bidder dust

I stop at an auction house on the way home from work on Tuesday mornings. It is at the polar opposite end of the spectrum from Sotheby's, selling used furniture and other leftovers. The place swarms with rude bidders, all of whom are experts on all subjects. I keep to myself and throw a few elbows when the occasional vulture tries to invade my personal space as I look at an item.

My interest at this auction is the usual stuff I enjoy, gas station signs, old magazines and photographs for the blog.

The irony of life is played out every Tuesday. No matter how great your life was, how much you accomplished and all the adventures you had, it all ends up here.

Today I saw the life of a guy who emigrated from Gmund, Austria after the war. He was a Doctor in Mathematics, worked at Pratt & Whitney and had a fine home in Glastonbury. Ski trips, German Shephards and flower gardens were his main enjoyments. He seemed like a nice man who had children, travelled the World and was respected in his field of work.

How does an example of the American Dream have the glories of his life end up in a dusty box in a rundown supermarket auction?

I guess it is just a reminder to me that death awaits us all, and the true glory is to be kind to your family and friends while you are still breathing. That you can't put in a shoebox.

This was the coolest thing at the auction today. I had a race set like this when I was very young. Playing with it is my first memory of my father, and the first heartbreak of dead batteries.