(Miss Boogie apologizes that it has been so long since her last post. The Mom misplaced the notebook. "Miss Boogie, have you seen the notebook?")
Miss Boogie went to her very first auction, today, in Shipshewana, Indiana. For those of you unfamiliar with Hoosier geography, Shipshewana (Miss Boogie just loves to say it, “Ship-she-wana. Ship-she-wana.”) is in northern Indiana near the Michigan border, in the heart of Amish country.
Miss Boogie had never seen so many horses. The mares had foaled. Frisky foals were tearing around the fields in tandem with the mares, kicking up their heels and rearing stallion-like on their hind legs. Each one seemed to be saying, “I am faster than the wind. I am faster than you. I am having the most fun.” Miss Boogie dubbed them honorary Boogies because they exuded such Boogitude.
|Photo Mom took from the car window.|
The mares were sleek brown with dark manes and tails. They trotted so fast pulling the buggies along the side of the highway, Miss Boogie nearly missed them. Miss Boogie loved the Amish girls in their white caps and long skirts riding their bicycles barefoot with their shoes stacked in baskets on the back. She could not figure out why they were riding barefoot, but thought they, like the foals, might just be so happy that it’s finally spring.
After seeing the horses and buggies and the white-capped, barefoot girls, Miss Boogie could have retired for the day, but the best was yet to come—fresh rhubarb pie.
As for the auction itself, Miss Boogie thought it was a lot of squawking and gawking, crowing and crowding—not unlike a cattle stampede—noisy and dangerous. There were six auctioneers singing, “libididdy, libi diddy, libidediddy,” or some such foreign language all at once. Miss Boogie couldn’t sort out any of the words and never saw anyone bid. There were merely random nose scratches, head shakes, and an occasional cough. There were only two other canines present, the first being a small black poodle inside a baby cage underneath a dealer’s table. At least she was safe from trampling if humiliated by the cage. Second was a chihuahua crushed in one arm of its overzealous person, clinging upside-down for dear life, while the human tore through a stack of linens with the other.
Miss Boogie’s people seemed happy. They bought old berry baskets, wicker furniture, and a bunch of old flowerpots on sticks. The Mom bid on a small terrier statue and got it. Miss Boogie thought she had excellent taste.
Miss Boogie could not understand why some old junk was so cheap and some old junk was so expensive. You just couldn’t predict. A tin, only moderately rusted, Easter Bunny from about 1950 sold for $65, while an entire chest of silver plate flatware sold for $25. A pair of pink flamingo yard birds on stilts, just like the ones the Moms have in the garage, sold for $95 each.
And some guy from Chicago bought 19 raggedy old punk dolls—knock-em-over-three-throws-for-a-quarter—from a long ago forgotten carnival for $45 each. Miss Boogie was stupefied until the Mom’s friend showed her a listing from the internet of similarly forgotten and battered punk dolls selling for $235 each. That guy had just made $190 times 19! Miss Boogie desperately needed a calculator.
That was when Miss Boogie stopped looking for pie crumbs on the floor and started to pay attention.
By the way, Miss Boogie wants to mention how attractive she thought all the Amish gentlemen were in their black hats and beards.