It was a Saturday morning auction like any other.
By nine o’clock, the grass parking area, carefully cordoned off from the rest of the yard with orange “warning” tape, was already packed with pick-up trucks, a few cars, and an Amish horse carriage — a typical fleet for Perry County.
Savory smoke billowed from the food concession trailer. A few early birds were already tucking into juicy breakfast burgers. The odor of cheese steak was in the air.
The registration desk was set up in a shady spot near the auctioneer’s platform. We gave our name and address, and were issued a bidding card: number 69.
The auctioneer took the stage, made a few announcements about the day’s schedule, then got the ball rolling. His shopworn patter was peppered, from time to time, with gentle insults and salty little jokes, the kind of humor that says, “It’s going to be a long day, folks. Let’s all try to make the best of it.”
A steady procession of goods came under his gavel, the worldly belongings of the man whose estate was being sold that day.
The crowd soon resolved itself into professional buyers, collectors, amateurs, gawkers, and junk men. An Amish farmer snapped up most of the nail guns and collated nails. A few grizzled old-timers, eyeing each other like sharks, competed for choice lots of metal scrap. At times, the bidding was fast and furious. At others, the auctioneer had to beg for a bid of a single dollar.
As the sun rose and the yard began to fill with July heat, the proceedings sagged a bit, but a few minutes after noon, the auctioneer snapped everyone back to attention. The house and land were about to be sold. It was time for the main event.
The bidding took off. The auctioneer hopped and croaked like an outraged toad, waving his arms, swinging the microphone, preaching the gospel of “you snooze, you lose.” The price would climb and climb until finally one of the bidders would drop out. The entire property – and all of us on it – would seem to float in mid-air for a few moments. Is this the final price? Really? Is that all? The auctioneer would strafe the crowd with a new fusillade of numbers. Then, at the last possible second, another bidder would jump in, and the price would start climbing again. Minutes ticked by when the only sound was the auctioneer’s endlessly repeated warning cry, which all but smothered the quiet and intense consultations among the bidders.
When the gavel finally came down, everyone clapped, as people do when something big sells. We all felt a sense of relief. The auctioneer took a long sip of coffee. The moment of silence was a welcome reprieve.
As I said, this auction was no different from any other Perry County auction, with two exceptions: it was happening next door to our house on St. Peters Church Road; and the worldly goods were those of our dear departed friend Daniel Miller.
Some of you will remember how, almost exactly a year ago, on August 11th, 2009, the story broke about Dan’s shooting. Initially misreported as a “home invasion,” the local media eventually caught up to the fact that Dan was a fine, upstanding citizen, loved by many, friend to many more.
I was moved to write an appreciation of Dan in these pages, and then was even more deeply moved when Dan’s mother, Elaine Sweger, invited me to read that column at the funeral.
It was strange and painful to watch Dan’s garage, which had been such a welcoming jumble of tools, projects, building supplies, and scavenged materials, slowly empty out over the course of the auction. How many times had I wandered over to that garage in search of a bit of lawnmower fuel line, say, or an extremely large socket wrench, or an especially shallow electrical junction box, only to have Dan produce exactly what I needed from some dark corner like a magician?
I wanted something to remember him by, so I bought three of his tool boxes, which were dented and dinged by many years of hard use. Two for me, one for my daughter. They’ll be a good way to keep him with us.
Over the course of that long auction day, there were countless flashes of recognition – I remember Dan using that! – as the remainder of his possessions, large and small, new and old, valuable and not, were parceled out to the highest bidder.
It was a sad and sobering reminder of what we can – and can’t – take with us.
This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 12 August 2010
For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com
