Coming in on a wing and a prayer- part one

Posted on April 21, 2017 by shadflyguy

In the eighties and nineties, in spite of spending a lot of time on the road going back and forth to Quebec and doing weekend antique shows all the time, I never had auto club coverage. It’s not that I’m against auto clubs. I’m sure they give many peace of mind, and before the days of google map they would plan a nice trip for you. But I inherently have faith, I guess you can call it, that things will generally go well, and should trouble arise I can handle it. This may stem from being influenced as a young person when I watched a t.v. interview with Orson Bean, who was a political commentator and popular comedian at the time. He argued that he doesn’t believe in the value of insurance. He proposed that if you saved all the money that you spend trying to insure yourself against every eventuality, you would have plenty of money to cover yourself should anything actually occur. Of course this was before the days of multi-million dollar liability settlements. But I took his point, and have avoided buying any insurance other than car and house which I consider essential, and it’s worked pretty well so far.

Here’s how I deal with a breakdown. The first thing is to get the vehicle out of harm’s way. Then relax, take a deep breath, and realize that the plan has changed. When I become comfortable with this fact I then go about finding and contacting the nearest garage. If possible I seek out local input. Because I am not afraid to make contact with strangers, if someone is around and looks reasonably normal my first move is to explain my situation to that person, and ask if they might direct me. Gratefully, breakdowns have been rare, and touch wood, my luck has held. Here’s an example.

It was the mid-nineties and I was heading solo to North Hatley, Quebec to participate in the mid-summer show there. The truck was tightly packed and I remember there was an almost full size folk art moose tied to the front rack. At a passing glance, it looked like I was hunting and got lucky. So, I was bombing along happily, East-bound on the 401 near Gananoque‎, Ontario when the engine started to sputter and choke. There was an exit right ahead so I took it, hoping I could make it to a garage or at least a parking lot. I just made it up the ramp and it started to die out, so all I could do was to pull over as far as I could on the shoulder and it shut down. I was distressed in that it was late in the day and although I had planned to stop soon for the night, I was counting on getting up early and driving straight to North Hatley so that I would have time to set up before the seven o’clock opening. If it took all morning or longer to repair the truck I would not make it in time.

At first I just sat there, and took stock. It was a beautiful late afternoon. That time of day when you get the wonderful clear horizontal light as the sun slowly sets. Around me were green fields and a couple of small houses nearby. As the motor stopped I could hear the sound of a lawn mower. Excellent, there’s my first move. I hopped out, crossed the road and waited until the man on the riding lawn mower turned the corner and was headed back towards me. Putting on my best non-threatening smile and waving, he saw me and waved back. He drove right up to me and killed the engine. “Beautiful evening. I don’t mean to trouble you, but that’s my truck over there. I’ve just broken down and I need to phone a garage. Could you suggest anyone?”. We exchanged names. “Well, I work for the Canadian Tire in town so we could fix it tomorrow sometime, but I’ve got a buddie who’s got a country shop just down the road and he may be able to get you going faster. He’s cheaper and better too” I appreciated his honesty. “Sounds great. Can we give him a call?” “ Sure can. He’ll probably still be working at the shop” . A half hour later the truck was hooked up to his tow truck and we were headed the few kilometers to his shop. He was a great guy. Right away he offered to stay and work that evening to get me going first thing in the morning. He figured correctly that it was the fuel pump and he had a rebuilt replacement on hand. When I asked him about a place nearby that I might spend the night, he suggested that his sister had a bed and breakfast, and he could take me there and pick me up in the morning. How Ideal is that?

His sister and her husband also turned out to be really nice people, and offered me a beer and some sandwiches when they realized I had not had dinner. After a good night’s sleep, and seven o’clock breakfast I was ready to be picked up at eight. The truck was repaired, the bill was reasonable, and I was on right on schedule to arrive in North Hatley for set up. Thank you kind people, and here’s to serendipity.

But as fate would have it, this was not the only “test” I would experience on this particular trip. I will continue the story in next Friday’s blog. Stay tuned, as they used to say.

“That’s funny. Someone’s burning wood on this hot summer day.”

Posted on March 10, 2017 by shadflyguy

In the late eighties Bill Dobson decided to hold a one day antique show in a small town just south of Montreal. I’ve been on Google map, and for the life of me can’t figure out what town it was. It may have been Napierville but I wouldn’t lay money on it. In any case, it struck us as a good prospect and fit our agenda so we signed up. First time shows are a toss of the dice, but Bill kept the rent reasonable so even if it was a wash you were not out much. We also liked the fact that after the show we could make the two hour drive to Victoriaville to check out if anything great had arrived recently at the picker’s barns there. Cassandra was out of school so she came along and so we also made it a bit of a working vacation. Which is about the only kind of vacation we were taking in those days.

It was already a glorious day when we pulled in to the quaint small town fair grounds at 7 a.m. on that Saturday morning. There was about forty dealers arranged in two back to back aisles along the race track between the community hall and the bandstand. We spotted many of the usual suspects, especially among the Eastern Ontario and Quebec dealers who did Bill’s other shows, but there were also a lot of dealers we had never seen before. We did some good picking after setting up in those first couple of hours before the show opened.

When we pulled into our spot I noticed that a Quebec dealer I had never met was set up behind us and he had some wonderful things. We made our acquaintance and did a little business. Ah, that wonderful feeling of optimism that sets in just before starting an outdoor show on a beautiful day when bad weather is not a worry. I noticed that there was a very old lady sitting in the shade behind his truck already starting to cane chairs, while chain smoking. She was the dealer’s mother and was well into her eighties. He said she loved caning chairs and it was a good part of his business. I enjoyed meeting her in spite of the fact that she barely spoke and continued to smoke one hand-rolled cigarette after another. I noticed she threw her butts on the ground and there was already a little circle of them around her, but didn’t think much of it.

