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Ruralite Cafe: Published 2/24/00By Lisa Majors-DuffFighting the urge to buy a fire truck |
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The day was cold and rainy, the kind of day that's best spent inside cradling a cup of coffee and reading a novel by firelight.
Instead I found myself traipsing through the mud on the field of battle where more than 100 men and a very few women had gathered to commence a bidding war. The victor's prize - a 1968 Jeep CJ5, nearly rusted through with an interior only a true car lover could appreciate and find alluring. The Jeep, which showed many of its own battle scars, was one of 10 passenger vehicles and four fire trucks put up for auction by Jackson County under the heading "Surplus Property." Most of the cars, which had been put out to pasture by the Sheriff's Department, looked as though they'd been driven hard and put up wet. But that fact did not prevent the men (and the few women) from digging in and slinging bids at one another, mostly in the form of friendly fire. The battle's commanding officer (auctioneer), Col. John T. Bunn, kept the skirmishes fair, barking out orders (bids) and waiting for the next barrage (a higher bid). His supporting staff, each with clipboard in hand, followed the war's progression from Taurus to Caprice to generic mini van, attempting to keep an accurate record of the casualties and, more importantly, the victors and how much they owed. I've always been attracted to auctions. My parents exposed me at an early age to this form of buying and selling, where the phrase "one man's trash is another man's treasure" must have gotten its start. A night at the auction was a cheap form of entertainment, even when something unusual caught my mom's eye. Sometimes we'd leave the small warehouse decorated with discarded gymnasium bleachers with a dozen, multi-colored tube socks or non-stick cookware or a pair of baby dolls for my sister and me to love - whatever Mom decided we couldn't live without. For the county's auction last week I set my sights slightly higher. My husband laughed when I told him I wanted to buy a fire truck. But knowing me like he does, he quickly cut his laughter short and focused his entire attention on me, which I found truly amazing since a college basketball game was under way on the television. I'd purposely picked that time of the day to tell him of my plan in hopes that the distraction would give me the advantage. "You want to buy a what?" he said, never even glancing back toward the game. "A fire truck," I said with all the innocence I could muster. "Why?" he wanted to know. "Why not? We'd be the only ones in the neighborhood with one," I said, though I knew this was not the response he was looking for. What I was really imaging was how much fun it'd be to park a life-size toy in the driveway and learn what all the buttons do. "We don't need a fire truck," he said, and I knew he was right. I couldn't resist attending the auction anyway to see who did need a fire truck. As a neutral observer, I cautiously entered the battlefield, carrying no arms, checkbook or credit cards. I felt only partially safe, though, as I fought my own internal battle against the urge to run to the bank and make a withdrawal. The sight of the majestic American LaFrance, it's yellow body trimmed in gold and topped with red lights and silver sirens, was almost more than I could withstand. Apparently nobody needs an American LaFrance, because bids on the truck did not come anywhere near the reserve price. The county was successful in selling 13 of the 15 vehicles on the lot, with a grand total of more than $18,000 collected. But Greg was not happy to learn that my option to own a fire truck remains open. |
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