The auction sale, aforementioned, in the swaybacked building at the end of the once-was Royal Winter Fair building, was held each Saturday from 11am until noon.
As the market closed by 1pm., most vendors were sold out by noon. So it was not unusual for the males of the family to congregate in the sale area to socialize and see what price the auctioneer’s hammer fell on what object.
Bear in mind that the Second World War was not yet over, and spare cash had not returned to the have-nots’ pockets. It was not unusual for a hardwood table and four matching chairs to sell for as little as $4. Times were definitely hopeful but certainly not the best.
I, seven years old at the time, clung to my father’s hand and gazed at the bowed roof rafters, as little elbow room was left by the crowd that had gathered. As the story goes, my father had apparently nodded in recognition to a friend who, from behind the auctioneer, had mouthed the words “Hi, Charlie.” Having twigged the eye of the auctioneer, down came his hammer as he bellowed, “Sold.”
The prelude to the wham of the auctioneer’s hammer in his singsong voice was, “Who’s going to give me a bid on these beautiful birds in this wonderful gilded cage?” Dropping rapidly from five, to four, to three, to two, ended with the bellow “Sold,” sealing my father’s illegitimate purchase.
What was unintentionally bought was a pair of canaries, a cage and a beautiful ornate wrought iron stand. It had been owned by an elderly English woman, who had come to Canada to avoid the blitz of the war. Having passed away, her birds ended up on the auction block.
My father, a British Home Child, must have sprung from an exceptionally strong background, for he failed to budge from his unintentional purchase. His thumb poked me in the ribs as he muttered, “Go get two dollars from your mother.”
Having seen by this time what he had purchased, I excitedly scampered in to my mother at the market stand and dancing up and down blurted, “Dad’s bought a pair of parrots. He needs two dollars.”
Words can’t explain the expression on my mother’s face, but it was the one and only time that I heard my mother use expressive hard and loud language while out in public, as she questioned, “What in God’s name are we going to do with a pair of parrots?”
The story doesn’t end there. The cage and stand, when cleaned up, was gilded in gold, and it sold to one of our egg route customers for $35. Taxes paid on the farm that year were $28.
My mother was refunded the $2, and there was enough left over to buy me a chunk of hardware cloth big enough to build a good-sized breeding cage. The canaries were officially given to me for my eighth birthday.
I have been hooked on them ever since.
Take care, ‘cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105