A few weeks ago I wrote about farm auction sales.

Of the farm sales I’ve witnessed, one stands out.

Driving by the place today, I still see what remains of the farmstead where two bachelor brothers were born and where their parents died.

They lived in the same house, cooking in the same kitchen with its green-painted cupboards, sat in the same chairs and slept in the same beds that were always there for them. 

The oldest brother had suffered a stroke and was in a nearby nursing home. His younger brother decided to sell everything and move to town to be nearer his failing sibling. 

I was looking for an antique cabinet phonograph. You know, the one with the hinged top that opened to reveal the silver-edged, green velvet-covered turntable and its nickel-plated needle arm.

The one at this auction was beautiful. It was old, probably purchased by the brothers’ parents in the early teens. An Edison, it had hand-carved, fluted front and side grills backed by decorative cloth. Other ancient records were stored in the lower cabinet space.

The shiny crank’s wooden handle was well worn. I imagined the brothers as youngsters and throughout their long lives winding the turntable spring for evening performances and Sunday occasions.

I camped out next to the phonograph waiting its turn on the docket.

Brookings auctioneers Bob Peterson and Len Burlage were nearly finished selling the bric-a-brac piled on an old bale rack they used as their selling stage.

The crowd responded as the criers salted harder-to-sell items with another cardboard box of stuff. As quickly as the auctioneers sold the smaller items and portable devices, the successful bidders stepped forward to claim and carry their bargains away for a new, recycled purpose.

Box after box of fruit jars – Kerrs, Balls and Masons – clanked in cardboard boxes, and the bale rack items were lugged off to pickup trucks and car trunks in the nearby shelterbelt parking lot.

Peterson and Burlage jumped off the bale rack and started down the line of household furniture. I noticed the younger brother, old and stooped and needing a shave, following behind them.

He stood bent and alone under his seed corn cap, thumbs hooked to bib overall straps, watching as all he had ever known and owned was carted off by strangers.

He seemed forlorn.

Soon the auctioneers and the crowd surrounded the phonograph. “Does it work?” someone inquired. Crier Peterson turned to the elderly farmer.

“Ya,” the old man said, adjusting his cap, “She works just fine.” He limped slowly to the phonograph, turned the familiar crank a few revolutions and set the needle arm onto the turntable’s record.

The crowd quieted as Kate Smith sang “I’ll Be Seeing You.” The old man smiled. He watched the record spin. There was a distant look in his eyes as he remembered hearing it with his parents and his brother so many times. And then he embraced and hugged the cabinet with both arms.

He was crying.

“Ya,” he sobbed. “She still sounds good.”

Then the bidding continued.

If you’d like to comment, email the author at cfcecil@swiftel.net.