here between dealers and potential customers. It’s a more in your face, and no bars held. I overheard a woman who was negotiating the purchase of a vase say, “what, did you wake up in the middle of the night after dreaming that price”. The dealer laughed and a deal was made. We had a wonderful morning looking at everything. Most of it very different than the things offered at home, and we managed to find a half a dozen things that we could fit in out suitcases and bring back as gifts. There’s nothing I enjoy more that an antique market on a crisp spring morning. You never know what you will find.

Opening doors – a view from France

Posted on April 1, 2016 by shadflyguy

the village of Amou

Now, after three weeks in this little town of Amou, in the south west of France, I can offer that my perspective on antiquity has changed, and developed by being here; and I find it invigorating. So much of this place remains essentially the same as it has been for a hundred years, and more. Old here is medieval, not circa 1900. Taking daily walks around town, you absorb the subtleties of age. You notice the details, and you feel that minus the cars, things might look much the same as they were in your grandfather’s time, or even his grandfather’s time. People just don’t change things unless they need to. A different perspective.

door to a shop which sold horse meat

I would offer that this is a good argument for travelling to one place and staying put for awhile, as opposed to the way we travel these days which is the seven cities in seven day’s concept. Take a selfie in front of the Arc de Triumph, and move on to Brittany. Tomorrow we will be in Vienna. For example, you will see people in the Louvre walk by a monumental 18th century painting of a shipwreck; stop, take a shot on their I-phone and move on to the next. It seems the concept is just to document that you were there. What’s the point? Stop and smell the roses.

17th cent. door in Amou

There are many opportunities to buy antiques in France. Now in spring “Vide-greniers” or “Empty the Attics” occur at the weekends in several small towns and cities. If you go on-line and google “Vide-Greniers – les Landes” which is the name of this region, you will get a list of what’s happening around here. These are typically on a Sunday, and everybody participates, much like the town yard sales at home. There’s a lot of junk, but you can also find some real treasures if you are there early enough. Bigger cities often have a weekly “Marche d’antiquites”. We have found fantastic things by arriving about 6 am Thursday morning in nearby Bayonne . Again get there early or forget about it. By noon the bottles of wine and lunches are spread on the tables, and then it’s pack up and go home. Again you can find them listed on the internet. “Depot-Ventes are the French equivalent of consignment shops. Hey were very popular a few years ago, but I notice there are less around these days. A” Brocante” is a shop which offers antiques and vintage items. A bit of everything or anything which is collectable. There are also “Shops de Antiquity” which offer only older and usually more upscale items. Last but not least you have the “Salle d’expositions” which are the French equivalent of our Antique shows. Held either indoors in a hall, or outdoors like the Christie show. There is one this weekend in nearby Somoulu which we plan to attend. I’ll give you a report next Friday.

Folk art arrives at the door – The Barbara Browne Collection

Posted on March 25, 2016 by shadflyguy

drawing by Liz Barrett-Milner

It was a sunny, August day in 1995, and we had just finished our lunch when there came a knock on the back door. We weren’t expecting anyone, and it was rare for anyone to visit without calling ahead. This, because we were so often on the road that our friends knew to give us the heads up before coming by. We opened to find a small elderly lady standing there with a big smile and a portfolio under her arm. “Are you the folks who buy folk art?” “Well yes, we have been known to do so. How can we help you?” “My name is Barbara Browne, and I live down the road in Port Rowan, and I have a collection of folk art which I would like to sell.” “Come right in and tell us about it.”

She explained that she was an artist who had collected Canadian folk art for the past twenty years, and she was about to buy a smaller house in Simcoe, and thus needed to downsize, and recoup her investment to help with the purchase. “What is the nature of your collection?” She reached into her portfolio and produced a twenty-page booklet of meticulously hand drawn illustrations of folk art with dimensions, which we later learned were produced for her by her niece, well-know Norfolk artist Liz Barrett-Milner. “It’s all in here. There are 185 pieces all told, and I am only interested in sell the whole thing. No picking and choosing.” There was some mind blowing stuff, including works by Nova Scotia artists Charlie Atkinson, Charlie Tanner, and Everett Lewis; as well as many Ontario artists such as Clarence Webster, Joe Lloyd, Steve Sutch, and Robert McCairns. Most pieces were smaller in nature, but there was also a big wall-mounted cow’s head, a couple of 8’ totem poles, a full size deer, and last but not least, the best folk art hooked rug I had ever set eyes on, depicting a fat man and dated 1916.

head by Robert McCairns

“We won’t beat around the bush. It’s all of interest, but of course it depends on your expectations” She then produced an itemized price list of what she felt would be current list prices. “I understand you need to make money, so this is what I think it is worth, and I would therefore expect half”. “In principle that sounds fair so let us go over it and get back to you.”