The day preceded to be fun and profitable. Many Montrealer’s made the drive and we also recognized lots of eastern Ontario collectors. At 5 o’clock shows end we were happy with our day both from a buying and selling perspective. It didn’t take long for us to pack up, and the last thing I loaded was a stack of packing blankets that had been sitting by the back door of the truck, and were no longer needed as the pieces they were protecting had been sold and were gone. I picked up the whole bunch and stuffed them in a space in the left, back corner just at the base of a wonderful old one piece cupboard in original red paint that in spite of it’s attributes had failed to attract a buyer. We hopped in, turned east and started the two hour drive to the Motel Marie-Dan in St. Eulalie where we had a reservation. This motel was clean and friendly and inexpensive and situated near the pickers barns so it was were many dealers stayed. It has a nice little pool too which Cassandra liked. We arrived without incident, got our key which was to an upstairs room, and unloaded our luggage. We switched on the air conditioning because it was and continued to be a stifling hot day; had ourselves a cool beverage, and proceeded to relax and count the loot we had taken in. At the end of a good day of selling this is the best part. Cassandra who was about 8 at the time watched a few late afternoon cartoons and just as I was starting to nod off in my chair, looked over and said “ how about a swim ,Dad?” To be honest a quick nap in a cool room after such a long day of unloading, selling, and loading again was more appealing, but Cassandra had been such a trouper, helping out with packing and keeping herself occupied over the long hours in the hot sun, that I was not about to deny her this simple pleasure. Plus, I knew that a little dip would do wonders to restore my energy. So I put on my bathing suit and ten minutes later we were happily floating, and jumping and otherwise enjoying the little pool which had grown almost warm in the summer sun. It was quite idyllic. The sun starting to lower behind the forest which ran behind the motel bringing that beautiful evening light which softens the contrast and pushes the red end of the colour spectrum that film makers call the “golden hour”. I remember floating peacefully while hanging off the edge of the pool by my ankles, which is a favourite trick of mine. I loved watching Cassandra jump in over and over and otherwise enjoying herself. We were the only ones there. As I lay there thinking how fortunate, content and grateful I felt, I was at one with the world. And it was about then that I faintly detected the beautiful smell of burning wood. I remember thinking, “That’s funny. Someone is burning wood on this hot summer day.” Almost as quickly I thought “ well it must be someone burning up old surplus wood to get rid of it.” And that’s when I looked over towards the parking lot and noticed smoke billowing from the back door of my truck.

You’ve never seen someone exit a pool, and cross a parking lot as fast as I did that day. I ran to the back door of the truck which was hot, but of course it was locked and I quickly realized the keys were upstairs. I raced upstairs, pounded frantically on the door until Jeanine who was coming out of the shower answered with a ‘hold your horses, I’m coming, where’s the fire.” “In the truck” I fairly shouted, “the truck’s on fire. Quick get me the keys.” It seemed like an hour but it was probably just a few minutes before I was again at the back door of the truck. As soon as I unlocked and opened it, of course the rush of air hit the flames and the blankets were truly ablaze. I grabbed them out and dumped them on the parking lot, and could see that the fire had also connected to the bottom of that big red cupboard which was laying on it’s side in front of the blankets. I looked around wildly assessing my next move. My first instinct at seeing open flame was to run, but I recovered my senses and noticed a long hose hooked up to a faucet by the garden so I raced over and was relieved to find that water came out when I cranked it and also that the hose was long enough to reach my truck. It only took a couple of minutes to put the small fire out on the bottom of the cupboard, and extinguish the large pile of burning blankets by now safely away from the other vehicles parked in the lot. Cassandra was there beside me all along but there was little for her to do but watch and shout encouragement. When it had cooled, we dug through the blankets and sure enough there was the smoldering butt of a hand rolled cigarette.

Thanks to Cassandra’s insistence on a swim, I had discovered the fire in time, that surely would have otherwise escalated within that truck filed with 100 year old pine to the point where I imagined the headline would read “Truck explodes on motel parking lot causing massive damage”. The bottom board of the cupboard had to be replaced due to the smoky smell that would always inhabit it, but otherwise we just lost a pile of old blankets. A close call.

La Malbaie, part two – Bringing it all back home

Posted on February 24, 2017 by shadflyguy

When our offer to purchase a small barn’s worth of antiques near La Malbaie, Quebec was accepted, we recognized we had two main problems to solve; getting it all back to our place, and having somewhere to put it when we got it there. The church showroom was already quite full, as was our little storage sheds, so we talked to our friend and neighbor Dave who had a farm around the corner with some unused out buildings, and arranged to rent them at a reasonable rate.

There were many items in the lot that were outside our regular inventory; commercial products mostly like old beer bottles, tins, etc., so our plan was to sell most of this as quickly as possible to realize back some of our investment, and allow us to focus on what we normally sell. We knew a lot of dealers by this point so we invited them all to come when all the stock had arrived, to have a first pick of it. This generated a bit of excitement that we all shared. It felt like Christmas was coming when you were ten, and you couldn’t wait to see what will be under the tree for you. A date was set in three weeks time.

I rented the largest moving truck they would allow me with my license which was really, really big. If I’m not mistaken the box was 20’ long, and 10’ high. A good friend named Sergio who ran a nearby apple farm offered to ride shotgun. When I talked to the seller in Quebec I asked if he could hire four strong men to load, and he said it was no problem. He knew such men who would be happy for the work. He said he had a motel room waiting for us. Things were shaping up.

Sergio and I set out about 5 am the next morning. A time which allowed us to cross Toronto before morning rush hour, and which barring delays would put us in La Malbaie about 3 in the afternoon. The trip, although long, passed pleasantly enough as we chatted about anything and everything and occasionally munched away at our packed lunch. Sergio is Italian so we spent a fair amount of time with him teaching me swear words, and street sign language. Did you know that if you are walking down the street with an Italian friend and he holds his hand straight out about belt level and waves it front to back it means “I’m hungry. Let’s go get something to eat”? I didn’t either.

