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Selling Dead People’s Things

As a slight diversion from youthful experiences, I would like to share with you an interesting and unusual new book I just read written by a friend of mine and available on Amazon. Thank you.

Selling Dead People’s Things by Duane Scott Cerny

I have known Duane for ten years, although probably saw him on numerous occasions prior to my joining the BAM family of Antique and Collectible dealers in 2009. At least I thought I had known him until I read his new book: “Selling Dead People’s Things.”

Being a dealer in collectible ephemera and photography for 60 years (yes, 60), I no doubt ran into him unknowingly at flea markets, yard and estate sales, over the years, never realizing that one day I would be welcomed to the Broadway Antique Market as a dealer. But this missive is not about me, it’s about Duane’s book. I read it. I loved it. I recommend it.

Like Duane, I started out selling things my father brought home from work. As I read the chapters I saw myself, to a degree, with the early-on enthusiasm of a trade discovered but with more faith than business sense; more curiosity than knowledge, but wisdom and knowledge come later and you gotta start somewhere so why not the back yard trash pile.

Duane takes us on a journey, one that doesn’t attempt to define, price and relegate scarcity of items to the reader, no, that’s for other book writers and their guides and manuals. Duane’s purpose is to take us on a trip which defines the normal, as well as occasional para-normal, experiences one may encounter in search of the desirable, resalable items of ages past.

From basements to attics and all the floors (sometimes 12) in between, we walk with the author, careful not to trip over the boxes and trash (and poop) that block our path, to discover, hopefully, that hidden treasure. Many times we are not disappointed but regardless, we always wind up with an interesting story that goes with each quest.

Selling Dead People’s Things is unlike any other book I have read on the buying and selling of antiques and collectibles. It is a poignant, sometimes funny, sometimes a bit eerie, travelogue into someone’s past, a past that is explained in part by the objects that remain behind – pieces of a puzzle for just about all ages to complete. It is a book where the individual’s story is more important than his or her possessions. Duane delivers that intimate relationship between people and their things and, in the process, we are mesmerized by his own personal unfolding story.

It is a book you will enjoy reading whether a collector or not. Take it from a guy who has been selling dead people’s photographs (we call them “vernacular” in the trade) for 60 years. Peace.

Burning Leaves

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Autumn ain’t what it used to be. The sound of the clickity clack manual lawnmower has been replaced by a super charged gas powered grass eater. And the sound of people raking leaves has been replaced by the jet engine leaf blower that makes more noise than planes leaving O’Hare airport.

Kids in my neighborhood looked forward to Autumn for one reason, and it wasn’t returning to school. It was leaf burning. Not that we kids liked to do household chores, mind you, but there were certain rewards for leaf raking in the 1950s.

On a Saturday afternoon, the neighborhood kids (and a few adults without kids) would rake the leaves from the back of the yard to the front where you could gather them along the curb in front of your house and set them aflame.

Before we would do that, there was the ritual of jumping into the leaf pile first and tossing them up in the air, which required a subsequent re-raking into the curb. It was then that the magic began as we pulled out our book of matches, striking them and tossing them into the mound and watching as the fire slowly spread across from leaf to leaf.

The leaves burned slowly as most were not real dry and brittle (unless you put off raking for a week or so). There was an aroma which permeated the neighborhood as the burning continued. Parking your car was a problem since you didn’t want to be too close to the burning piles. All in all, it took only an hour or so to reduce the leaves into a smoldering heap which then required a good hosing down. You had to be careful with water pressure as not to hose the leaves all over and across the street onto your neighbor’s lawn.

I think the city banned leaf burning around 1960. I cant seem to find the original ordinance about it but I do remember people were told to put leaves in bags and set them in the alley. Thus ended a ritual which now made leaf raking a chore rather than a prelude to minor pyrotechnics in the front yard.

It was a right of passage where the old man (for the sake of not doing it himself) would allow us to have matches, after we raked and piled the leaves, in order to set them ablaze and pretend it was a campfire or burning fort. One time, I remember we tried to send smoke signals by using an old blanket. We were caught before any damage ensued.

