ONEn the auctioneer walked among the items listed as if he had a train to pick up. There was no ceremony and no tifing, just Lot following Lot, his voice was like the uninterrupted rhythm of a sewing machine. On a screen 200 miles away, I watched in amazement. His hammer fell on the tenders of a jar of a bronze bucket, a glass of poured concrete, a bucket of copper and zinc, a pot of Victorian terracotta and a pair of antique leather shoes. He later declared Lot 7243, “an iron tomb from the York City football field.”
It was the first of eight such cages to be sold, each carrying the Bootham Moon that would soon be formed by a bulldozer like particularly stubborn moles. I watched it because I was interested and because I wanted to write about the process of selling my favorite land – who buys signs and chairs, why does he do it, what does it mean to them and where does it end? These rugs and all the other things that were sold belonged to the old land, and sometimes I did too. Growing up in York, Bootham Crescent was another home in my childhood and adolescence, and now it will no longer exist. The empty space and then the house will come to a place where the crowd shouts and moans, sighing on the grass. Inside it was scattered and there were corners of the world that would forever become the City of York.
Proposals for Lot 7248 did not come as quickly as they did for five of these former iron refugees. First it went to £ 320, and then the value increased with each browser – 40 340, 20 420, 40 440 and then 60 460. But it appeared that 7248 lasts at 0 280. It went once, twice and in a few seconds some romantic, silly initiative came over me. He decided that £ 300 would not be too much for something so magical. A few minutes later I called my wife.
“I did something wrong.”
“Are you ok?”
“I bought a bag.”
My recurring anxiety started when I was a kid and grew into an adult. At that moment, I was delighted with these great heroic deeds that were almost impossible to go through and that seemed to devour the great men alive. Lately, when I was working with an awesome old model that was made a century or more ago, still elegant and still working, I felt a sense of excitement. These stylish and practical antiques from their modern and tasteless electronic counterparts is what a spring train is for a driverless traveler. One possesses beauty and a pure soul, the other is sweet and foolish.
I love the flowers and their growth, and the way they do not need to be aesthetically pleasing, but they are not. We have lost that ethos in most of the things we are doing now, of course if they are to be functional. I love heavy iron, which is made and broken and made into something complex. I love the sound they make, the industrial music of staccato clicks, every little note that brings us closer to the match. I love that they are the wheels of fortune, throwing you from the street, into a dark portal and towards the light and the possibility. I love that they are not historical things because they themselves have a unique value, but also because the past of the traveler is our past.
With a singer’s tip, the brass plate lines on most of the old chains boast a version with the same message: “Rush Preventive Turnstile. Sole Makers: WT Ellison & Co. Limited. Irm Height. Salford.” There were other manufacturers for example – Bailey’s, as well as Salford’s, with their Fast Turnstile – but it is Ellison’s product that is still seen on most, from Cornwall to Caithness.
Like many things that are good, they were once found mostly in the sea. During the Victorian era, towers, railroads, and other buildings used for entertainment purposes were used in the summer to surround the entrance. Because they were so rigid, there was no need for them to change, and while the sea hysteria was slow, the turning industry was also slow.
Get into football: in the late 19th century, this flower sport needed to run out of the box and wooden board, and lead its large crowds and make sure they paid for the entry. That last attempt was not always successful; although the design changes greatly reduced the follow-up of children spinning under the spinning wheel, a century later, when I started participating in kisses, we children were often “lifted” (or, as Middlesbrough’s curiously put it) digotin “Ayresome Parka house).
Ellison’s claimed that their Rush Preventive model could safely accommodate 4,000 viewers per hour. Her heavy brow, breaking her was almost impossible. Here was a national and beautiful industrial-era animal that was in front of me.
My wife asked him on that phone, “How are you going to get here?” It was two weeks late when the auction house found that not many delivery companies wanted to transport this dead iron cattle from North Yorkshire to Leith. Then, finally, it was announced that a truck had driven north and would take the driver to his new home. Predictably, I was not there when they arrived three hours early. They threw this big package on a wooden pallet outside our door, on the street. “At least they did not try and like Yodel did, they put it in the tire hole,” I later told my wife, but I’m not sure she laughed.