What followed was four or five meetings at her house where we viewed the items and discussed the prices. It became a bit complicated as each time we arrived we she had decided that there were a few more items that she felt she needed to keep, but it came to pass that we arrived at a final list and a final price, and so a date was set to complete the deal and pick up the pieces.

On that day, she informed us that she didn’t want to be there as we removed the pieces as it would be sad for her, so she wanted to go for a walk and return when we were finished. We weren’t at all comfortable with this, but agreed on the condition that we would line up the pieces outside by the truck, and she would review the load before we left, and that’s how we did it.

Barbara Browne and Cassandra by the truck

Barbara was an excellent artist in herself, and continued to be a friend and inspiration until her death several years later. The collection sold well, and the fat man rug was featured prominently in the John Fleming/ Michael Rowan book on Canadian folk art.

the fat man rug

Sometimes you just have to buy it – the birdcage

Posted on March 18, 2016 by shadflyguy

bcage2 Right up front, I must apologize for the quality of the photos. I loaded these from scans back at home and did not realize until now that there was a problem. I am here in France for a month without access to my original photos. I will correct this when I get home. For now, this will have to do.

Even from this lousy photo, I hope that you can see that this is a substantial birdcage. It stands about five feet tall, and is about three feet wide. It is in two pieces. It has carved hearts and diamonds, roof tiles and decorative trim. All precisely made by someone who really knew what they were doing, and really loved birds. There is even a little platform on the bottom which you assume was a place for the cat to sit to watch the birds. It is magnificent in it’s design and construction. Built in the 1940’s. A killer bird cage if ever there was one. Something I couldn’t imagine even existed until I saw it. So here’s the story.

My wife Jeanine is from the south west of France, and for years we would supplement our trips back and forth to visit her family by bringing over two very large suitcases full of fine linens which were easy to find in the Delhi area where we lived. This because the area was settled largely by Belgians, Germans, and Hungarians coming to grow tobacco. They brought a lot of beautiful stuff with them. You could pick it up at yard sales and auctions for next to nothing. Upon arrival in France we would go to a shop called “Au Bain Marie” near the stock market in Paris, and sell everything to them. They always gave us good money because they would get top dollar. It kind of blew our minds when we saw a very fine hand embroidered bed set of sheets and pillow cases for upwards of $1,000. We would then take the money from the sale, and buy items we knew would be popular at home. Mostly pottery, art, and forged iron items. This was before all the repros hit the market and ruined everything. Our two large suitcases would always pay for the trip and more. It was a good system.

We saw lots of larger items that we knew would be popular back home but refrained from buying them, due to the hassle of arranging transport. We would occasionally mail back a big box, but in general we stuck to things we could handle ourselves.

And so it came to pass that on one fateful trip we decided to take in one last antique show in the city of Bayonne the day before heading home. We had a little space left in a suitcase and thought that perhaps we would find a couple more smalls.

Upon entering the hall, my jaw dropped as I saw this thing at the end of an row. I couldn’t quite believe it was real. At least I was hoping it wasn’t because I knew that if it was, I was in trouble. My heart was already beating fast. Damn if it didn’t just keep looking better the closer we came. In spite of myself, it quickly became one of those, “I must buy it no matter what” moments. Jeanine loved it too but was quick to point out that as it was so fine, it would be almost impossible to get home without damage. I couldn’t accept this. After a lot of pleading and persuading I was able to convince her that it would be worth any trouble we would have to go through. The clincher was that we knew the dealer, and she said her husband would be able to make a box and arrange the transport. We laid down the money which was substantial, and left feeling both elated and terrified.