We pulled into the farm about 3 as expected and drove directly to the barn. There was our man with a team of 4 very large men behind him looking tough, and ready for action. We only took about fifteen minutes to stretch and get our bearings, and then the trucks ramp was lowered and we got started. I stayed in the barn and pointed at the items to be loaded, and Sergio stayed in the truck and arranged the placement. We started with the big, boxy pieces like cupboards, dressers and sideboards, stuffing smaller items like bicycles, signs, wall cupboards, etc. in all the little spaces. The guys were amazing. Strong and careful and we filled the truck form front to back in less than three hours. As we rolled down the door you could see that we had taken approximately half on the contents. We then all went down into La Malbaie where we had a delicious dinner and a few celebratory brews at our host’s motel. His treat. What a guy. Then we settled in for an early night and slept the sleep of the dead until about 7 the next morning. We grabbed some breakfast and headed west. Pulled in at home about 7 pm and went straight to bed.

It was all hands on deck the next morning at 9 am. It took us about five hours to unload in such a way that everything could be accessed. We spent the rest of the afternoon looking at all the small treasures that were stuffed in the various drawers and boxes. I had an early dinner and went straight to bed so that I would be ready to head out with Sergio at 5 the following morning for round two.

Essentially it was the same routine but with the added fun of the scrap metal dealer arriving to haul off all the recent and thus rejected cash registers and the like. Where did this guy get all those cash registers? He must have bought out a local supplier. When the truck was full again there was still a small pile of things left. I said I would probably be back for them with my pick-up, but if I couldn’t make it back, I’d phone and he could call the local junk guy to come and get it. I wasn’t sure if I had another trip in me. Turns out I did, and Jeanine and I left a couple of days later in our faithful old pick-up.

Well that small pile turned out to completely fill the poor old thing, and I’ve never seen it sit lower on it’s chassis due to the large number of cast iron pots and pans which dominated the load. The wheels were practically rubbing on the fenders and I thought I was going to run out of gears and have to back up some of the sharp inclines you need to pass to get out of the region. Somehow she hung in there and we made it home. I was so impressed I almost wrote Ford a letter. We got home and had a few days to prepare for the pick. We pulled out all the things that we wanted for ourselves and got them back to the church.

When the dozen or so dealers arrived we explained that the procedure would be for them to go through everything and make a pile of the things they would like to purchase. We explained that as we had known them all for years and had done good business we would trust them to tell us what they would pay based on a reasonable, but not outlandish profit. In other words “We trust you to be fair”. Unless we felt we were totally being screwed we would go along with the price. You know, it worked amazingly well. Almost everyone was completely fair and the few who were not stood out like a sore thumb. “Oh, so this 100 year old, unopened bottle of Molson Ale in mint condition is only worth $15. I would have thought more, but if you say so.” There were a couple moments of “I saw it first” tension but they got resolved without fist fights. Everyone felt encouraged to share in our good fortune and grab what they could use. At the end of the day we had reduced the load by about a quarter, and the venture was paid for. A hellish amount of effort, but we continued to make money from that load for years, but I have to say that the best part for me really was the joy of opening everything up and discovering all the treasures inside. World of Wonder.

When we hit the Motherload in La Malbaie

Posted on February 17, 2017 by shadflyguy

In the late nineties when we were making regular picking trips to Quebec, we would sometimes combine work with pleasure, and take an extra day or two to go exploring after making the rounds of the regular picking barns. It was on one such trip in mid-summer when we had finished combing the barns around Victoriaville, that we headed up route 183 on the North Shore past Quebec city, to the Charlevoix region, and the town of La Malbaie. Champlain named this place La Malbaie, or “the Bad Bay” when his ship got stuck in the harbour, but it was known locally as Murray’s bay for years until 1967 brought a new awareness and emphasis on preserving our history. Whatever you choose to call it, it is a beautiful and magical region of large rolling hills leading down to the mighty St. Lawrence river. The wilderness is dotted with tiny, quaint villages made famous in paintings by Clarence Alphonse Gagnon, Marc Aurele Fortin and A.Y. Jackson, to name a few. It has retained much of its early, rustic charm because the region was not easily accessible until the early sixties when the Quebec Government built the big highway, route 183. However it has been a summer playground for the rich, both Canadian and American since the early 1900’s because its untouched natural beauty was accessible by boat along the St. Lawrence. For this reason, you still find many impressive estates, and the magnificent Manoir Richelieu, established in 1899, with the current building being built in the style of a French Chateau in 1929. It’s a wonderful region to explore, and only a two hour drive from Quebec city.

Manoir Richelieu

So on this occasion after a full day of enjoying the region we settled on a small strip motel along the river in town, which looked clean and inexpensive. We had a great meal at the small, attached restaurant and settled in for a good night’s sleep. In the morning, we had breakfast and set about packing up to leave. I was putting the cases in the truck when a pleasant looking middle aged man approached me. “So I can see from your truck that you an antique picker. Would you be interested in looking at some things I have for sale?” I was a little taken aback as I was thinking about getting on the road, but answered “Well that’s what I’m here for so sure, what are we talking about.” He explained that the antiques were not at the motel, but in a barn on the family farm, about a half hour drive away. As it happened they had just sold the farm which had been in the family for years, and before the deal closed in a month’s time they had to clear a barn where they had stored the contents of their grandfather’s museum when it closed in the mid-sixties. Their grandfather had run a private museum in an old fishing boat which had been dragged up on shore along the river. The kind of place you pay a quarter to go through. When they needed the land to build the new highway, he had to close, and at the time just moved everything, lock, stock and barrel to the barn on the family farm. It had remained there untouched. He explained that his grandfather was an eccentric who collected and displayed everything he could get his hands on, so that not everything in the barn could be considered a valuable antique. There is a bit of everything there, furniture, farm implements, old signs, bottles, eyeglasses, furnishings, you name it. Although the time frame seemed ominous, I was curious so we agreed to go and have a look. What harm could it do.