Sometimes the wind got a little too strong and spun burning embers into the sky, sort of like when you toss another log on the fire. I suppose this is why somebody (whose roof probably caught fire) got wise and they banned it. Like they did fireworks.

Except folks still set off fireworks. And jump in leaf piles.

Secret Place

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Elementary School was not an enjoyable experience for me. Besides the nuns meting out physical pain for infractions, there were the class bullies. And there were a few of them.

In the classroom there was no problem, but at recess they plied their trade of picking on anyone they thought would not stand up to them. I was one of the unfortunate victims of peer abuse.

One year in particular it was difficult to avoid confrontation. I was in fifth grade when the bully group decided it would play Civil War after reading about it in history class. Their idea was very simple. They would come up to you and ask if you were North or South. It didn’t matter which side you declared since they would automatically be on the opposing side, declare you the enemy and pummel you around a bit before confronting another unfortunate straggler.. It didn’t take long to realize you couldn’t win.

One day, when I saw them approaching, I ran off around the side of the school, past the rectory and into the alley in the hopes of eluding the enemy. As I rounded the corner into the alley, I saw the news cart used by one of the parishioners on Sunday to house and sell newspapers to people leaving the church.

It was up against the rear of the school and as I pulled it slightly away from the wall, opened the doors at the bottom where newspapers were stored, found that it was empty and would house a kid my size. I crawled inside and shut the door.

The cart was perhaps five feet long and five feet high and was on rollers. It had the storage area below and an upper part which the newspapers could be displayed and an awning above to keep our rain or sun. And it all folded up into a compact unit when closed. I declared it my secret place and retired there often during recess and lunch period in order to avoid the roving bands of Civil War enthusiasts in the playground (which was actually a parking lot and the street in front of the school).

When necessary (like getting back from lunch too early and wanting to avoid confrontation in the playground), I would sneak around to the back of the school and climb into my little fortress where I would munch some penny candy and read a comic book until I heard the warning buzzer sound for the resumption of classes.

This went on for several weeks, maybe a few months, until one day I arrived to find the doors padlocked. My secret place had been discovered, no doubt because I had left telltale candy wrappings and/or comic books within. It was okay, however, because the Civil War was winding down and things would be quiet until a different method of bullying was employed. I would just have to make sure that I didn’t return to school after lunch all too early.

Perhaps I could watch a little more of Lunchtime Little Theater or Uncle Johnny Coons and eat a bit slower from now on.

The Color Flesh

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As a small child, I never wondered what black kids thought when they reached into their box of Crayolas and pulled out the “flesh” colored crayon.

How someone in the executive ranks could have possibly been that ignorant as to label a color “flesh,” and then have the company actually produce it, is beyond today’s comprehension, but it did exist for a time, as well as “Indian red,” and was accepted into our culture – a predominantly White culture.

Back in the 1950’s, coloring books were basically marketed for White folks. We had Roy Rogers, Howdy Doody and other prominent television idols, drawn into a book that we could use our crayons to color. There were not too many visual references to people of color, so we mostly had so-called Caucasian images and, of course, with the Western books, Indians! We needed an appropriate colored crayon to help us in our quest for cartoon realism.

Although we had colors like Burnt Umber, Peach and Olive, my guess is someone decided to make it clearer for us white kids, without giving any thought to the effects on children of color who might also enjoy coloring in the book, to include “Indian red” and “Flesh,” as a way of guiding us in our creativity. Of course, if the image was a person of color, we could simply use brown, black or chestnut hues to fill in the image. They didn’t market “Negro Black or Brown” crayons.

But the fad was not limited to crayons. There were also flesh colored bandages which appeared, again having sort of a peachy/cream color. Unfortunately, if you were a person of color, the bandage didn’t really blend in to your skin tone. As a matter of fact, it didn’t blend into mine either, although it was better than the pure white bandages that preceded the toned ones.

At the time, it didn’t disturb me because we were growing up in an age of ignorance and what we now call White Privilege. And the companies that marketed the flesh colored items failed to realize that flesh is not a color – unless you happen to be racist.