A couple of days later, after getting home we got the call that we feared, that they were “terribly sorry but she had spoken out of hand, and there was no way they would be responsible for shipping.” She offered to return our money, but we said no, keep it for us , and we will pack it and ship it ourselves on the next trip. bcage1

So it was six months later that I borrowed Jeanine’s cousin’s pick up and brought it to the house. My future son in law Anson was there with our daughter Cassandra and his engineering skills came in handy as we constructed the box that we hoped would bring it back in one piece. Surprisingly, because it was light, it didn’t cost all that much to have it flown over. We were full of apprehension as we arrived at the Toronto airport shipping warehouse, but there it was, looking just the same as when we had left it at the Biarritz airport in France. O.K. so we got it home. Now the question was is anybody going to pay the hefty price tag which we would have to put on it.

The Port Carling show was the next week so rather than wait months for Bowmanville we thought we would give it a try. Sure enough, on opening night some wealthy South Africans who had just bought a local cottage walked in, took one look, and said we’ll take it. No negotiation. They even bought a half dozen Wilfred Richard birds we had displayed in it in spite of the fact that they were about $600 each. Big sigh of relief. Sometimes when you stick your neck out things work out. Gratefully this was one of those times.

An old truck dies, a “new” truck is born

Posted on March 11, 2016 by shadflyguy

Loading the old Bell truck in Quebec

After our old Ford pick-up died I spotted the used Bell Telephone line truck pictured above and beside, at our local used car dealer. It was well maintained and had low mileage, and was equipped with dual wheels, 350 Chevy engine, solid rack above with ladder, and a directional spot light that I knew would come in handy when looking for house numbers while on delivery, . It had lousy seats, but I could replaced those. My dealer pal Ozzie gave me a good deal on it, and thus it became my second home. Back and forth, back and forth to Quebec. On the plus side it was easy to load, reliable, and reasonably comfortable with the Volvo seats I had found. On the negative side it was quite noisy, and my bagged lunches would sometimes freeze in Quebec in the winter, in spite of the heater being on full blast. I wore layers of long johns, and pants just to sustain. I was a lot younger then.

So back and forth, back and forth, for about five years until one day early in September, just before school was going to start I left solo for a three day trip to Quebec, planning to return the night before our daughter Cassandra’s first day of school. I believe that it was her last year, and I had managed to take a photo of her standing by the mailbox waiting for the bus every year since she had started Kindergarten. “See you Sunday night”, “Safe trip”.

Everything went well in Quebec. I bought a nice load, the weather was great, and it was a lovely Saturday morning as I started the ten hour trek home. Everything was going along tickity-boo, until suddenly just before Gananoque, Ontario the engine started to overheat. Damn. Not good, but at least I was able to get off soon and get into town where I pulled up in front of a rad shop. They said they could put in a new rad for $400, and have me on my way pronto. I was suspicious that I may have bigger problems than just an overheating rad, but they assured me that the old one was shot and the engine seemed fine otherwise. ‘Okay, go for it, I’ll grab some lunch and be back in an hour.” So a nice sandwich at a nearby cafe, and I return to find it ready. I had a bad feeling in my gut that I knew wasn’t my lunch , but I paid, and was doing my best to feel positive about still making it home as I jumped back on the 401. Well, wouldn’t you know it. Not fifty miles down the road, RATS there it goes again. This time I knew I was in trouble because it was a good ten miles to the next garage which would be in Kingston.

I drove on. I knew in my heart that the engine was toast so all I was hoping was to make it to a garage where it could be pronounced dead and I could arranged for a proper burial. If I made it without a tow it would be great, and I may even be able to rent a truck and still make it home. Ever optimistic. Pressing on. So, it’s getting worse quickly. The cab is full of steam, it’s starting to chug and lurch, putting out a plume of black smoke, in spite of my slow speed. But at least I can see Kingston ahead, and there just on the other side of the tall bridge which I am about to climb I spot an Esso station with a big parking lot. Yes, I think I can. I think I can. I’m going to make it because if I can only get over the hump I can glide down with the help of gravity if necessary. Then it happened.

