The year was 1987. My friend Rob Scott and I were on our way to the swap meet in Cedarburg, Wisconsin. Rob is a gifted antique dealer, and I was tagging along, ostensibly to help him in his booth. (But I was just as crazy about antiques as he was). I fell asleep in the front seat of the van, and had a remarkable dream. In my dream I saw what to many collectors is the most desireable bicycle of all time: a 1930s Elgin Bluebird. We arrived at the swap before dawn, and began opening chicken boxes (the antique dealer's mainstay, before the proliferation of plastic boxes), unwrapping the many objects of desire, arranging them on tables and shelves. I must have been distracted by other dealers surrounding our booth. What treasures might they pull out of a box? There is no excitement quite like a really good swap meet before sunrise. Anything can happen! Like a magician pulling the rabbit out of a hat, a dealer might at any moment bring forth something wondrous from the chicken box! I was looking in all directions at once, and my palms had probably begun to sweat. Rob said to me: "You're not doing any good here. You might as well take off and see what you can see." So I began walking. The Cedarburg swap meet was arranged on a large oval track, and I walked, on a diagonal line, crossing row after row of dealers' booths, hardly glancing at the antiques suddenly appearing on all sides of me. I didn't stop until I reached the very end of the track. There I saw an Elgin Bluebird, unattended, leaning against a fence. There was a price sticker on the bike's top tube, styled like an airplane fuselage: $70.00. I stood by the bicycle, like a guard at Buckingham Palace, hoping the owner would appear. A man appeared behind me, looking over my shoulder at a masterpiece of bicycle design. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Waiting to buy this bicycle," I answered. A rather tense silence followed. There were no cell phones back then, of course. When the owner of the Bluebird finally appeared I told him I would like to buy the bike. Seventy dollars? "No," he said. "That's what I paid for it." He got on his walkie talkie, presumably to ask his wife what he should charge for the bike. In retrospect, I think he was stalling for time. After a few breathless moments he said "Two hundred seventy dollars." "Fine," I said, and got out my check book. (I was in graduate school at the time, and in those days one could write a check and have four days to get the money into the account. This was my plan). "No, cash only." "Okay," I said. "I will be back in a few minutes with the cash." I had no idea how I would come up with two hundred seventy dollars.
If you are still reading, I'll cut to the chase: My friend Rob hadn't sold a thing yet, and didn't have a dime to loan me. But as luck would have it, I soon crossed paths with a dealer who had been befriended by my mother. He loaned me the two hundred seventy dollars, and I brought the Bluebird home. I had to wait a few years until I had a teaching job to have Bob Strucel restore the Bluebird you see here.
Did you roll your eyes when I told you I saw the Bluebird in a dream, and found the real thing an hour or two later? I wouldn't blame you if you did. But it is as the poet Rumi says: "Whenever you seek a thing, that thing is seeking you."
If you are still reading, I'll cut to the chase: My friend Rob hadn't sold a thing yet, and didn't have a dime to loan me. But as luck would have it, I soon crossed paths with a dealer who had been befriended by my mother. He loaned me the two hundred seventy dollars, and I brought the Bluebird home. I had to wait a few years until I had a teaching job to have Bob Strucel restore the Bluebird you see here.
Did you roll your eyes when I told you I saw the Bluebird in a dream, and found the real thing an hour or two later? I wouldn't blame you if you did. But it is as the poet Rumi says: "Whenever you seek a thing, that thing is seeking you."
1936 Elgin Bluebird ©Daniel Dahlquist