So,
I made a list of subjects that intrigued me and found the hobby of collecting
near the top of my list. I wondered what sort of weird things were being
collected by people in Houston and went on to investigate. I discovered a wide
range of interests and produced this article in November of 1980. Obviously,
the subject retains its fascination today as visits to several other Internet
sites would attest: Wikpedia, Mental Floss, Mother Nature Network and Hobbylark.
Here’s
my tour of Houston’s collectors community from 1980.
THE
COLLECTORS
“Everyone
always looks into a glass case," says Grant Payne somewhat philosophically,
“but nothing ever looks back.”
No,
Payne is not a mystic, nor is he a modern-day philosopher enlisting riddles to
unravel some metaphysical dilemma. When he speaks of glass cases with no return
stare. Grant Payne is talking business. A few years ago he discovered a way to
alter that deficiency.
“Glass
eyeballs became obsolete in 1945,” he explains. “The manufacturers turned to
plastics. I’d never given it much thought until someone mentioned it to me.”
That
was in 1970. Payne considered the problem of glass eyeballs a little while and
soon concluded that somewhere in Houston there had to be an optician who had
lacked the foresight to avoid the demise of glass eyeballs. He reasoned that
such a fellow might have an overstock of old glass eyeballs which could be
purchased
for
a reasonable price.
“I
made a couple of phone calls and got confirmation that 1945 had indeed been the
last year for glass eyeballs. Plastics adapt better to the eyes and they are
safer. But no companies had any glass eyeballs left.
“Finally
I called one place and asked the receptionist if her doctor had any glass eyeballs
in stock. When she said he would put a patient on hold to talk with me on the
phone about it, I figured I’d hit the jackpot,” Payne said.
In
short, the incident provided Payne with a corner on the glass eyeballs market
in Houston, a triumph ignored at the time by The Wall Street Journal and businesses across the country. No
matter. His victory has been of interest to a select group of individuals who
have their own grapevine for vital information: The collectors.
“If
it exists,” says Payne, “someone collects it .”
And
wherever a person collects, Grant Payne is bound to follow. An accountant by
day, this 60-year-old antique dealer has become one of the city's chief experts
in collections of the unusual. He gathers items as a hobby, determines their value
as collector pieces then offers them for sale from his home or his shop at the Westpark
Common Market on weekends. Take the eyeballs, for example.
“I
had to determine what would constitute a full set. I learned there had been
eight color variations in two styles, light veined and heavy veined. There had
also been another set made specially for the black race with pupils more
cream-colored and veining predominant. That meant 17 eyeballs would make a set,”
he says.
Glass
eyeballs have been purchased by glass collectors and jokers who stick them in
drinks. One person bought a set to glue them onto drink coasters bearing the
Texas state design: The eyes of Texas. From Grant Payne they cost $12.50 apiece.
Scientists
have long labored over classification systems, dividing the animal kingdom into
various phyla and sub-phyla by bones and structure. When they get to the
humans, they might consider a new division: Collectors and non-collectors. We’ve
all known those folks who can never throw anything away regardless of its worth.
And the practice creates a new form of monetary system used only by the
collectors. Offer a collector something he doesn't have and there is little he won't
do to obtain it. Meanwhile, the same piece of junk might be tossed in the trash
by someone without the addiction.
Norman
Loewenstern, a southwest Houston stockbroker, knows all about that. He is
hooked on political paraphernalia and boasts the nation's largest collection of
his specialty item: Gizmos peddled at the turn of the century to promote the
candidacies of President William McKinley and William Jennings Bryan. His
interest is historical and has made him a veritable font of information on the
art of campaigns.
Among
other things, Loewenstern owns a small brass pig which, when held up to the
light, reveals a small oval photo of one candidate stuffed into the pig's hind
end—obviously distributed by the opposition. Another item of questionable ethics
is a coffin with a miniature McKinley laid to rest inside.
“But
they had no way of knowing McKinley would be assassinated in office later,”
Loewenstern apologizes with a laugh.
His
den walls are lined with particle board and shelves which display whiskey bottles
bearing the candidates’ portrait, razors with candidates’ names engraved
on
the blades, buggy whips and lanterns, walking canes with a politician's head
for a handle, ash trays, fans, flags and even a brass door knob with McKinley's
profile engraved in the center. And then there are always the buttons.