by A.Y. Jackson

We followed him up and down the twisting country road, until finally reaching a charming, old Habitant farm house and barn looking out over a picture perfect valley. We drove straight up to the barn. It was not a large barn, but when we opened the door we could see that it was packed from wall to wall with every sort of thing. So packed that there was no possibility of entering without hours of shifting large cupboards and the like. And dark. As our eyes adjusted we could see about a dozen large armoires absolutely overflowing with objects. The whole space was chock a block with everything you could imagine. We spotted several old bicycles, one being a tandem. Lots of books and paintings. Right away I spotted several nice old signs, both commercial on tin, and hand painted on wood. There were quite a few cash registers, dressers, tables, and six glass store display cases. There were benches and beds, and dozens of cardboard boxes filled with God knows what. . I could see that four or five of the armoires were really nice, and it seemed he was making an honest appraisal when he suggested that about 80% of it was good but not extraordinary, but that there was some very good things in there as well. As he spoke I scanned the room and made a mental note of everything I could see.

“So here’s the deal. I want $20,000 for it all with the condition being that the barn must be cleared of everything by the sale date. When you have everything you want, I know a couple of scrap dealers who will come and scoop up anything that is left, especially metal. There has to be about forty cash registers in there, and a lot of them are newer and nothing special, not to mention heavy so I doubt you will want to take them.” I stood there in the sunshine, looking out over that beautiful valley and thought “this is a tough one. It would seem the value is there, but it is a hell of a lot of work, and this place is a long, long way from home.” Jeanine looked over at me and shrugged. “ O.K.”I said, “it’s a lot to take in. We are interested, but we need a little time to think about it. Give me your number and I will call you back within 48 hours with an answer.” He agreed and gave us 48 hours.

We then left after saying our goodbyes, turned west and headed towards home. We didn’t talk about it until we had travelled for a couple of hours and stopped for a bit of lunch at a roadside food truck. When in Quebec I always have to get my poutine and “vapeur” fix. A “vapeur” being a steamed hotdog in one of those funny Quebec buns. As we sat there at a picnic table looking out over the St. Lawrence towards Ile d’Orleans we finally got around to discussing the elephant in the room. I started, “So, I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and we have to recognize that it is a rare opportunity to buy so much from one source. Also, from what I could see there is easily $20,000 value, but how much more I’m not sure, and it is definitely a lot of work and expense getting it all back home. Not to mention we only have a month to accomplish it.”. Jeanine agreed and added “well let’s make a list of everything we could see, and assign what we would think to be a low retail value, and go from there.” We did this and determined that of what we could see, there was about $35,000 worth. Of course we also recognized that what we could see was just scratching the surface of what there was in total. We drove a few hundred more miles and then Jeanine said “I think we should offer him $15,000, and if we get it fine. If he says no then let’s just pretend it didn’t happen.” I agreed. It was obvious he was under pressure to find someone fast and if we were going to take it on, we had to be sure it was worth all the trouble. Jeanine phoned him right away on the cell, her French being so much better than mine, and I was surprised to hear her offer what sounded to me like $10,000. Then there was a pause, and she gave me a big smile and thumbs up . A moment later she was concluding the conversation by saying, “O.K. it’s a deal and we will be in touch when we got home to arrange the details.” I looked at her and laughed. “Am I correct that you made a snap decision there to offer him $10,000, and he agreed?” “Yes, well I was going to say $15,000 but then I started thinking it’s typical in Quebec to ask twice what you really want because everyone negotiates so fiercely, and $10,000 just came out of my mouth. He jumped at it.” Good work Jeanine. Now we just have to go home and figure out what we’ve gotten ourselves into.

Next week – Bringing it back from La Malbaie.

Lunch in St Eulalie

Posted on February 10, 2017 by shadflyguy

Just as many of the dealers and pickers active in the Victoriaville area in the eighties would meet at the Esso Station across from Kojak’s place on the outskirts of town for breakfast; the same bunch would turn up for lunch at a trucker’s diner twenty miles away, on the north side of the big highway 20, in a tiny place called St. Eulalie. At lunch time the parking lot of this busy establishment would have from 6 to a dozen pickers trucks lined up, and typically you would find small groups of men checking out what was tied down there, and discussing the possibility of a transaction. Most of these pickers were loyal to one or the other of the half dozen antique centers in the area, so they would not sell to you directly, but they may tell you where a piece was going and to whom you needed to inquire about it. There was always a lot of lively dialogue and laughing going on. Tips, news and gossip in equal measure. Sometimes you would witness heated arguments. Eventually everyone would make their way inside, and take their favorite seat in the crowded dining room, and the talk continued.

I loved the scene. If we were nearby at lunch time we would turn up there along with everyone else. After checking out the action in the parking lot, we would make our way inside to order a lunch special, or sandwich, followed by a nice piece of sugar pie. A Quebec delicacy that is as disgustingly sweet as it sounds, but it goes well with a cup of coffee and dialogue.

It was always crowded with locals, and those who were travelling on the Grand Route 20, and the wait staff was plentiful and efficient. The joint was jumping.

