An occasionally updated chronicle of estate sales in the city and suburbs of Chicago.

"It's such a guilty pleasure..." Lynne Stiefel, Pioneer Press


Monday, January 4, 2010

Dolton Bachelor's Pad

I don't believe a woman ever lived here. This south-suburban ranch was was a bachelor pad, a deep, dark man cave, the headquarters of the he-man woman-hater's club. How do I know? There were far too many boy's toys everywhere you looked.

Which isn't to say no women were ever brave enough to venture inside. At least for a little while. But this may be a clue to what became of them once they did. Our homeowner was an amateur photographer -- possibly a pro. Immediately inside the front door were two boxes of loose photographs. They were all a bit quirky, but this is the one that caught my eye first.

With this being the lair of a single man, it's possible the bedroom always looked like this.

This hung on the wall nearby. Only a single man would consider this proper decor, or proper attire.

Like many men, he was lured by the romance of the sea.

Perhaps some of the only romance he enjoyed.

He was attracted to electronics.

Strange items whose use -- and usefulness -- have been lost through the years.

Down in the basement, his obsessions were allowed to run free.

They included travel.

And railroads. More on those in a moment.

I, too, feel something like this every time I make a jack-o-lantern.

The back part of the basement was dark and dense.

This had once been an elaborate miniature railroad, but I think some enthusiastic estate salers had already gotten to it.

In the deepest reaches of the basement I found a darkroom.

Just before leaving I stopped in the garage. That's a lot of license plates.

And two kind of lonely chairs. I hope our bachelor has found himself a friend.

Purchased: Two vintage photographs, $1.

4 comments :

  1. I concur no woman ever lived in this house, but I don't think he was a woman-hater. He was lost in a house without a woman in it. He married young and was married most of his life.

    He probably retired early, moped around the house for about a year getting underfoot and in his wife's way until she finally screamed, "Get Out! Get Out! And take all your crap with you!" He was confused by her reaction after all those years of being married and would rather still be married.

    He filled his days with random hobbies he always wanted to try: model railroading, photography, electronics repair. None of those things would replace having someone warm to snuggle up to at night. He needed someone to be a witness to his life, to give a crap if he woke up each morning, to buy him new underwear. Without that, life wasn't much worth living any more.

    ----------------

    I recognize the Uniden Bearcat scanner. It's a police/fire/emergency radio frequency scanner. And yes, its analog usefulness is long gone in these days of digital communications.

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  2. I don't know if he was actually married. I got a definite bachelor vibe in this place. So much of that hobby stuff was so old, I think it had been in this place for years and years.

    But, your theory is interesting. And colorful! I'd expect nothing less. :)

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  3. This one was a hard read. I originally thought widower, but there should have been some small trace of womanhood somewhere. (Only a *straight* man would consider a Packers vest proper decor, or proper attire.)

    You didn't give us a shot of the kitchen but I'm guessing there were only the bare essentials: 5 mismatched plates, 3 tea glasses, 6 spoons, 3 forks, 1 steak knife, a cheap saucepan and skillet, and a single cheesy plastic placemat.

    I'm thinking short-term bachelor because eventually *somebody* will come along and say, "Geez dude, this place is tragic. Hang some art on the wall." Maybe that's what he was trying to do with the travel posters.

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  4. >So much of that hobby stuff was so old, I think it had been in this place for years and years.

    Yep, nothing new in this house since 1972... except those lighthouse curtains. And they should have stayed at the store. /snark

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