Hobbyhorse

In Tritown, you are what you collect

by Sally Cragin

Illustration by Lennie Peterson

You'll find dedicated hobbyists in Tritown. In part, it's a survival mechanism that helps them endure long, sullen winters. There's no interest group too tiny, no object too rare, no game too obscure that doesn't have followers, collectors, or enthusiasts. A quick scan of the PennySaver, the bargain-hunting classified section of the Tritown Bugle reveals flotsam and jetsam for sale, trade, or take-it-away-please.

Delia Ellis Bell the Partial Yankee (there was a questionable great-great-grandmother) has exceptionally keen eyesight -- the better to read the agate type favored by the Bugle's space-saving production department. If asked what she's looking for, her customary answer is "everything." Delia rents a booth at the Ant Bar (actually, the "Antiques Barn," but sunlight has faded crucial letters), where she stacks majolica, Bakelite, pressed glass, turned wood, and textiles. In all her scavenging, the only sacred and unsalable items are old local-history volumes, which speaks to another one of her hobbies.

For Tritown, genealogy is as accessible as the family Bible in the parlor. There's not a lot of geographic movement, thus families tend to settle in and put roots down deep -- and then marry one another. If Delia had been born in the 19th century, she could have been a phrenologist, so sensitive is her perception of craniofacial anomalies among the local clans.

There are the "Tarbox Stubby Fingers," peculiar to Hasky Tarbox and his family (of Tarbox Automotive: "Collisions? A Specialty"). Myrt Scully has inherited the "Scully gleaming choppers." And the Mountain Man clan share the "Pumpkin Noggin," a distinctively spherical skull.

Such thoughts amuse her as she drives toward the Ant Bar with a new load of stock. The church rummage sales and auctions have been mother-loads of tableware; and a couple of days at home bleaching linens and polishing silverplate have renewed her enthusiasm for antiquing, or, as Hollis puts it, "wheeling and dealing other people's junk." Of course, this is only one of her occupations, which include part-time assistant town clerk and substitute-substitute teacher. Her unpaid positions are innumerable: committed vestrymember of All Faiths; tireless visitor of the ill, elderly and infirm; and organizer of other-peoples' parties.

And now, she thinks blushing, inamorata of the transformed Whitey Leblanc (of Leblanc Brothers Salvage). She and Whitey are going to an auction tonight, and then down to the Legion to go dancing. No matter that everyone else there is older than they are, Delia has a poodle skirt from this weekend's haul that will swing like a church bell on the dancefloor.

Having a romantic interest named Leblanc in Tritown is a challenge indeed -- particularly for someone interested in genealogy. What Lee is to China and Smith to England, the name Leblanc is to Tritown. Before the turn of the century, when the mills manufactured everything from bicycle tires to whalebone corsets, the largest labor force came from the Maritimes. Whitey's family stayed, although many Leblancs returned north. Far north, where the next stop was the ice cap. "You head down our street, and see nothing but Leblanc on every mailbox," says Whitey, who now wants to be known as Jean-Pierre. (Delia is happy to call him Jean-Pierre; it fits his post-concussion ooh-la-la Francophile personality much better.)

As Delia carries boxes into the Bar, her thoughts turn to other friends and acquaintances in Tritown. $erena the Waitress has the flaming red hair characteristic of her family; and now that she and Hasky are expecting a little Tarbox, Delia and Hollis have a private wager on the baby's hair color. Hollis thinks it will have $erena's copper locks; but Delia once took a class in evolutionary biology and remembers that red hair and blue eyes are a recessive gene. "Not a chance," she has told Hollis. "That baby will probably have stick-straight hair and dark eyes. Much better material for a family of hairdressers to work with, y'know?"

Delia chuckles at the memory of this conversation. Of course, she doesn't see much of Hollis these days because he has his own redhead to worry about. He and Nancy Levesque see each other once a week or so, and, for now, Hollis gets enough socializing. No matter, thinks Delia, carrying in a box of pastel Melmac luncheon dishes she'd bought for three bucks. "It's not like I'm not busy enough. The problem with Hollis is that he doesn't have a hobby, so when he gets one -- like a girlfriend -- he has no way of arranging his life so that everything fits in," she says to herself. Settling her box, she takes out a sheet of stickers and begins, painstakingly but with great pleasure, to write:

VINTAGE MELMAC, CIRCA. 1956, $2 EA

A FEW MILES AWAY, Hollis the Mountain Man is coming face to face with his ambivalence. Over the past few months, Nancy has been happy to spend weekends with her "teddy bear" at his "teddy bear cave," but now she wants him to visit her. Nothing wrong with her house -- in fact, by most folks' standards, it's quite attractive -- but Hollis is uncomfortable.

Her boxy split-level is on the other side of town. The subdivision was built in the '60s, so the trees have filled out pretty nice, but he always feels weird and awkward there. The carpeting is white and wall-to-wall, and he always has to take off his boots (even though she says it's okay to leave them on). And the baseboard heating aggravates his sinuses. Her kid is always watching TV, and Hollis never knows what to say to a kid. In her own home, Nancy seems different -- brittle and short-tempered with Hollis. Yet she wants him to spend time there.

But Hollis likes his cabin, and he likes that Trick and Treat the Mountain cats take care of themselves, unlike Nancy's small, elderly mop-dog, which is her main reason for leaving early Sunday when she spends alternate Saturday nights at his cabin (when her kid is with the ex). The mop-dog is a yapaholic, and though Hollis has time for all animals, this one particularly annoys him. Mostly because it finds his smell (cats, mountain, homebrew, pellet stove, motor oil, kerosene) seductive but horrifying. Any time he moves, it emits a glissando of shrill barks and won't stop until it's locked in the kitchen.

"Makes a man feel unwelcome," Hollis mutters to himself. He's already made some changes in his life -- the outboard motor is off the kitchen table, and he's stopped using paper plates. But Nancy doesn't seem to approve of or enjoy his hobbies (homebrew, sitting around looking at the pond, scratch tickets), and she's starting to sniffle when she's over. She says it's the cat fur, but Hollis thinks otherwise.

"Must be the seven-week itch," he muses. Of course, Delia always makes fun of him keeping motors on the table ("The light's better, I know," she has snorted), and loves Trick and Treat, fur and all. And she is always up for a doughnut, unlike Nancy, who's a medical secretary and far too mindful of her cholesterol numbers. Though, to be fair, Hollis plays his own incredibly high numbers on a lottery ticket at Happy's Coffee & Qwik Stop (30 kinds of doughnuts, 20 kinds of lottery tickets, one kind of coffee). And he hits a jackpot.

Of course, it's a Happy's jackpot: $50, which would just about pay for 20 feet of Tuff-Bilt vinyl guttering or a nice dinner for him and Nancy. Why is it hard to make this decision?

Thanks this week to Eleanor Smith Boursy for family tree-pruning tips.

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