Peppermint Pattie

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There were only a few choices of candy in the house when I was growing up, mainly because the old man would buy what he and mom liked and, it was rationed to us kids on a limited basis. For the most part, if we wanted something sweet, mom would take a slice of Wonder bread and spread butter over it followed by pure cane sugar sprinkled on top (something left over from the Depression years, I presume). But there was, on occasion, real candy in the house.

There was the Tango bar, a marshmallow, caramel chocolate covered concoction, Three Musketeers (which, at the time was sectioned so each of us kids got a piece) Bull’s Eyes (caramel creams), and spearmint leaves and an orange sugary item called circus peanuts. Caramel Creams, the leaves and peanuts are still available today and I still ration myself in eating them.

I never understood circus peanuts, although they looked like a peanut in the shell, they bore no taste resemblance and were more like a banana flavor. As far as the tango bar, on occasion when I returned from school wanting one, knowing they were in the pantry, I would subtly start singing “It takes two to Tango,” hoping mom would get the hint. She didn’t (or didn’t want to).

One time, dad brought home a box of chocolate covered thin peppermints. He offered us all one and I liked them. He mentioned that when he was a kid, you would go to the penny candy store and buy one and if the center was pink, you got another for free.

For some unexplainable reason, one afternoon I decided to see if one of the mints in the box dad brought home contained the treasured pink mint. I carefully bit a tiny portion off the rims of all the remaining mints (at least 20 of them), and found nothing. They were all white mint under the dark chocolate coating. That evening, after supper, in front of the television, dad brought out the box of mints to share with us. Upon opening the box, he saw the tiny mouse-tooth marks along the circumference of each mint.

“What the heck is this!” he exclaimed with some displeasure, and asked me if I had anything to do with the disfigurement of the mints. I had to confess that it was I and tried to explain the reason behind my action. “I was looking for the pink one.” I responded in defense. There was a look of perplexion on his face as he explained they didn’t do that anymore as far as he knew and even if I did get a pink center, there would be no free piece for me anyway. I don’t remember him bringing home any more thin mints after that incident.

Candy had been changing as I was growing up. The original Three Musketeers bar had three sections (thus its name), and each was a different flavor, chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. Later, although the bar maintained its triple section look, the interior changed to all chocolate. Even after that, the bar changed its look from a triple sectioned to a double section and later simply a single bar.

What used to be three flavors in three sections to share with your friends, eventually became a bar that was “big enough for a friend and you!” and then, ultimately, a bar just big enough for you. Period. During this transitional time, the price remained five cents but now, though smaller in size, it costs a bit more than a nickel.

Occasionally, I still purchase some thin mints, especially the Junior Mints in a box because they are “cool and quite refreshing.” But I doubt I shall ever find a pink center. If I do, considering the atmosphere of today, I might wind up calling the Health Department.

I Remember Mama

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There was a television show in the 1950’s, based on a movie (which I had seen), called “I Remember Mama.” It was the story of an immigrant family and their life since coming to the United States. The story was told by the daughter who aspired to be a writer and the focus was on Mama, the bulwark of the family. It was the TV show that got me started in writing about my experiences and was an influence in guiding me in the basic styles of personal writing.

As we all do, I remember my mom. She passed a long time ago, but the memory of her is deep within my heart. Mom was the mediator between my father and I (even though she sided with him most of the time). She softened the blows of his displeasure and although it was the old man’s castle, she ran it.

Although I was father’s son, I was mom’s child. I was closer to my mother than my father, not only because he worked long hours, six days a week at times, but because of his strictness and emotional distance. Dad was more the law giver and punisher, coming home and meting out disciplinary measures (usually applied to my rear end with a fraternity paddle), while mom was the diplomat always looking for peaceful solutions to matters at hand.

Mom would take me with her on the daily trips to the grocery store, meat market, variety store and, occasionally, to her lady friends homes where they would discuss neighborhood politics while I was kept busy with coloring books, milk and cookies.

When my two sisters came along, separated by two years, time with mom was shared but she always had enough love for all of us. We were clothed, fed, and repaired when broken, Having three kids kept mom busy around the house so lady friends sometimes visited her, and for us, while they chatted, it was either the television or more coloring books.

Mom would mete out discipline for minor infractions like a swift hand to the rear or perhaps temporary grounding, but the biggest fear was committing an offense that would cause her to utter those ominous words, “Just wait until your father gets home!”

