The Village Squire, 1981-07, Page 18two -fifty
Just as there is a clear difference between a rambling old farm
house and an inner city warehouse, so, too, is there a sharp
contrast between the auctioneers and auctions run at each. At
the rural setting, though not exclusively attended by the
stereotypical overall -clad, straw -hatted easy-going country folk,
the atmosphere is, well, casual. There might be overalls in the
city, but only because they are late of fashion, hardly a practical
choice. In the urban auction, the competition is a stranger. Back
on the farm, the bidding battle is among familiar faces. And, at
least in the case of Ron Gethke and Paul Gardner, the variant
styles are reflected in the auctioneers.
The country caller
The laneway is a couple hundred yards long, and to ensure an
uncomplicated departure, you park along the concession road
and travel in by foot. Part way in, an unfamiliar car with an
unfamiliar driver pulls up, stops, and sits there. The man behind
the wheel is a portly old fellow in overalls who somehow
manages to transmit his motionless offer for free passage into
the auction. By the time the thirty second journey ends, you've
got a lot of the driver's life history, and a little bit of Ron
Gethke's, auctioneer.
"Yip, come to these things quite regular," the man replies to
the obvious first question.
"Yip, I farm," is the next answer. "Well, really, I live in
Mitchell now, but I still work on the farm." The visit to the
auction is a pause for pleasure in the middle of farming's busy
spring, but the fellow is a Gethke fan. "Yip. I was at his first
one," he says with pride. "Must be fifteen years ago if it's a
day.'
'Tis a day. Gethke has been calling, entertaining, prodding,
goading and selling since 1966. "I really like it," he admits. "I
always thought I wanted to do it. It's like a comedian. You've got
to move them, you've got to get people's emotions moving."
To do that, it helps that he's in his own environment when on
the farm. In fact, as a second occupation, he raises Percherons,
heavy draft horses. At our first meeting, he was chatting with a
group of early arrivals, and he could have been any one of them.
Decked out in an unflashy windbreaker and old saggy blue jeans,
two -fifty
he doesn't stand out.
Except, that is, for the hat and cane. The yellow-orange felt
hat, which he moves about on his head like a frantic third base
coach contorts to give a batter signals, and the cane, which he
twists and turns, jabs and thrusts and wraps about his neck as if
he were about to hang himself, are his props.
Vaudeville act aside, one still needs a motorized tongue and in
Gethke's style, a rapid wit. "The thing is," he notes, in his
physiological interpretation of his trade, "you have to get it in
your eyes and ears and out your mouth." The auctioneer's
performances seldom last less than three hours, so the engine
has to be well -tuned and energy-efficient.
With the explosion of interest in antiques in the past two
decades, the proliferation of auctions and active bidders, it has
become more difficult to find that special item for a ridiculously
low price. Prospective buyers must know the value of the
articles they want. It is strictly cash up front and, in country
jargon, Gethke says, "Buyers beware." The customer who
hasn't done his homework is the one who fails the test, and
overpays. But that is all part of the game.
"One old fellow asked me once if there were any guarantees,"
PG. 16 VILLAGE SQUIRE/JULY 1981