I remember one sunny summer day in particular sitting in a booth looking out onto the parking lot with one of the main dealers of the area, and a good friend, Ben. Ben was always smiling, and his sunny disposition rarely changed. On this day however, we were sitting there peacefully having a coffee before ordering when he looked out the window, saw a man get out of his truck, and suddenly jumped up and said” I’ll be right back.” I watched as he raced out the front door, crossed the parking lot, and went right up to the fellow, parking himself about an inch from his face; and then started yelling. I could not hear the conversation but you could see that it was heated. The intense conversation continued back and forth for another moment and then suddenly, bam, Ben hauls off and punches the guy in the face. The guy falls back a couple of steps rubbing his chin A few more angry words are said, and then to my surprise both of them come together back into the restaurant and sit down at our booth. “You didn’t have to hit me like that Ben. I told you I was sorry about the deal.” “I didn’t have to but I wanted to, and I told you that if you ever crossed me again like that, you’d pay for it.” Well, o.k. I was wrong but I’ve apologized and now it’s water under the bridge, right? “ Yes, but don’t you ever try to pull anything like that again. You know I will find out about it and It’s no way to treat me after all the business we have done.” “You’re right Ben. I’m sorry.” After that it was all sweetness and light. Pleasant conversation, jokes and eating a good meal together, as if nothing unpleasant had happened. I realized then that the Quebec guys ran a little hotter than we do in Ontario, and they have ways of resolving differences that we wouldn’t consider. I respected that they could be so open in expressing their feelings, and that issues got resolved quickly, and then they moved on. Still, I made a mental note to avoid pissing off Ben.

I cannot remember the name of the place. It was something generic like Voyager’s Inn or the like; so I went on to google map to see if I could see the sign out front. I was shocked to discover that there is nothing there now save for the big paved parking lot and a lot of weeds. The place must have burnt down. It made me feel sad that if we were to go there now, we would have to discover where the new place to meet is, if they are still even doing it, and it would surely not be the same. That’s the problem with going back after so many years. Everything changes and some things disappear. Brings to mind Thomas Wolfe who so succinctly put it in his 1940 novel, “You can’t go home again.”

Frozen hard boiled eggs – Recollections of Quebec in the winter

Posted on December 2, 2016 by shadflyguy

nice day for a buggy ride in old Quebec

It is December 1^st and we are still enjoying mild temperatures and no snow here in Port Dover on the “south coast” of Ontario, which is how they promote the region around here. In actuality, it is not a coast at all but rather the north shore of Lake Erie. You need an ocean to have a coast, and I bring this up because I am not about supporting the deterioration of the language. In any case, the forecast is for temperatures to drop at the weekend to normal values and then if we believe what we are told we are in for a rough winter. I was looking at the old Bell line van pictured at the top of every blog and thinking about how cold I used to get traveling in that van to Quebec in the winter.

I did my best to fit trips in between snow events, but it goes to say that when you are back and forth every couple of weeks you are going to get caught. I can remember white outs on the four lane #20 highway when looking out the windshield was like looking into a snow globe. Everything is white snow swirling and dancing in the headlights; everything is hypnotic and there is no hint of an edge to the road, or white line to guide you. You are lost, and afraid to stop for fear that a transport will run straight over you, but also afraid to pull over because you have no idea where the highway ends and the ditch begins. A total white knuckle scenario which lasts for minutes that feels like hours.

You know those “bridge freezes over before highway” signs you sometimes see on northern bridges. Well I can attest to that being true. Late one December night I headed through Montreal, and on to the south shore with the temperature dropping steadily, and the rain starting to glaze up and turn to snow. By the time I reach the Drummondville bridge it was cold enough that indeed the road before the bridge was fine, but the second I hit the bridge that big old truck thought itself a figure skater and decided to pirouette the entire length of the bridge, spinning gracefully all the way across until it hit the dry pavement on the far end, and miraculously I had completed a turn and the wheels were aligned so I just stabilized and kept going as if nothing had happened. Good thing I bring a change of underwear.

Another time when I picked up Jeanine at Mirabelle airport after her spending a few weeks in France, we were so happy to see each other and getting caught up that we hardly noticed the ever increasing magnitude of the snow storm which was coming in. It just kept getting heavier and heavier but we continued to crawl along in the tracks of the transport ahead of us. We made it like this as far as the Ontario boarder before the front bumper of the van was literally plowing snow and that’s when we decided to call it a night.

The old Bell line van held a lot of gear and you could rely on the 350 Chevy engine to start and get you there and back, but the body wasn’t built for traveling for a long time in sub- zero weather, with it’s non insulated sliding side doors. It was meant to be a delivery van after all I would wrap up in long johns, two pairs of pants, a pair of insulated cover-alls, and a blanket over my legs but even with the heater blasting full it could get damn cold. I remember one -30 degree morning when surprisingly the engine fired up after turning over so slowly you would think it was being hand cranked. After leaving it to heat up for 15 minutes I set off to get on with my day of visiting the picker’s barns with my lunch box on the engine cover. I got hungry about an hour later and decided to have a hard- boiled egg, only to find that it was frozen as hard as a rock. It’s amazing what you will put up with when you are young and have lots of blood flowing through your veins. I could not believe the feeling of absolute luxury when the old van finally died and I started traveling in a pick-up truck. What was I thinking?

Of course the flip side to this potential discomfort and hardship is just how wonderful and special it is to be in Quebec on a , crisp sunny morning with the snow piled as high as the rooftops. Quebec city in particular is absolutely magical in the winter. To look out your hotel window and see the people below hustling along narrow paths between buildings, with every other inch of space being covered with deep,deep snow is unforgettable, and quintessentially Canadian. “”Mon pays, c’est l’hiver” or “My country. It is winter” is more than a popular Quebec expression. It’s a concept to understand and cherish.

I leave you with one last recollection. That of the Northern lights dancing magnificently overhead as I drive the lonely distance between Quebec city and Trois Riviere late at night listening to the CBC, and thinking about what my loved ones were doing at home. Loving what I was experiencing with the light show and all, but also thinking about my family and bed and wishing I was home.