Making my mother cry was the most miserable and emotionally painful experience I had as a youngster. On a few occasions, my belligerence and and backtalk caused her to shed tears. Making mom cry brought me to the lowest depths of my existence and all the “I’m sorrys” did not compensate for the miserable feeling within me. After profuse apologies and my own tears of repentance, only her hug of forgiveness could redeem my soul from self-hate in hurting her.

Mom changed my diapers (and that was way back before disposable ones), bathed me, healed my scrapes and scratches and even prayed with me. She shared her life because I was part of her and she, now, is still a part of me. There are occasions, such as Mothers Day, when her absence is more strongly felt and there have been times when I raised my eyes to heaven to talk with her.

Some believe that once you are dead, you are no longer involved in the world of the living and some believe departed souls cannot see or hear us any longer. Perhaps. As for myself, I believe that God has a special place in his heart for mothers and, especially on Mothers Day, even if He doesn’t let them see or hear us, I think He lets them know, somehow, that we are thinking of them.

Goober and Grape

My mom made great peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Skippy smooth peanut butter and Welch’s grape jelly on Wonder bread. Always. Her method of application was no doubt influenced by the Great Depression in this country that she lived through.

There were some carry-over traditions that mom utilized such as, instead of a candy bar, if we wanted something sweet, she took a single slice of white bread lightly spread with room temperature butter and sprinkled with sugar on top. This is what we got to satisfy a mid-day sweet tooth. But it was the peanut butter and jelly sandwich that was her work of lunchtime art.

Three slices of bread were used. The first slice was evenly spread with Skippy, right up to the crusts. The second slice was then placed on top and it was spread with a thin coating of grape jelly, again, to the crusts. The third slice was placed on top and the sandwich was then cut crossways, corner to corner, into four triangular pieces.

When my cousin came over to play, we would always have these sandwiches for lunch with a glass of milk. Once, and only once, while at my cousin’s house, we asked his mom to make a PB&J sandwich.

Being less skimpy, as well as artistic, Aunt Bonnie glopped the peanut butter in the center of the slice of bread followed by another huge glop of grape jelly (I guess those foodstuffs were standard in a 1950’s cupboard) then she placed another slice on top and pressed down combining both ingredients into a purple and brown schmutz that oozed out between the crusts of bread onto the plate.

The sandwich was, in comparison to my mom’s, more generous. Peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth as portions of grape jelly gathered on my fingers and chin and dripped onto my tee shirt. This never happened with my mom’s thinly spread, bread-slice secured, separately layered, tiered creation.

Mom was a traditional homemaker of the 1950’s and a great cook. She made apple and cherry pies from scratch using the fruit from the trees that grew in our back yard. She made standing rib roasts, pot roast and other culinary delights around the holidays and special occasions. Sunday meals took hours of preparation beginning after our return from church. But it is her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that figure predominately in my mind.

I guess it was because they were made especially for me when I came hope from school for lunch or during the summer months when I played with friends in the yard. At least twice a week I had them and maybe that’s a reason it has a strong tie to my childhood. It was a constant, a stabilizing factor to be relied upon.

I tried making one of those sandwiches like mom made a few years ago being certain I used Skippy smooth peanut butter and Welch’s grape jelly on Wonder bread. I prepared it according to her specifications and quantities and I even cut it corner to corner into four triangular shapes and although it brought back memories, it just didn’t taste the same. It was missing one important ingredient. Her love.

MAD Memories

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I learned about satire and parody from MAD magazine; I learned fear and pain from my father. The two sometimes went hand in hand.

At age ten, I started reading MAD magazine, a comic book my friend Rich discovered. We thought it was neat because it had characters like Superdooperman, the Lone Stranger and Little Annie Fannie…ooops, wait a minute, Annie was in Playboy. Sorry.

The government got involved with the content of MAD, as well as other comics like Vault of Horror and Tales from the Crypt, as not being appropriate for small fertile minds. They instituted the Comics Code Authority which regulated and approved comic content for kids with impressionable minds. Thus, MAD went from a comic book format to magazine in 1956, escaping the regulators, and we kids continued to purchase it along with Donald Duck and Superman, explaining the magazine was “for my older brother.”