There goes the damn warning bell, and the lights start flashing, and to my horror the gates are coming down and the bridge span is going up to allow the oncoming sailboat to pass. A final backfire that sounded like a shotgun blast, and she dies. Right there, ten feet from the apex. A classic so close, and yet so far. I close my eyes and think about happier places, and when I open them the gates are up, the bridge span is back down, and the traffic oncoming is moving . Meanwhile everybody who is behind me starts blowing their horn and swearing at me. I mean I couldn’t hear them swearing but I could feel the burn. I sat there for a couple of minutes to compose myself, and then slowly got out and went to the car behind me, where the guy was frantically rolling up his window and locking his doors. “Listen, I’m terribly sorry about this, but you can either sit there and blow your horn which accomplishes nothing, or you can get out of your car and help me push it over the hump, so I will be able to coast down to that parking lot”. “Oh, O.K. buddy, we’ll give it a try” . Happily, the guy behind him was also a sport and so we soon had it over the hump and I was rolling madly down the steep decline, hoping to God that I didn’t have to stop for anyone while pulling into the parking lot. I got lucky, and soon found myself harboured safely in the parking lot, and I was on my way by foot to the phone booth I spotted by the Esso station.

“Hi Jeanine, listen I’m sorry to tell you that you are going to have to take that shot of Cassandra tomorrow morning, because the truck has died here in Kingston, and I will have to stay overnight to make arrangements, and rent a truck etc.” “I’m so sorry. Tell me how did this happen. Are you O.K.? ” Just then I spot a pick up truck stopped at the lights, which I recognized as Cellar Door Antiques with my friend Gary Dawdy at the wheel. “Oh, gotta go, I’m fine. I’ll call you later.” Click, and I’m off on a sprint to catch up to Gary before the lights change. This was in the days when I could sprint. Gary was noticeably surprised to see me banging on his passenger side window, and immediately opened the door. “Hey, how’s it going Gary. Listen I’m just wondering if you might be able to drop me at a truck rental place. You see my truck just died.” “Sure, hop in but first I have to to pick up my daughter at school because I just dropped Gale at the hospital as she’s gone into labour.” “Oh wow, Gary you’ve got bigger things on your mind. Don’t worry about it, I’ll walk” “No, no it’s fine, ride along with me and after I can take you to the rental. This is planned and I am not needed back there for a little while.” “Great, as long as I’m not stopping you from doing what you need to do.”

We road along happily, while I told him my tale of woe which suddenly seemed quite small in the overall scheme of things. “So what’s next, repair it or get a new truck?” “Oh, a new truck for sure. It’s been good to me but I’m tired freezing in the winter. I want to get something like this actually. A pick up with a crew cab” ” Really, well that’s interesting because I just ordered a new truck and so I guess I’ll be getting rid of this one.” “Hmm, well I guess I’m interested if you decide.” “I’ve decided already and I’ll sell it to you for what they offered me as trade in. It’s been a great truck so I don’t mind selling it to you. Just let me call Gale to make sure she agrees”. “”Oh, I wouldn’t…” Too late. I could hear Gale expressing quite clearly that she didn’t give a hoot what he did, and didn’t he realize that she had more important things happening right then, etc.. I paraphrase to protect the innocent. Big smile. “Well, she’s fine with it, so why don’t we pick up my daughter and then we can go to your truck, and if you like we can transfer the load to this truck and you can drive it home, and try it out for a few days. Next week is the Kelso show, so you can either bring it back to me if you choose not to buy it, or bring me the $4,000 and keep it. I’ll be fine, I’m taking my cube van anyways.”

Gary’s old truck, which became my new truck. The rack came later which is another story.

This is one of the strongest examples of serendipity I have experienced in my life, and a true testimony to just how decent people can be. Within two hours we had picked up Gary and Gale’s daughter, gone back to my truck, and after selling a couple of things to Gary we were able to load the rest on my “new” truck”, and he had called the tow truck to have the old girl towed away to it’s final resting place. What a guy. I was so grateful for his kindness, and to be on my way again. I called Jeanine and lied that I was resting at the hotel and not to worry. I would be home sometime later the next day, so she was really surprised when I walked through the door five hours later. Here’s the picture I took of Cassandra on her final first day of school.

Of course I loved the truck, and was happy to bring the money to Gary the following week. My first experience with cruise control. What an invention. I swear that if I had had this earlier I wouldn’t have screwed up my right leg, which I always said was due not to the driving ten hours in a stretch, and then loading heavy objects, but rather the result of pushing on that dastardly stiff accelerator all that time. And boy, once you’ve have a truck which is warm and cozy no matter what the weather; you question just how daft you had to be to put up with freezing all those winters. I never looked back.

My favourite truck came with this topper.

shadflyguy

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