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The Karate Auctioneer
by Augi Garred

Growing up in the lush farmlands of Michigan, I had listened attentively to my father’s storiesof his favorite uncle, Leroy, the auctioneer.

Uncle Leroy, a very tall and wide man, lived on a big farm, drove a white Cadillac, and was married to aunt Alice, a registered nurse. Their only child, John, was slightly psychotic with a penchant for wrestling. Every time we visited them, I was told over and over why I should be a wrestler and had to prove my worth by going to the mat with John. If you’ve never been folded into a chicken wing or half nelson by a trained wrestler, be thankful. It’s nothing to aspire to, especially when the wrestling mat is uncle Leroy’s industrial grade shag carpet. Ouch.

One time, while visiting and innocently petting their big dog, he suddenly lunged at my head and nearly bit out my eyeball.

To say the least, there was a certain amount of fear and mystery surrounding my uncle and I was happy to leave it that way.

Though my uncle’s forte was livestock auctioneering, I had the strange opportunity to see him perform once (and only once) - on the day of my grandparent’s estate sale.

This day stands out in my mind for a few reasons. The first, being only 17 and having just watched my grandmother laid to rest, it was surreal. Seeing all my grandparent’s belongings that they had cherished through those years sitting on tables for strangers to see, to touch, to ponder having in their own homes - that wasn’t something I’d ever imagined happening. The second, I inherited my grandfather’s overcoat that day, which I wore with pride for several years. And third, in complete contrast to this feast for the soul, the amazing performance I was about to witness.

Now, I do not claim to have any legitimate knowledge regarding the art of auctioneering, but let me tell you something - watching my uncle and his son, John, in action, was very entertaining; a sight to remember; and a great mystery unveiled.

Before I tell you more, let me give you a crash course in auctioneering. There are three parties - the auctioneer who calls out the price and keeps the rhythm flowing, the reader who assists the auctioneer to point out bidders, and the bidders themselves with checkbooks in hand, ready to buy anything that appears on the stand. Simple stuff, right?

As a kid watching an auction on TV one time, I was fascinated by the phrasing of the auctioneer’s pitch. "Do I hear 75…wana wana wana wah wana wana wah yah…75!"

"What the hell is he saying in between dollar amounts?" I thought to myself. "I must know the secret!" Little did I know that I was soon to discover the answer.

Uncle Leroy and my cousin John took the art of auctioneering to an entirely new level. Dressed in a pair of oversized bib overhauls with sweat forming on his dark and massive brow, Leroy stood in front of the hot, swarming crowd, commanding attention by his presence alone. John, uncle Leroy’s reader, was standing close-by in a zen-like state, immovable, wearing a beat up John Deere baseball cap and a pair of shooting glasses hiding his steely blue eyes; the years of wrestling apparent in his muscular arms. He looked like Bono, but with an agricultural bent. Ok. He didn’t look anything like Bono. Sounded good though, didn’t it?

The crowd’s pulse, feeling anxious in their wait, increased rapidly as the first item came up for sale…"Do I hear 50? bottla-beer bottla-beer bottla-beer bottla-beer…"
"So that’s what they say!" Or so I imagined to myself.
And, as the first person raised their hand to bid, John made a few lightning fast karate-like gyrations and shouted a big "Ha !!!" as he chop-aimed his best Bruce Lee fist at the bidder, singling them out from the crowd. Then a HA!, and another HA!, as uncle Leroy rat-a-tat-tatted his percussive call to the mass, creating a frenzy in the crowd of oversized widows and mullet-topped men, willing to buy anything if the price was right.
This madness went on all day long until everything was sold, including a box of rusty old nails and my grandmother’s secret baked bean recipe.

The sun sat across my grandparent’s horse farm as the last of the crowd walked away, satiated by their finds, slowly looking through the scrap bins for any little trinket left behind.
To me, this fascination with buying the odds and ends of my grandparents possessions seemed futile; even morbid. But then I thought, how nice that someone else might have these kitschy little things sitting in their homes, appreciating them in a new way, and allowing a little piece of my grandparent’s history and personality to transcend their own mortality.

Though I too, was exhausted from the day’s events, my last moments on my grandparent’s farm were with wider eyes…remembering the sounds of my aunts and uncles conversing; climbing the big walnut tree to spy on my cousins; getting blamed for everything that never happened; and nearly falling off a galloping horse.

Though Charlie, the old horse, would never roam those fields again, I would always remember these things and cherish them like possessions - possessions that no one, not even uncle Leroy in his best auction yawl, could ever wrestle from my mind.

"Do I hear 55, 55 bottla-beer bottla-beer bottla-beer bottla-beer…"

"Ha!"