The shop
Kermit Hinkle, an old school craftsman, passed away some over a year ago. A widower, he made it to 92. Unfortunately, I didn’t see much of him in his last few years. My connection with him came about because he sharpened saw blades, a service I occasionally needed. He provided it well, doing excellent quality work at an extremely reasonable price.
When I dropped off or picked up a blade or two, it would take a while, because he loved to show off his shop and talk about his latest projects. Likewise, he couldn’t resist talking about his gardening efforts, which resulted in both floral and edible forms of produce.
The auction of his estate was held the other day. Despite it being a hard-edged, cold day, I went to the house. I’d been thinking it would be nice to have a tool or two which Kermit had used and diligently maintained. Or should I say, had lovingly taken care of.
His house was sold quickly, in ten minutes or less. Then it was on to his garage and workshop. In typical auction company modus operandi, the “littles” were grouped into lots for convenience – a few clamps here, an assortment of hand tools there, some garden items in a corner, and so on. It didn’t appear that much if any thought had been given to putting things into batches.
When we – the auction team and a dozen or so older guys – moved on to Kermit’s compact shop building, “it” hit me and I knew I wouldn’t be able to make a bid in pursuit of anything from his collection. The entropy factor had been accelerating over the last several years of Kermit’s life. The shop was packed with way too much stuff and it had degenerated into dusty, grimy disarray. Disarray, of course, is always at its worst when it involves a collection of things crammed into too little space.
So, the auctioneer dealt with the situation in what must have seemed like the only practical, expedient manner. Everything between a vaguely designated Point A and Point B – perhaps one half of a wall, or one corner of the shop, loosely speaking, was offered as “Lot 42” or whatever. He was an efficient auctioneer and didn’t waste any time trying to push bidding beyond its natural bounds or comfort zone. Each lot typically sold within a couple minutes, often for five or ten dollars, occasionally $15 or $20.
It was over in 45 minutes. I stepped out into the cold again, my bidder number still safely in my pocket. Walking to the car, I found myself wondering what Kermit would’ve thought if he’d been there. No ... not really wondering. For him, I’m sure the stuff was priceless.
The shop
Kermit Hinkle, an old school craftsman, passed away some over a year ago. A widower, he made it to 92. Unfortunately, I didn’t see much of him in his last few years. My connection with him came about because he sharpened saw blades, a service I occasionally needed. He provided it well, doing excellent quality work at an extremely reasonable price.
When I dropped off or picked up a blade or two, it would take a while, because he loved to show off his shop and talk about his latest projects. Likewise, he couldn’t resist talking about his gardening efforts, which resulted in both floral and edible forms of produce.
The auction of his estate was held the other day. Despite it being a hard-edged, cold day, I went to the house. I’d been thinking it would be nice to have a tool or two which Kermit had used and diligently maintained. Or should I say, had lovingly taken care of.
His house was sold quickly, in ten minutes or less. Then it was on to his garage and workshop. In typical auction company modus operandi, the “littles” were grouped into lots for convenience – a few clamps here, an assortment of hand tools there, some garden items in a corner, and so on. It didn’t appear that much if any thought had been given to putting things into batches.
When we – the auction team and a dozen or so older guys – moved on to Kermit’s compact shop building, “it” hit me and I knew I wouldn’t be able to make a bid in pursuit of anything from his collection. The entropy factor had been accelerating over the last several years of Kermit’s life. The shop was packed with way too much stuff and it had degenerated into dusty, grimy disarray. Disarray, of course, is always at its worst when it involves a collection of things crammed into too little space.
So, the auctioneer dealt with the situation in what must have seemed like the only practical, expedient manner. Everything between a vaguely designated Point A and Point B – perhaps one half of a wall, or one corner of the shop, loosely speaking, was offered as “Lot 42” or whatever. He was an efficient auctioneer and didn’t waste any time trying to push bidding beyond its natural bounds or comfort zone. Each lot typically sold within a couple minutes, often for five or ten dollars, occasionally $15 or $20.
It was over in 45 minutes. I stepped out into the cold again, my bidder number still safely in my pocket. Walking to the car, I found myself wondering what Kermit would’ve thought if he’d been there. No ... not really wondering. For him, I’m sure the stuff was priceless.