MAD was a magazine of wit, satire, parody and “humor in a jugular vein.” Its creative contributors, Ernie Kovaks, Andy Griffith, Bob and Ray, Sid Caesar and a host of others, along with the regulars like Harvey Kurtzman, filled the pages with a world of cutting edge writing and drawing and played a key role in my wanting to be a writer, honing my developing sense of humor.

My father did not understand MAD. I dont think he ever took the time to really read it, just as he automatically condemned my taste in music (Perez Prado, the Weavers, Dave Brubeck). He never strayed from the regimented path he created for himself; if it wasn’t on Hit Parade ( a weekly top ten TV show), it wasn’t music worth listening to. That fell apart when the show, not by choice, by 1956, had to play the top ten which included Elvis Presley. He watched as the popularity of songs flipped between Patti Page and Mario Lanza to the Rock and Roll genre almost overnight. Within a short time, because of this change, the show went off the air.

The world was changing and my father could not adapt. Things he liked were becoming passe, things he believed in were being challenged and things he hoped for, like a son who would mature into his image of what a son should be, were being attacked. The world was changing and, unlike a reed in the wind, he could not bend. MAD exposed this world of change, poking fun at it, ridiculing it and explaining it in a humorous way. It became my magazine of choice, hidden from my father, throughout the late 1950’s.

If my father caught me reading a MAD magazine after banning it from the house, he would rip it to shreds and then punish me for my disobedience. This was even after a visiting priest to our house was confronted by my father asking for comment of the content within its pages. He fully expected the priest to agree with him as to the magazine being subversive.

The priest was there because I had made inquiry as to attending the seminary after graduation from grade school. The middle aged priest surprised my father and mother (and me too!) when he responded by explaining that even though the magazine touched on sensitive topics at times, it did so with restraint and intelligence and reflected a changing society and was not considered contraband in the seminary where it was read by some to gain insight into American culture. Dad was speechless.

My parents were hoping I would become a priest, and that day in 1959 dashed their concepts of a Bing Crosby, Father O’Malley type character and instead gave them a vision of Father Groucho, the unorthodox vestment wearing smart-mouth, holding a crucifix in one hand and a seltzer bottle in the other.

I was growing up, becoming my own person, and my father didn’t understand. The changing world, for me, did not alter fundamental family values I had been taught, but questioned society and government roles in managing and defining them. My world was expanding. Dad’s world was no longer flat. The Times they were a-changing.

Sharing the Past

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When the Army shipped me off to Viet Nam in 1967, my father threw out everything I had collected from birth: the comic books, Space Patrol, Space Cadet, Captain Video and other TV premiums plus Mars Attacks, baseball and other trading cards, even the well hidden (I thought) Playboys and Mad magazines were all unceremoniously tossed in the trash. Mementos of a childhood lost forever. Why he did it, I never knew. Maybe he thought I wasn’t coming home from the war. That no doubt had a bearing on my becoming a dealer in collectibles and nostalgia items, trying to reassemble my childhood memories.

I had a store in the early 1980’s located on Central Avenue just South of Irving Park called Golden Age Nostalgia, which was filled with comic books, radio and TV premiums, movie posters and other paraphernalia. It was a well known stop for collectors back in the day. There are only two existing photos of the exterior and none of the interior which I regret. I eventually sold the inventory, closed the store and later opened the Vietnam War Museum (another story).

What a wonderful life of experiences it has been and I want to tell you why I share these things with you now. My father never talked much about his childhood or our family heritage. I don’t know much about our roots or my parents experiences growing up, and what I do know I had to find out for myself. I never knew Great grandpa Louie had his own beer business at the turn of the century until I discovered an old beer bottle with our surname on it at the flea market and did some research.

I have learned that it is beneficial to share your memories, your history; as my son would say, “tell your story.” Others benefit and can be inspired or encouraged through our sharing of personal experiences.

I therefore encourage you also to “tell your story.” Share your experiences with family and friends. Find out what you can about your family history and write it down, keep a record and save a few heirlooms for posterity. Your children and their children will one day thank you.