Repainting an antique cupboard in oil

Posted on November 25, 2016 by shadflyguy

before

On occasion, people will like the form and size of a painted cupboard, but can’t live with the colour. Your options assuming the paint is not original which is when I would encourage people to learn to love it as it is or let someone who does own it, are to either strip it down and refinish the wood, strip it down and repaint it, or in the cases were the piece is in a stable old oil paint, to simply prepare the surface and repaint right over the last coat. Done properly this approach can be the most natural of any of the processes, and is in fact what happens to many cupboards over the course of their lives anyway. I imagine the scenario were someone decides the old cupboard just looks tired and doesn’t fit in anymore, and the most natural thing to do is to go out to the garage and grab a can of paint you like and away you go. It’s currently fashionable to strip the cupboard and apply a “chalk paint”, and then rub and sand it down in an attempt to look like natural wear. If this is the look you like, go for it, but I think in many cases it ends up looking unnatural. Especially if a cupboard was made in the period after oil paint was invented around the turn of the 20^th century, the most natural thing to happen would be for it to be painted in oil. Therefore, if your objective is to make it look good but not “messed with” your best approach can be to repaint in oil paint and then rub down the surface a bit to not have it look too new and shiny. To my mind, this is the most natural and effective way to give a piece new life, and of course it is a lot less work that stripping it.

Witness here exhibit “A”. A big old beast of a wardrobe from Quebec made about 1900 of an unattractive Ash wood which was probably painted white as soon as it was made. On top of that original white, someone later has painted it cream with a flashy, vibrant blue for the panels and trim. My customer loves the form but cannot live with the bright colour, so has asked me to paint it all in a mid grey which will fit in with the rest of her décor. She prefers that it be all of one colour so it blends in to the room. She gives me a paint sample of the preferred colour.

Here in Canada they have decided that oil paint is dangerous and have taken it off the market, so you either take a trip to the states where they are still sensible and allow the sale of oil paint, or find some old stock (I’ve hoarded quite a bit of the stuff), or in this case use the only form of oil based paint still available here which is rust paint. The paint store informed me that this too will soon be pulled from the market. A pity because for one thing all latex “so called” floor paints are total garbage and should be banned. Every time you drag something across latex paint it peals like a balloon and so is quite worthless. This is the case as well if you use it on your cupboard and try to rub it down a bit to look aged and worn. It just peels off and looks like garbage. I much prefer the old original oil paints as you can get a less shiny surface, but the rust paint works in a pinch and you can tint it exactly as you wish.

cleaning the surface

The first step is to prepare the surface. It must be clean and any loose paint removed. Sometimes this requires some light sanding but in this case, all I did was to brush and rub it down completely with turpentine to remove the dirt and any wax that may have been applied. You can use paint thinner, but for a couple of dollars more I prefer the turpentine. Do this in a well-ventilated area of course. A garage on a nice day when you can have the door open and a fan going is perfect. When it is completely rubbed down and clean you are ready to paint.

I thin the paint by about 20% with the turps. I’ll even go thinner if I want a lot of the old paint to show through, but in this case, we want only small areas of the old paint to show.

Put an even coat over everything. Then wait a day or so depending on the temperature to let it dry. This is the slightly tricky part, because you want the paint dry, but to soften the gloss of the surface and wear it through slightly it is best if it is not completely hard set. A bit of rubbing along the bottom of the side is a discreet place to test.

waxing with a stiff brush

In the case of this cupboard, as the weather was warm it was ready to be rubbed down the next day. It should be noted that you must have a temperature above 50 degrees Fahrenheit or the oil paint will take forever to dry.

Next, apply a thick coat of Min wax for dark woods over the entire piece using a stiff brush and fine 00 steel wool. You will see that when you rub hard a bit of the paint will come off along the edges and where the under-paint is worn. Take your time and work evenly. Do not attempt to rub through more vigorously around the knobs or in places you think should show more wear as this always becomes obvious.

If you rub evenly the paint will naturally come off a bit more in these places. You will note that the dark wax lays in the little creases and accentuates them. This slight dirtiness also gives the piece a more natural patina and softens the overall look. Let the wax dry for a couple of hours and then give it a light buffing with a bit of burlap or an old wool sweater. Not too much or it becomes shiny.

showing how wax dulls the surface

When this dries, you are done. The piece may still look a little shiny but let it be and nature will take its course. Over the weeks and months, the surface will settle and age. If you get it right, it’s a good way to bring new life to a piece without having it look done over.

after

Breakfast in Quebec

Posted on November 18, 2016 by shadflyguy

One thing that I look forward to when on the road, especially in Quebec, is having breakfast at a little, local restaurant. Typically, we look for the mom and pop place in a small town with a lot of cars in the parking lot. That’s a sure sign because the locals know best. I love walking into a lively room full of morning light and people, talking, laughing, and generally getting on with things. It’s that happy time when you are full of hope and energy before the day has a chance to complicate things and wear you down. It’s all about that first cup of coffee, filling that empty stomach, and getting your communication skills working. In Quebec, on a good day, these places are full of noise and merriment, and most often delicious food.

At least I can now by Creton at our local Food Basics

At least I can now buy Creton at our local Food Basics

I like to go with the traditional Quebec big breakfast, a couple of eggs, sausage, toast, baked beans, and a little container full of Creton. What is Creton you may ask. Well it’s basically pork fat mixed with bread crumbs, and a little onion and spice, and it is delicious spread on toast. Just the thing if you are going to go out in sub- zero weather to cut down trees. Maybe a few more calories than you need to drive around and search out antiques, but a great way to start the day none the less. I know a lot of people at this point are crying out “cholesterol alert”, but I have a well-researched theory that a small amount of this type of heavy fat is actually good for you. The operative word being a “small” amount, and provided you are active enough to burn it off. Because you are satiated it cuts down on snacking, and your stomach recognizes the fat and puts out the proper enzymes to digest it. Something that doesn’t happen with “low fat” foods, most of which are filled with dangerous chemicals. But I digress.

I also love that a lot of these places, although clean, have not been professionally decorated or modernized. It is one of my greatest pleasures to sit, sipping my coffee, anticipating my food and just taking in the local scene. Randomly tuning in on conversations of people you do not know and will never see again makes me feel energized, and connected. At one with the world.

