Like a Caveman

The man was probably 6’4” tall, semi-lean, 70-something years of age, wearing a black Vietnam vet ball cap decorated with a bar of campaign ribbons. His hair, which he wore in a ponytail to his shoulders, was purely grey. He had a full beard with a braid that hung 10” down the front of his powder blue tee-shirt. The man was a talker. He stood there, in front of the cash register, talking about everything, including politics and religion. His jeans were new and blue as was the square-cut Levi jacket he wore upon his steal, broad shoulders. He and his grey-haired and slightly agitated wife, who wandered about in a coat of many colors, were on their way to California to see their grandson graduate from basic training with the Marine Corps.

I learned that he was a “Picker,” which meant in his words, “I travel the length and width of the Shenandoah Valley searching out auctions, second-hand stores, junk shops, antique malls, or someone’s back yard for something to buy, sell, or trade.” I liked him right away. He had the gregarious nature needed to talk people out of their prized “yard art.” Mr. Picker introduced himself as Walter Rawlings and his wife, the lady who slipped back out the front door as soon as he began rambling, was Dareen. “Dareen is easily embarrassed,” said Walter, “She wanders off the minute I start sharing my point of view.” “I see that,” I said. “I often embarrass my wife as well---it's something that comes naturally to our gender.” My Picker buddy told me that he specialized in motorcycle parts, ball point pens, guns, and swords. “I also dabble in Indian jewelry, rugs, and baskets, if I think I can make a dollar,” he said.

Just then, Dareen wandered back in and began to look through the cases. Then, following some thread of conversation that I had missed, Walter said, “I love Indians, especially the ones out here---they are like Cave Men.” I saw Priscilla, who was sitting at her desk marking jewelry and listening in for the entertainment value, stiffen and look up in astonishment. “Like a Cave man?” I queried laughing out loud. “You might want to explain yourself.” Dareen stopped in her tracks, snorted her contempt at the comment, and again headed for the door. “Oh shoot!” said Walter as he noticed his wife’s departure and Priscilla’s reaction. “I really didn’t mean to sound condescending. I have always admired how Native people have adapted to such a harsh and seemingly inhospitable environment. It takes individuals who are intimately in touch with the land and nature to survive out here. Like our earliest ancestors, like a caveman.” “Well,” I countered, thinking of a reply my wife Laurie made to me concerning a similar comment. “Like your earliest ancestors maybe, not mine.”

Mr. Rawlings furrowed his brow and gave me a quizzical look. “Anyway,” I said, “Priscilla’s cave has an HVAC system, modern appliances, and a big-screen satellite TV. She’s not anything like a Neanderthal Native.” It was Priscilla’s turn to snort in disgust. She reached across and pulled the office door closed, shutting us out of sight and mind. “Now look what you’ve done.” I told the Picker. “Or you!” He replied. “You know,” said Walter changing the subject, “I often come across items just exactly like you carry here, in this store.” “Do you?” I queried, “Are you sure about that? There can be a huge disparity in quality and value from one piece to the next.” Steve and I often get people in the trading post that claim the same thing, but when it comes right down to the nutty-nitty-gritty they seldom are.

“Yeah well,” said Walter, “I know you're right, so I have a proposition for you. How about when I come across something interesting, I send you images and you give me an opinion and value? If I buy it, I will give you first option at a fair price. Whadda yah think?” “Well Walter,” I replied, “let me tell you a story. A hunting outfitter I know wanted to gauge the number of big deer and elk on our Spring Creek property. The ground is located north of Monticello, Utah. The goal was to discover if it would be a viable hunting area. Jerry set up a field camera with the capability of sending live images each time a trophy animal stepped in front of it. When he asked me if I would like to be linked, I opted in. I gave him my cell phone number and the fun began. The problem was that the camera was so sensitive that it picked up everything from butterflies, birds, and prairie dogs to vehicles traveling the highway a mile away. Big game was a rarity indeed, and it wasn’t long before my phone “blew-up” with images. After two days and hundreds of pictures later, I severed the link.”

The Picker listened to my story, waved it off, and proceeded with his pitch. I finally told Walter that because he had no initial idea as to the quality and value of the art that we would be starting at ground zero. I really wasn’t interested in his scheme because I didn’t have the time, or patience, to educate him from a distance. Walter was persistent, but I was simply not sold on the idea. I cannot gather enough information from an image. I need to view the item from every possible angle---heft it, touch it, smell it, and yes, even taste it sometimes. I need my entire sensory array to analyze an object. Walter was not giving in, not until Dareen stuck her head back in the door and said, “Get in the car, Cave Man. Let’s hit the trail!” Just before he left, the Picker grabbed one of my cards and as he went out the door he said, “I’ll e-mail images.”