Oliver Douglas:  Mr. Haney, that pile of junk isn’t worth $8.

Haney:  To the unappraiseable eye, yes.  I had each and every one of these objects de art evaluated by an in-unpeachable source:  the county tax assessor, or as we sometimes call him, Cousin Joe.

Before Mike Wolfe and Frank Fritz of American Pickers, there was Mr. Haney, the quintessential wheeler-dealer “junk man” from the 1960s television sitcom, Green Acres, who drove around in a converted farm truck overflowing with outlandishly useless items that he sold at outrageously inflated prices to his neighbors.

Today, the term “junk man” has virtually come obsolete.   A person who buys, sells, and/or trades rejected material goods is now referred to with mock solemnity as a “collector”—(a culturally-sanctioned hoarder) —and “revaluing” these found objects for purchase in antique malls, consignment shops, and on eBay (“the junk store” per se has also gone by the wayside) looks a lot like price-gouging, at least for certain items.

Case in point:  a few weeks ago I was perusing the various booths at Emma Marie’s, an antique shop located in the quaint historic district of Georgetown, SC, the state’s second largest seaport.  One of the dealers happened to be on location, restocking her already-overflowing shelves and display cases with various and sundry vintage kitchen items. As I attempted to allay my shock over the price tag on a tray of matching milk bottles from a now-defunct New Jersey dairy ($160), the vendor, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Minnie Pearl (san chapeau), brought me out of my stupor as she popped up from behind a display case and hollered in my ear, “How-w-w-DEE-E-E-E! What do you collect?” Obviously not milk bottles.  (Though perhaps I’ll start collecting antique ear trumpets.)

For the seasoned collector of dairy memorabilia (or any card-carrying member of the National Association of Milk Bottle Collectors), paying $200 for a quart milk bottle with matching cap from the Watkins Farm Dairy in Westminster, Vermont might seem perfectly reasonable . . .  I can’t help but wonder, however, whether the milk bottle collector will, over time, have any kind of significant return on her investment. This brief episode at Emma Marie’s had me contemplating the perverse desire (or rather compulsion) that collectors have to accumulate objects that often have no practical use and at considerable expense.

By definition “collectibles” are objects whose initial value and appeal is determined by the level of interest and enjoyment they hold for the collector—the thrill of the hunt, the quest for that one-of-a-kind, piece, the holy grail of (fill-in-the-blank).  Collectibles generally don’t have a fundamental measurable value and therein lies the rub. Collectors often fail to consider that their burgeoning collections can be quite perilous investments. Collectors, in fact, tend to have wildly unrealistic expectations about the market worth of their collections . . . until, that is, they fall victim to the crush of the collector’s marketplace.  They believe their precious tchotchke will easily fetch $595 on Ebay, when in reality they’d be hard pressed to unload it for $12.  Ah, the booms and busts of collectibles—one does not have to look very far for a cautionary tale or two . . .  think of the markets for those once highly sought-after collectibles that have all but tanked in the past decade—baseball cards, vintage metal lunch boxes, cookie jars—not to mention the colossal bubble bursts in the once frenzied markets for Precious Moments figurines, Thomas Kinkade paintings, Beanie Babies, etc.  Of course, this does not surprise us.  What does boggle the mind is how teardrop-eyed children with inspirational messages or understuffed plush toy animals named Legs the Frog and Pinchers the Lobster could lead to such collective fanaticism in the first place.  One of the more grim examples of collecting mania is the case of the Robinson family (Los Angeles, CA) who amassed a stockpile of close to 20,000 Beanie Babies and were left, not surprisingly, in financial ruin. As I consider the dark side of collecting, I can’t help wonder what factors might contribute to the resurrection of any number of  crazes from yesteryear . . .  (such a supposition, of course, is predicated on the notion that people generally don’t learn from their mistakes, financial or otherwise).  Consider what might happen if death certificates were issued to those once wildly popular Cabbage Patch dolls from the 1980s . . .  could the value of their investment rise, phoenix-like from the ashes of collectors like folks like Pat and Joe Prosey (Baltimore, MD) who “boast” a 5,000 doll collection? Ah, that’s a grim thought indeed.

As Shakespeare asked in Troilus and Cressida, “What is aught, but as ‘tis valued?”