When on an antique hunt you are basically driving from place to place, and walking through barns with occasional moments of lifting and loading. So after a big breakfast we then go through the day snacking on things out of a cooler we bring along. This is not only cost saving but satisfying because even the little grocery stores in Quebec have a wonderful selection of fruits, bread, meats and cheese that can be munched on between stops, or if we feel like a break at a rest stop. Not to forget those little packages of delicious cheese curds left out on the counter of almost every little country variety so that they are the right temperature to get every little bit of “squeaky” texture and flavor out. This was then. I hear that now the powers that be have forced the store owners to refrigerate for fear of us becoming sick. Ridiculous. It takes days for curds to go bad. It’s like buttermilk. You can leave it out on the counter and it just continues to be buttermilk for days. The restrictions on raw milk cheese are also ridiculous, but don’t get me started.

Finally, at the end of the day it was our pleasure to drive around and seek out a simple meal at some place that looked good and not too expensive. Now days we do a little trip advisor research in advance. It works and saves some gas, but it takes some of the fun out of it. Over the years we have found our favourite spots and we look forward to revisiting them.

Eventually we took to carrying two coolers, one for the day to day use, and one for bringing back all the products that we discovered and came to love, and can find only in Quebec.

We always make our first stop at a little place on L’Isle Perrot when coming into Montreal on Highway 20. It used to be a dairy Freeze but then one happy day it became Smoke Meat Pete. Their slogan is “you can’t beat Pete’s meat” and I heartily agree. Pete smokes his own, and it is super delicious. Second only to Schwartz’s in Montreal and even that may be because Schwartz has the advantage of being the traditional favourite. We always arrive hungry. Have a huge sandwich, and leave super full with a big brisket in the cooler to take home. Yes, gratefully they sell full briskets to go.

Jeanine, full and happy leaving Smoke Meat Pete’s

Next on the tour near the picturesque town of Knowlton lies the giant Lac Brome duck producers. A great source for packaged duck confit legs. Duck confit is a traditional food from Jeanine’s home in the south/west of France and is one of our favourite things, so we usually buy ten or twelve packages containing two legs each, and put them in the freezer when we get home.

Then it’s a short drive over to the Abbaye De St-Benoit-Du-Lac, a picturesque monastery on the top of a hill which produces and sells many award winning cheeses. Nearby Magog has a couple of excellent bakeries and specialty shops. You can buy every kind of pate imaginable from rabbit and duck, to elk and you name it. In Magog you can buy over a dozen types of pates while here in rural Ontario you are lucky to find anything other than a basic pork pate with pepper corns. Why is this?

Once while doing the Eastman show we found out about a little bakery about six kilometers south of town on Rte 12 that is locally famous for making the most delicious tourtiere you will ever encounter, and the clincher is they sell them for between $12 to $16 each depending on the type. We put as many as we can cram into the cooler for freezing back home. Excellent.

When you think of Quebec food, you may think of meat pies, baked beans, poutine, sugar pie and those $2“vapor” hotdog stands with those funny little buns, but increasingly you must also think of world standard cheeses, meats and produce. All this talk is making me hungry. It’s time for me to wrap this baby up and go downstairs, and make myself a sandwich. Bon Appetit.

An outhouse full of bird houses

Posted on November 11, 2016 by shadflyguy

I think that it is accurate to suggest that a high percentage of what we define as folk art is made by energetic people who reach retirement, and find they need to produce something to keep their interest in life alive, and burn off creative energy. Some of these people turn to enhancing their immediate environment. Edmund Chatigny comes to mind who spent his working day creating a yard full of spotted flowers, animals, and birds, all in a similar style. What he made innocently has great artistic strength, and integrity. His intention was not for profit, but rather to decorate his yard. Here’s a link to my blog about him, https://shadflyguy.com/2016/09/16/its-not-saleable-it-doesnt-get-made-in-a-minute-the-art-of-edmund-chatigny/

And then there are other folk artists who seek to create a product. Something saleable which will bring in cash. A craftsman’s approach. Some of these people are uniquely talented, and the work becomes very popular in spite of their lack of professional training, or intent. Maud Lewis is a good example.

We were driving along Rte 138 on the north shore of the St Lawrence near Trois Rivieres Quebec, when we spotted a sign for a yard sale. We are talking about the 1980’s when it was a good idea to check out all yard sales. It was early on and there were still lots of good things coming to light. So we pulled in and became immediately drawn to a few odd looking, hand-made bird houses sitting under a tree. Really cool, looking like something out of Dr. Seuss. They were unpainted and a little rough around the edges, but you could see the potential. Jeanine asked in French, “Can you tell us something about the birdhouses please.” An elderly gentleman came over to us and explained that he had made them in his little shop out back just to keep himself busy. Then he started quoting prices, all of which were reasonable. “I see you have six out here on display. Do you have others?”. He smiled and said “come with me”. We found ourselves in his back yard, behind a small barn and there sat what looked to be an old two-seater outhouse. Door latched shut with a stick of wood. He swung open the door, and taa daa, the entire space from floor to ceiling was stuffed with birdhouses. There had to be 100 or so in there. He grinned, “You see I have more. How many would you like?” We excused ourselves for a moment so we could have a quick huddle, and then Jeanine asked “Well what do you want for all of them?” His eye’s lit up and he said without hesitation “Take them all and pay so much a piece no matter what the model.” I honestly can’t remember the exact price, but it was extremely reasonable, say $15 each. Deal.

I drove the pick up right to the outhouse and we began the arduous task of unloading and reloading all those birdhouses. They filled up every bit of space we had left, and when we were finished there was so much rope holding everything in place that it looked like a spider’s web. We were full at this point so we headed home, feeling quite giddy.

