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Saturday, August 10, 2013

 


EBAY HOARD

2 of a bargain mixed lot.  it also had some dominoes of the same design.


 

SHABBY LURE

 

LANDS & PEOPLES

 

EBAY OBJECTS

 

AUDOBON DEAD BIRDS

 

ARNE IN WI

 


THE 2%

how about a tie to minimum wages to CEO pay. or a CEO maximum wage.

 

SATURDAY INQUISITION BLOGGING

necklace for a nere-do-well


 

ARNE PIC

 

ARNE IN WI

 

AUDOBON DEAD BIRDS

 


EBAY OBJECT

 

KITTY PRON

 

LANDS & PEOPLES

 

CANDY SQUIRREL

 

SATURN'S DAY BUTTER STAMP BLOGGING

Friday, August 09, 2013

 


WET ANIMALS

 
METAL LURE


 

LANDS & PEOPLES

 

EBAY OBJECT



 

AUDOBON DEAD BIRDS


 

ARNE IN WI

 

FRIDAY ART BLOGGING

dahmer 2


 

ARNE PIC


 

ARNE IN WI

 

AUDOBN DEAD BIRDS


 

CAR BLING

bugatti

 

EBAY OBJECTS

 

KITTY PRON

 

LANDS & PEOPLES

 

BABEE SQUIRRELITO 


 
FRIG'S DAY FAN BLOGGING

rare bank teller fan.



Thursday, August 08, 2013

 
PRETTY FLOWER



 
BOMBER LURES


 

LANDS & PEOPLES

 

ESTATE SALE TOUR 

too far









 
EBAY OBJECT

 
341 OBJECT

ANTIQUE FOLK ART wooden PLAYHOUSE + SHED- MODEL RR. 1890-1910- $16

After promising to list at least one or two of the folk art buildings, sheds, tunnels and other incrediblycountry primitive village pieces I recently discovered, I got busy with other work I became distracted by old memories of shacks and sheds and the people I knew many years ago who called them home.

 
I must have wasted two days, off and on, wondering what ever happened to old man Hunter Hawkins, “Hawk” we all called him. He lived in just such a cabin within twenty feet of the Eel River in southern Indiana. Most folks were afraid of him, but I found his nasty openness refreshing. Now and again I’d show up about daylight, and we’d either go fishing or sit out back. He’d talk. I’d listen.

 

ven as a kid, I was an early riser, and more than once I had to pound on his door to wake him . . . he drank a little. One morning in particular is branded in my memory; the morning I banged on his door and he hollered, “It ain’t locked.”
He was sitting on a lard can rolling up the cuffs of his church-sale fishing pants. We stepped outside just as the sun broke through the trees along Amos Ridge.
Hawk let the screen door close behind him . . or not close; it didn’t matter one way or the other to him. He said if he really cared, he’d “let one of them do-gooders from the church come out and fix the spring.” Actually, there was no fixing to it. It rusted away a couple years after his wife quit the choir, sat down in her chair, and finally “drifted off to Glory,” as she’d been promising to do since Hawk quit the mill and made a full-time job of planning the murder of Coy W. “Doc” Clay MD.

 
All that and more, he had confided in me after finishing off a pint of cheap whisky, and a kid doesn’t forget something like that. Forty years making flyswatters in a windowless block building out behind the mill does strange things to a man.  For one thing, he had assembled the largest flyswatter collection “in the world,” according to him.

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