Corbett's Auction House

Lot 971, cat picture.

In Corbett's Auction House, people mill around long tables filled with nondescript items, stacked on each other, someone's jumbled history.

On Saturday, it's a casual walk-through, garage-sale friendly. On Sunday it has the same air as roadkill, with vultures circling and waiting until the traffic clears long enough to land and pick up something tasty.

I admit, I was part of the vultures on Sunday, waiting to bid on a picture of a cat, circa 1915. I waited my turn and my friend Peggy did the bidding for me, and for $35, Lot 971, cat picture was mine.

The picture is muted grays and blues, and shows a young boy feeding a saucer of milk to a skinny, ratty looking cat. The sign on the door behind the cat says, "For Rent" and there's a caption in the lower right hand corner that says, "The Cat They Left Behind." The banner across the top of the image is curved like a public service announcement and says, "Be Kind To Animals."

The bidding at Corbett's goes super-fast, with numbers, chatter and witticisms that go along with rifle-shot transactions. The caller wears a straw cowboy hat, almost a uniform for any hawker in the midwest. I'm surprised at how quickly things move along. And how things that look valuable go for pennies and items that are titanic shows of bad taste generate the most intense bidding wars.

Hard to believe the crap people have in their homes. Brightly colored oil paintings of matadors and images of lions with real bars in front of the picture. Bronze urns with legs made of dragons intricately support even larger displays of dragons. Apothecary cabinets and home movies, stamp collections and sleepy eyed baby dolls. Modern Christmas displays for the yard and Boy Scout manuals. Music written for "black" musicians only, and Lenox china. It seems the collision of items make an image of someone's life, but at the same time, they don't. Sad to see someone's life picked apart by fat women in loud print tops holding greasy fish sandwiches from Dorothy's Catering and middle aged men with slick hair and big belts. Without the history that went with each item, they become ordinary stuff, ready to sit in someone else's basement until they're auctioned off again. It's a painful process to watch, and I probably won't go back to Corbett's Auction House again.

I have no history about where Lot 971, cat picture came from. Why is it in a dirty, ill-fitting frame? Why is there a tiny rock in the middle of the picture, between the print and glass?

For now, Lot 971, cat picture sits in the mountain house in Pine, with the lady who used to carry cat food in the trunk of her car and regularly rescued stray, injured or unwanted cats. Twenty six of them to be exact. I always made sure that they were cared for or put to sleep if needed, and all found good homes though some found their way back to the streets.

But never, ever did I walk by the cat they left behind.

The First Week

You couldn't ask for a better group of people to work with than the staff at the Canyon Courier.

The pace has been a challenge for me to get used to. I'm used to being chained to a desk for 12 hours with few breaks and the humiliation of having to ask someone if I can go to the bathroom. I think Doug has told me a couple times that my time is my own; work for 40 hours a week, don't get burned out, pace yourself and have fun. This is foreign to me.

When you start a job as a secretary, you get the feel you're going to be someone's gopher, someone's "person" to go step, fetch and be "agreeable." Starting this job, I realized that I was being treated as a professional. Treated like someone who has already proven that they have jumped through some hoops and has paid attention to most classes that I've sat in. The "orientation" doesn't mean learning how the boss takes his coffee, but learning what FTP to use when uploading photos, what format captions need to be in and learning what is generally accepted and what isn't.

No one got their knickers in a twist over anything, and I know I was praised more than once this week. That's unusual.

I'm used to people saying things like, "We're so glad you're here, nobody wants to do that job." Stuff like that.

"You handle the phones so well, and you don't seem to notice the noise and chaos."

That's not praise, that's condemnation. I think what they're really saying, is, "Thank God you're dumb enough to do this job."

That's not even anywhere on the agenda at the Courier.

(this paragraph was deleted, because a year later, I learned the truth about what I had said here)

So, it's been stories about the handkerchief lady and photos of a semi upside down in the Platte River. Talk about variety.

It's like a dream, these last few weeks, and I'm afraid it is a dream and I'll wake up and I'll never be anything else other than a secretary. But I did go to school, get my degree, do the work that got me a chance, and now it's all up to me.

The thing that is on my mind is my tiredness. I'm still acclimating to the altitude, the lifestyle, the slower pace. I'm almost afraid to relax, only because I'm not sure I could ever gear myself back up again to keep an insane pace of 12.5 hour days with bells and buzzers, angry patients and people with too much power and not enough sense.

And, no one in sight to give me a bathroom break.

New Things to See

Today was my first day as a Staff Writer for the High Timber Times, working out of the Canyon Courier office in Evergreen. The new person to the office has to bring donuts, and though no one eats them, they are a ritual for this group.

Deb Hurley Brobst was the first person I saw this morning and it was a welcome sight. She knew who I was and I knew who she was and I can tell it's going to be a great privilege to work with her. I told her I wish I could have taken one of her classes at Metro before she retired and she responded,

"You're going to get a one -on-one class with me here at the paper!"

So it goes.

Deb gave me a few pieces of paper with story ideas that are in progress and others that are sitting there waiting fro development. Learning the knack for knowing what needs to be done NOW and what can wait is something that comes with time. My first foray into mountain journalism was not a success; an early morning accident on 285 was big news, but the Colorado State Patrol wouldn't answer my calls, something frequent and annoying.

My email account was set up and I was given instructions about FTP (CyberDuck-thanks, Metro), what format to use to organize stories and photos, and the usual paperwork.

Soon, everyone is reading. Reading emails, news websites, other publications in the area and stories they're following. Doug's office is across from the desk where I'm currently sitting, and he hears all that goes on in the newsroom. People ask questions and he responds. There's no yelling, no fast talking, nobody that walks by and talks at the same time. People stand in front of you and talk TO you, not at you.

The newsroom is much like the newsroom at Metro. Thank God I spent some time there as a photographer for the Met. People find things on the Web, funny things and serious things alike and they share them with everyone. Everyone looks and pays attention. I'm so not used to this.

Deb was reading a local webpage and mentioned that the Victorian Tea was today. Pictures for that would be great for next week's paper. Did I have my gear? Yes, I did, as well as my laptop, power cord and stuff to write with. My first assignment was with half hour notice to go shoot this cute little event. I have to admit, there's a real pride in introducing myself as a writer for a local paper. An hour later, I was shooting and making sure I had correct spelling of names, correct ages and correct schools. Somehow, now those details are extra special important.

I edited my photos, which took me forever. THE shot was perfect except the subject wasn't a local child, and that's the focus with the paper. Local people, always local people.

I ended my day around 4:30 p.m. and headed home. Home to the hills where I now live and work. A few nights ago I woke up in the middle of the night when the bears were tearing through the neighbor's trash and wondered what the hell was I doing up here and not in some anonymous apartment in Lakewood working at an anonymous job.

My only answer is that today I went there for my first day and tomorrow I get to go back.