It was summertime, and our daughter and three of her friends had just discovered what a drag picking strawberries was as a summer job, so we offered them the job to sand, prime, and paint all those birdhouses. They set up at the picnic table under a big tree, cranked up the radio, and started to work. We provided paint, brushes, sandwiches and beverages and paid them by the piece. They were happy, and we were happy with the excellent job they did both in the quality of the work, and their choices of bright colours. We loved to look out and see more and more brightly coloured bird houses hanging from the cloths line, and hearing the happy chatter from the work team. It lasted over several weeks and we sold them just about as fast as they became available. Eventually they all had new homes and we contemplated a return trip to see if more had been made, but never got around to it. We thought that with all that space available in the old outhouse and after such a successful sale, our maker friend would probably get right back to it. We never did find out. I still see them from time to time at antique shows.

Driving the Vatican to Montreal

Posted on November 4, 2016 by shadflyguy

we loved bringing something big to Bowmanville

When it comes to selling folk art, something you learn pretty quickly is that size matters. In this case, small being better than large, because not many collectors have a large amount of space to dedicate to their interest, and so although they may be delighted to see a large piece, not many of them are going to take it home. The exception being things like totem poles or other vertical forms that don’t take up too much floor space., or can go outdoors. Even then it has to have a lot going for it, or you risk hauling the thing around from show to show like a giant albatross around your neck. That being said, it’s good to have something spectacular for a show like Bowmanville, where you focus on building a reputation as well as sales, and big and flashy gets them into your booth. This is why on the rare occasion when I did find something large that made my heart skip, I found myself drifting from ”isn’t this an interesting thing. I’m so happy to have experienced it and now I have it to remember”, to “I wonder if I can Squeeze this thing into the truck and when I get home convince Jeanine it is a good idea.” It’s a feeling recognized by elements of excitement and danger coming rapidly in equal amounts.

It was early spring and the hope brought on by new life and growth was thick in the air as I pulled in to Jean Deshaies or as he is known “Kojak’s”. I was flying solo and with a full truck, so it was a last look in case of an interesting small or something worth putting aside for next time. I could see that Kojak was excited when I walked in, and he jumped right up and hurried towards me, “ Phil, you’ve got to see what just came in. It’ll blow your mind”. He brought me into his small front room where he kept his special things and there perched on a table in front of the window was a spectacular 7 foot long, 4’ tall, red and white, three tiered birdhouse in the form of a ship. The name “Vatican” painted prominently on the bow. Wow. What a thing. Double masted, with twin funnels spewing black smoke asthe French flag overlooked all from high above. You could see that great care had gone into the creation. Every piece was carved lovingly from wood or shaped from metal, and it was built to last.

The Vatican
in Kojak’s front room

It was made in the late 1940’s by two priests who taught and lived at the seminary near the town of Lobiniere, situated on the south shore of the St Lawrence river. It took them over two years to make it, and then they mounted it outdoors under a sheltering roof where it served as the home for many birds over the next thirty years or so until the seminary closed. By then the brothers had died, and it was bought by a local. Fortunately, he looked after it well, keeping it painted and maintained and under a roof as the brothers had, so when Kojak bought it, it was just a question of giving it a really good cleaning. This was the state it arrived in hours before I pulled in.

It hit all my buttons, had great provenance, and was definitely top drawer folk art, but it was also a lot of money, and huge, not to mention massively heavy. My mind kept telling me to “avoid” “just move away and nobody gets hurt” but when Jean told me he had already called a couple of Quebec city dealers, and they had not committed but would be coming to look at it, I started to panic. Something about it spoke to me. I’m not naturally inclined, but it felt almost Holy. I wanted it, and I had to think fast. “Can I have a hold on it for 24 hours, and take a couple of pictures. I’ve got a guy in mind.” He hesitated. “Well, I don’t want you shopping it around to everyone, but if you have somebody in mind I’ll give you until closing time tomorrow.” Great. That may be all I need.

As it happened this was a time when I was selling a lot of folk art to a new, high end interior décor and furniture shop setting up over two floors of a converted warehouse in an up-scale neighborhood in Montreal. The owner, a Mr. Camelot, (how do you forget a name like Camelot), was very progressive and pushing hard to come up with the very best. Today I would have phoned him and sent him the picture, but in the day, after he had expressed interest over the phone, there was nothing left to do but drive to Montreal and show him the pictures. The next morning at 8 am we met at the store and he quickly decided based on the two polaroids, and my description that he had to have it, and so it just became a matter of driving the two hours back to Kojak’s and fetching it.

I had to pile up the things I already had on my truck at Jean’s because the ship took up the entire box of the truck from front to back. I roped it in place and started out for Montreal. I can remember it as vividly as if it happened yesterday, cruising at 120 klm down Hwy 40 headed for Montreal when suddenly the sky turned black and a torrential summer rainfall let loose. Looking in the rear view mirrors it looked like the Vatican was sailing her way through heavy seas. I was concerned but she was built to take it and there was nothing to do but sail on. As Mr. Camelot’s workers unloaded it and brought it up in the lift, I was thinking that although I was happy the ship had found it’s new dock, the only unfortunate part was that I would have loved to make it the center piece of our Bowmanville booth that year. Still, a bird in the hand.

Something about seeing that ship in those rear view mirrors left a big mark on me, and a little while later I was messing around and found myself painting in a decorative old mirror frame I found, a rendering of the Vatican floating on a cloud off into a starry night . It’s still hanging there on the wall over my left shoulder, and every once in a while I notice it and I think about the two priests staying up late, and using all their leisure time to create such a wonderful home for the little birds.

Ironically, about twenty years later, I walked into set up for the Bownmanville show and there it was. A Quebec dealer had brought it on consignment. The Vatican was looking for a new dock. It did not sell. As I watched them load it back onto the truck for the trip home I said to myself, “that could be me.”

shadflyguy

seeking authentic

Tag Archives: Quebec