Saturday Morning, May 9, 2026
Gentlemen, Start Your Engines!
Red light. Hesitation. Halt. Fingertips tapping on the steering wheel. Crossing traffic heavy. Mirror glancing. Second look. Then a stare. Car closing in. Open lane on left. Car pulls even. Drivers stare ahead. Almost. That nudge. That urge. Darwinian desire.
18k yellow gold wings of victory, aka pair of Unoaerre clip earrings.
Selection of Franklin Mint sterling cars.
Sideway glances. Eyes lock. Bargain reached. Challenge irresistible. A guy thing. Engines revving. Primeval screams. Last glance. Two smirks. Winner takes all. The moment. Green light. Accelerators to the floor. World be damned. 10...20...30...60 in ten. Speedometers soaring. Cars streaking. Nose-to-nose. No second thoughts. No holds barred. No second place. 70...80... Yellow light ahead. Brakes to the floor. Except one. Blows the light. Vanishes down the street. Both live for another day.
Women will be Women, Men will be Boys
1960's. A trip to Philadelphia straight down North Broad Street. A mild-mannered auctioneer and director of a community bank, pulled up to a red traffic light. This writer, an unsuspecting youthful accomplice, watched another car pull aside, bumper-to-bumper. Hardly a body movement from either driver but something was communicated.
Larry Braun bronze, signed on base For MBUSA Moss & Jenkinson Master, The Mille Miglia, 1955, #31/35, Larry Braun, Loveland, Colorado USA, 5/2004, 16" L. 8" W.
The opponent navigated a souped-up machine. A deep stir from within, DNA linked to ancient ancestors. The car rumbled, belching out the pipes, intake manifold on the hood breathing dragon fire. It's grille sported teeth. My father, sitting in his Buick Skylark, red but unassuming. An easy mark. A man out of his wheelhouse. Except for one small detail.
Lawrence Braun, signed on base Mercedes-Benz McLaren Stirling Moss, # 235, 2009, 14" L. x 7" W.
Under his hood purred a 350 cubic inch V-8 engine fitted with a four-barrel carburetor. A jaguar at rest. Green light. The second the accelerator is tromped, a high-performance automobile stands up. You can feel the creature awaken microseconds before acceleration pins you to the seat. We were moon bound. The red Buick exploded forward leaving the lurching lion far behind. Hardly a smile crossed his face. His words were few. If we don't hurry, we may be late. Some stories should never be repeated at the dinner table. I pressed him. What kind of engine do you have? His words remained few. Don't know, it came that way. Sure. If you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you. Women will be women, men forever boys.
The Games Troglodytes Play
There is no surprise to these antics. Peter Pan and the Lost Boys enjoyed life together and, as a dividend, for eternity. A time-honored appeal. Aging brings responsibilities, commitment, direction, and worse, expected behavior. That old duffle bag still sits in the attic, beckoning one back to the road once again. This feeling fills man-caves. Few openly admit the boys years were the best. Quiet compromise with life.
Large selection of comic books and 1960's Playboy magazines.
But climbing to the top of a pin oak tree on a windy day, swaying with the breeze, or diving off cliffs into unknown waters, or simply creating pyrotechnics to launch a Estes rocket are memories too precious to abandon. Our personal favorite was scaling the wall of an abandoned quarry at our grandparents. Perhaps a rush to judgement is premature when screaming Grow Up!. Despite the tomfoolery in youth, it is the foundation for greater achievements. Those Estes rockets from Penrose, Colorado, fondly remembering Big Bertha, would put men on the moon. Steven Jobs thought like a boy. What gadgetry could do. Now we have the Apple phone. The toys are the same, just now on a greater scale. We may age far too soon, but deep inside, we never age at all. We can still Kick the Can.
Doors open at 8 AM. Auction starts at 9 AM. PA AU 12656L [bb]