Loewenstern's
favorite is called a double eclipse. It depicts portraits of Bryan and his
running mate in a circle eclipsing portraits of McKinley and Teddy Roosevelt in
the background with the cry across the bottom for a “Double Eclipse on Nov. 6.”
His
collecting hobby is typical in terms of the time it demands. He averages four
hours a week just prowling around flea markets and old shops hoping to find “That
little old lady with a box in her attic.” He also travels the country in search
of buttons for his collection and notes with enthusiastic glee the lengths to
which he has been driven in search of some new addition.
For
years, however, Loewenstern was literally a closet collector. He began to pick
up presidential items at the age of 17 and kept them hidden away after getting
married. One day his wife suggested they needed something interesting to
decorate a spare room.
“Out
it came,” she says, “I didn't know he had so much stuff.”
His
most valuable piece is a pill box distributed just prior to the election of George
Washington as the first President. A Bilston and Battersea, enamel on copper item,
it urges Washington's coronation as king rather than President of a democracy.
His oldest single curio, it is worth “a couple of thousand dollars as a museum
piece.”
Mostly
individual items in his collections are valuable only to another collector. He
usually barters for items he wants with those wanted by someone else. As one
who moves through the collector's world, Loewenstern acknowledges the
psychology involved:
“It
took me a long time to understand why guys would collect barbed wire. But they
do it because of the history. I guess it works on your ego, too, being able to
say you're the only guy in the country who owns a certain thing. And once I’ve
owned something, I feel like I can trade it unless it's really special.”
Indeed,
it was history which spirited another Houston collector in the direction of his
desire—beer cans. Rod Macdonald, a 34-year-old carpet installer, boasts a
collection of 1,600 different cans and notes that Jan. 24, was the 46th
anniversary of introduction of the beer can. Collecting beer cans has become
another hit in Houston and across the country, with some distributors marketing
special beers just to corner the can collectors market, according to Payne.
Macdonald
is an officer in the national Beer Can Collector's Association but his
collection is by no means top—even in Houston. His wife, Cooke, collects Coca-Cola
objects—anything with Coca-Cola on it—and belongs to a local club with 50
members devoted to the same search.
Most
folks are familiar with the more popular and widely publicized collectibles,
such as comic books and baseball cards. One need only visit the annual trading conventions
for those objects to lament the day their mother threw out a box of their own
now-valuable collectibles. But the more unusual collector’s items can be found
in town without visiting a convention. The huge flea market on Westpark
attracts collectors and salesmen from all over the country.
David
Hughes, a Dallas-based collector-trader visited the Common Market recently, set
up his booth then wandered around looking for bargains of his own. He bought a
few glass eyeballs from Payne for resale to folks who might not get past the
more established shop. In his wallet, he carried a card given him once by
Loewenstern:
“1 Collect Presidential Campaign Items” with Loewenstern’s address and
telephone number.
“I
get so many cards I just throw a lot of them back,” says Hughes, who regularly
travels through 33 states to visit flea markets and trade with collectors. He notes
the profits to be had when people collect “thousands of things.” Hughes has
bought an item early in the day at a flea market for one dollar and sold it
later on to a collector for $80.
“With
a true collector, if they see something they don’t have they’ll pay whatever
the cost,” Hughes notes. “An older man might collect toys because when he was
growing up during the depression they couldn't afford any toys. The reasons are
as varied as the things they collect.”
At
his booth on this day, Hughes offered on display old tools, railroad lanterns,
badges for chauffeurs and lawmen, watch fobs, corkscrews, bottle openers and pocket
knives. Some of the corkscrews can sell for as much as $75 and some old pocket
knives are worth $500. Hughes knows a collector in Ohio with five tons of old
locks and it’s still not enough. If Hughes finds one the fellow needs, he’s
under strict orders to deliver it regardless of cost.
The
key to judging a collection is knowing its purpose, says Payne. One collection
might have more individual items but if they are too varied, another collection
right on focus would prove more impressive. With that in mind, here’s a rundown
of some of the things he’s known people to collect and why:
VASELINE
GLASS—This was made by several different companies and marketed as canary
glass. It glows and that fact intrigued people. But different manufacturers didn't
know the formula. It was made from 1830 on up to the present for use in plates
and dinnerware. Liberace has the world's greatest vaseline glass collection,
says Payne. But Payne has his own use for it. He places it on a table inside
his shop at the Common Market. In the dark corner it glows and beckons those passing
by to come in and browse.
