About two years ago in Sedan, Kansas, I happened upon an auction. As country auctions go, this one was lightly attended, no doubt because of the pouring rain. I am preternaturally fond of auctions, not just because of simple acquisitiveness, but because auctions afford the discerning bidder a crack at some real treasures. Nearly everything can, or has been, sold at auction, and you never know what you’ll come across – old Civil War swords, real Persian rugs, a first edition buried under a pile of
Life magazines. It could be anything, really.
I had only stumbled upon the sale by chance and when I arrived it was winding down. The larger items, the house, a car, some farm machinery, and the furniture had all sold. All that remained was the personal property of the late Evelyn Brother, a widow of considerable antiquity and something of a pack-rat. Held in her barn (which sold with the house), there were only a few score boxes left, overlooked and forlorn. These had been pre-sorted by the auctioneers and they contained bits and stuff – nothing of apparent value but interesting to me nonetheless. The bidding was on-going as I walked past the china (ho-hum) and pawed through the books (unremarkable) until an old A.H. Fox 12-bore caught my eye. They go high, you know, but this one wouldn’t. With a badly shattered forearm and a frozen lock, it might sell as a jack handle, but nothing more. Costume jewelry, kitchen wares, a collection of old telephone directories dating back to 1961(?!); nothing of interest – until I came to a large box containing old pipes, none of which appeared valuable, a smoking jacket, and other tobacciana.
“There’s a oak humidor in there, too – a big one,” said one of the auctioneer’s assistants over the din. He was right, there was, and it was locked.
“Is there a key?” I asked. He shook his head.
Well, I don’t know about you, but a locked wooden humidor is the same thing as a treasure chest to me, so I resolved to wait my turn and bid on it. I didn’t have to wait long.
“Lot number 130,” the auctioneer intoned, “smoking pipes – might even be a corncob in there smoked by Harry Truman. Who’ll bid Ten dollars? Tindullatindullatindulla? Do I see a saw buck?”
I was still wondering whether he meant Douglas McArthur, when he switched cadence.
“Five dollars? Who’ll bid fi-dullafi-dullafi-dullarfi-dullar…?” he was looking right at me.
I looked around. There were only four other bidders and one of them was waiting for the old Magnavox television (Lot 141), another was trying to put the wheel on a bicycle that had seen better days, and the other two were arguing over dishes.
“One dollar,” I said out loud.
“SOLD!” he said without missing a beat. The auctioneer’s assistant smiled and told me I could pay near the corn crib.
As I drove home, I speculated on what could be inside that old humidor? Cigars, I thought, were likely, old nasty ones, too, unless the widow smoked regularly, which I doubted. I’d seen her china pattern and it had periwinkles and lilies on it. Gals who smoke cigars don’t go for that pattern, in fact, they don’t generally go for china much at all. So it was almost surely the husband’s, and who knew how long he’d been gone? Maybe cigarettes, or cigarillos or something odd like that. Maybe nothing? It didn’t rattle when I shook it gently.
When I got back, I carried it down to my workshop. It was a nice box, solid, dove-tailed, brass bound. It was pretty scratched and the varnish was shot, but I figured it would clean up fairly well… once I got it opened. I tried jiggling the lock with my pocket knife but it wouldn’t budge, and I didn’t have any other odd keys that would fit it, so I finally took the hinges off and opened it that way.
No cigars. Instead, there were four small leather-bound diaries, a watch (Waltham) in a gold-filled case, a Masonic emblem on a chain, and a stick-pin bearing the square and compasses. The diaries contained the personal reminiscences, dating from 1896, of a Mason from Kansas City named Hiram H. Brother, who through chance, happenstance, or sheer ignorance seems to have come in contact with more notable Masons of the 19th century than Albert Pike himself. Since discovering the diaries, I’ve been slowly editing them – no major revisions, you understand – just standardizing spelling and corroborating dates, and I am hopeful that they will be reproduced in full before long. Until that time, the good fellows at the Scottish Rite Journal have consented to feature selections from them in their august publication – a sample of which may be found
here.
Some of the pages contain little more than weather reports, and complaints about the high price of sherry, with which the author was (I can assure you) intimately familiar. But other entries contain … well, you’ll just have to wait and see.
(Illustration by
Ted Bastien)
