In the Industrial Park, near Domestic Ave, I found a treasure trove. Looking for a warehouse for the Sheriff's Office, I stumbled on the building by chance, noticing the doors open and a car parked outside a seemingly vacant property. Being a cop, I was nosey.
The warehouse belonged to an old gent that'd passed on and his family, living up North, was disposing of his property. When their agent opened it, however, their plans required a drastic re-evaluation. Inside were stored over 50 automobiles, none newer than about 1950. The vehicles, covered with an inch of dust, ranged from a Studebaker Champion to a Duesenberg luxury sedan. The family, before this discovery, had no idea what Grandpa had squirreled away in the building. They knew he was eccentric, but, hell at that age who isn't?
The cars weren't all. A large office area was full of his other collections. He had stacks of old comic books. Newspapers. The prizes that were given in cereals and Cracker Jacks. Toys in unopened boxes. Hundreds of plastic models, none opened or assembled. All this stuff piled so densely that you had to turn sideways and scoot through to trans-navigate the room.
I was told later that the family sold the whole works, sight unseen, to another collector for $100 K. Talk about bargains. You could almost hear the old hoarder spinning in his grave.
Oh, yeah. There was one other vehicle, sitting off to the side: a 1948 GMC pickup truck that had been owned by just one family since it was new. Being a pack rat of sorts myself, I bought that one for $1200 and drove it home.
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