Ever since I can
remember, my grandfather has collected antiques. For twenty years, on every visit to his farm,
I would play with the antique toys, look at license plates from all fifty
states, see a wall with over 20,000 locks and keys, and I would play in his
fully restored barbershop.
About once a year, I would get to visit the rural
Kansas farm where my father and grandfather grew up. The land is almost totally unchanged for
eighty years, and I have grown to know how to navigate my way on the unmarked
dusty washboard roads leading to my grandparent’s farm. The main driveway is shaded by ancient cedar
trees, which were planted by my great-great grandfather when he first built the
homestead. These trees cloak the main
house and barns until you just about reach the house. Often, a dog or two would come greet you with
a canine grin and some hearty barking.
And of course, there would be the familiar two relatives always happy to
see their grandchildren.
Every visit,
Grandpa would want to show me what was new in his collection. And even if it wasn’t new, he still took
pride in showing it off. A tour through
the Woolf ‘museums’ is a nostalgic overload.
Barns that once housed horses and cows now house shelves and cabinets;
all full. Children of the Great
Depression era will delight in the Gem-Roller organ, which is still ready to
crank out its scratchy, tinny version of ‘Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries”. People of different ages will remember toting
metal lunch boxes with pictures of the Lone Ranger or Strawberry Shortcake to
school. And maybe, many of you would
laugh at the old telephone switchboard in this age of wireless phones and
instant communication. My grandfather is
a dedicated collector. He has a medical
examining table and instruments in one of the barns. And he will be quick to tell you that he was
born on that very table eighty-six years ago.
My grandfather
never talked much to me about, well, anything.
He is the strong silent type. For
an English project, we had to conduct a life interview. I chose my grandfather, because he is one of
the most interesting people I know. This
was the first opportunity I had to talk with him on a very personal level.
The information I
learned from him in that one-hour interview was far more copious that all that
I had learned in my whole twenty years.
He told me almost everything about his life; how he grew up, how he met
my grandmother, and most importantly, how he started collecting.
“So, how did you
meet Grandma?”
“Well, I saw her
in church. And she was with another
fellow then. I thought to myself, ‘she
shouldn’t be with him, she should be with me.’”
My grandfather chuckled his low, scratchy laugh.
I never knew why Grandpa had to walk
with a cane, or why he didn’t farm anymore.
All I knew was that he’d had an accident long ago. My father told me the story later when
Grandpa wouldn’t. My grandfather used to
drive a car with a crank on the front.
While he was driving, a tree fell in front of the car, catching the
hook, and catapulting the car on top of him.
The accident broke his back.
Although he was able to walk again, he would never be able to farm the
land like he wanted to. As a child of
the Depression, he told me that, “I couldn’t just sit around and do
nothing. I had to work.” Work was all he knew. Although many people in today’s day would
love to be able to sit around and do nothing, my grandfather could not. The only way to make sure you had food was to
work. So he bought a piece of furniture
and fixed it up and sold it. And so his
collection grew, piece by piece. Any
antique farm tool up for auction, my grandfather probably bought it, and if he
didn’t buy it; he probably already had one.
He dedicated most of his life to working with, collecting, and restoring antiques. They were what kept him
going. And now, in his old age, he can
tell you most anything about Kansas farming history. Even better than that, he can show you.
