American Pickers

One of my favorite television shows is American Pickers, broadcast on the History Channel. It is about Mike & Frank, “two ordinary guys looking for extraordinary things” and the show “follows them as they scour the country's junkyards, basements and barns for hidden gems.” I am always amazed at the breadth of knowledge they demonstrate as they root through what seems to me like junk and find “stuff” that commands some amazing prices.

But what I like most about the show is not the stuff they pick, but the stories. Each episode involves not just buying stuff, but interacting with the people who own the stuff. And it is the picking of the stories, the narrative and history behind the stuff, which I find most fascinating.

Every summer for the past few years I have been able to wander around the country on my motorcycle, usually traveling the back roads and Blue Highways located throughout the country. It is along these routes that I am able to see stuff like the Blue Whale in Catoosa, OK; Carhenge in Alliance NE; and the World’s Biggest Ball of Twine in Cawker City, KS. But more important than seeing this stuff are the people I meet and the human stories that I am privileged to “pick” along the road.

Like one little town in New Mexico. When I pulled in I stopped for gas and the attendant came out to talk. He looked my bike over, asked where I had been and where I was going, and then talked about his plans to get out of that town: “Ain’t nuthin’ here but gas stations and motels – everybody is just passin’ through.” He dreamed of a finding himself somewhere else.

The town seemed interesting even if somewhat decrepit, so I decided to stay the night. After checking in at a run-down hotel which had been quite The Place back in the day (various fading autographed pictures of long-dead movie stars lined the walls), I wandered around and found a local museum. There I met the curator, a middle-aged woman who shared her story. She grew up in that town and left for the Big City as soon as she was able; in the Big City she imbibed deeply from the well of a dissolute life until many years later she found herself waking up from yet another binge of “the good life” and realized that instead of finding herself, she had lost herself. So she returned to her hometown, cleaned up, and was now the happiest she had ever been.

I hit the road early and the next morning was loaded by 5:30 AM; there aren’t many folk awake at that time of day. I was rummaging around the motel looking for some coffee when the night auditor offered me some of his and we got to talking. He had grown up “back east” and lived a good life there but was just never satisfied. Then a few years ago he packed his bags and headed west, looking for … he was not sure what. One day he stopped in this town, loved it, and will never leave.

Twenty-four hours, one town, three people and three stories. Now that’s American Picking.