That evening when I got home, I closed my corner and in the dim light of the street light really came to my senses. That was all I expected it to be; long but sturdy, thin at the same time pragmatic, and possessing a seemingly ancient charisma. Because she was smaller than her Victorian relatives, she had long narrow thighs called Art Deco days. I fell in love instantly, uncritically and irrevocably. I just had to figure out how it would pass on the ground floor through the garden door.
Daylight allowed to take a closer look. Now I saw spots of red and blue paint in the green; previous shirts from the previous pre-season renewal. I immediately decided that I would just clean the surroundings and not paint it in some resurrection shade. These emulsion sheets were its layers of the past; lines in the stories he wanted to tell and interesting cock legs on the old man’s face. By removing the plate on the upper surface of the cruiser, I noticed that a number of gold brass were still in place, like a piece of a naval tool on an old ship, cleaned and standing on the number 26,854.
I stretched out my hand to the other sides of the wanderer, something I never had time to do at the speed of landing – it was always meant to be a hit, not a hit. Amidst the soft rumble of the barred door bar, my hand really came across a hard tape line. Here, too, could be the beginning of a “Once Upon a Time” game. A browser was created that rotates completely once for each spectator. Make a sign with a clamp or a tape, and a raw operator could point to someone else with a chain only halfway through his revolution. Only one of them will count in the attendance number that day, and only one of their approval fees will go to the club’s coffers. I will not remove the tape.
By the way the ocean was a little bigger than the goliath, it was heavier than I imagined. I have no way of measuring its weight but I will put it somewhere between the hatchery and the Kingdom of Andorra. The power that called for sleep from my younger and happier days, I partially removed it from the wall that had been thrown next to it. My daughter came home from school and questions about how she worked would then turn into a test now. I was going to put my foot on the ground pedal and he was trying to move around like he was entering a stadium that only we could see.
Up until that point, it had never occurred to me that the browser might still be working, this is proof that adults do not dream enough. Thus, when she came to life about the shock that her mother had brought to life, my joy was heightened by an element of unrelenting shock. Then it was played once, twice, three times, a sound that flew in the air, a melody full of memory and meaning. “Can I go again?” my daughter, as she used to do in the park or at the fair, asked: “And can we see if the counting machine works?” We shook the bronze plate, put one foot back on the pedal and walked through it. The stock was moving upwards, waking up after years of sleep, stupid but beautiful. Hundreds of geese gathered on my shoulders and back; if this purchase was my middle ground, then it was a good bloody one.
The reactions of others were generally heart-warming and sometimes life-affirming. My wife was happy with my baby’s New Year, our daughter makes a few walk-ins every day before and after school. Neighbors were more curious than angry; one morning, I saw a man inspecting the surroundings, I dreamed that I had violated some planning regulations. I went outside and I was greeted. “Is this yours?”, He said, something close to an enchanting expression, “It’s totally weird. What an incredible thing.” Next, a fifty-year-old man came through several doors to observe. When I showed him the turn, he closed his eyes: “Blood of hell, I’m right there back, Easter Way AND that sound. They paid the price. It takes a breath of fresh air to win. ”
Twitter messages about the purchase were kind words, stories of other people who had made similar purchases and appeared on national radio. A reporter working at Bootham Crescent was able to identify the location of the door with a “15” engraved on the back. Others willingly offered back memories – the husband who was stuck in one and lost the goal, the wife who recalled the difficult task of harassing while with the Children. The stories of the baker and the fond memories poured into the depths of the iron.
After a few days of measuring and drawing the diagram, and a few nights of restless and restless sleep, a plan was made to bring the guide into the garden. It included a B&Q trip for two dolly and skill trolleys and the forest power of one of my dear friends, Mark. Somehow, we drove the animal with the wheels into the garden and carried it to its yard. Neighbors hung from the windows on both sides of the street and cheered.
Now, this Bootham Crescent file stays away from home but is more expensive than ever. Never had she seen so much light and been so loved; Christ, when it rains, I also hide it in the trunk. Our cat is lying there shaking its thousands of fives and tandoors and receiving changes from secret hands into wireless handkerchiefs. On days of stress or anxiety, I pedal, push, and let my cock relax and take me somewhere else.
All day, I could look out my window and see part of a place that many of us loved. Bootham Crescent is gone, and still is not. It’s right there, between the tulips and the puzzle tree of money.