LADIES'
HATS—“Half of your high schools today are full of 1930s clothes,” says Payne. “All
of these kids have got to get some. An older lady brought me a box filled with
old hats. She’ll enjoy the money they bring in.”
NEON
LETTERS—“I Stopped in a shop one day out of town where a dealer had a box of
them,” Payne explains. Somewhere a company had gone out of business and this
shop owner had been intrigued enough with the letters to buy them. Payne in
turn bought one of the letters. He put it on his shop's wall and sold it to “a
guy who had an empty space on his wall. This letter happened to be one of his initials.”
Payne returned to buy the whole box. “I haven't sold one since,” he says.
STREET
SIGNS—Before Freeport merged with the town of Vlasco, Payne says, Vlasco had
its own street signs. Porcelain or tin, they now rest in Payne’s shop. “One guy
bought two,” Payne says,, “because his brother was born there and he thought
they would be a nice birthday present.”
THIMBLES—“Whenever
I see a thimble,” Payne says, “I buy one.” He keeps them on display in a glass
case, much like the glass eyeballs. In contrast, however, the thimbles can have
genuine antique value, more than as mere collectibles. Thimbles have been used
for centuries as a sewing aid and cultures worldwide have produced many
different kinds bearing many different designs. They appeal to women as
collectibles because they are small enough to be kept in a cigar box. Top of the
line in thimbles is an imported Chinese model in the shape of a ring. It dates
from 1600.
WOODEN
NICKELS—We’ve all seen them at fairs and centennials, bank openings and
celebrations—but some people collect them. Usually they are advertisements for
some store’s latest sales and given away to promote business. Payne always has
a bowl on hand, filled to the brim for sale.
COASTERS--These
are close to beer cans in appeal. When can collectors get fed up with that,
many of them move into coasters.
RATTLESNAKE
RATTLES—“In 1963 I went out west to look for cactus and rocks. Outside of Fort
Davis I spotted a dead rattlesnake on the road and thought I'd get the rattles.
But I couldn't touch the thing. Later I stopped in a shop in town and noticed a
big pile of old rattles. The owner just let them sit around for conversation items.
He'd never thought of selling them. I offered him a quarter apiece. Now I keep
them in an apothecary jar,” Payne explains.
RAILROAD
NAILS—“I can’t keep them in stock. There’s a continual interest in anything
dealing with the railroads, the passing of the railroads and all that. There’s
a world of people out there who worked for the railroads or are related to
people who worked for the railroads,” he says.
Although
he keeps a file on all his various clients—“I’m like a lawyer, I can't reveal
their identities or the things they collect”—Payne is not one to be outdone in the
field of collecting. He got started selling collectibles through his attraction
to collecting and he always has something around he is collecting.
“I
never forget a collector,” Payne boasts, regardless of the collection. He recalls
the time a fellow asked him to find a particular horse bit for his collection.
The collector wanted one geared to feed medicine to the horse through a funnel
on the bit. Payne tucked the request away in his memory with the question, “What
would that be worth to you?”
The
collector replied, “$25.”
A
few months later Payne was wandering through some shops in southern Missouri
and, in a shop on a dusty back alley, he spied a row of horse bits.
“You
have a medicinal bit?” he asked reviewing the wall. The shopkeeper pulled one
down and sold it to Payne. A few months went by with the medicinal bit stashed under
his counter. Then Payne recognized a familiar face strolling past his shop one
Saturday afternoon.
“Hey,”
Payne yelled, “aren't you the guy who collects horse bits?”
The
fellow wandered inside nodding his head.
“You
still looking for a medicinal bit?” Payne asked.
The
collector's eyes grew wide as he panted, “Did you find one?”
Payne
slapped the treasure down on his counter and smiled. The collector's glee
lapsed as suspicious thoughts raced through his mind.
“Say,”
he squinted, “how much you going to charge for this?”
Payne
flipped cigarette ashes into an ashtray and chortled, “You said it’d be worth
$25 to you a while back. That's what I’ll sell it for today.”
The
collector tossed the bills on the counter, picked up the bit and ran out the
door.
“He
was so excited,” Payne recalls, “he forgot to say thanks. He was a true
collector.”
