For me, it's genetic I think. My dad loved to stroll over flea markets, I was the only one in the family who just couldn't wait when Saturday came.
As a little kid you're always a bit anxious losing your parents, but he encouraged me to scrounge on my own. He was that old fashioned type of gentleman, jacket and hat and so on. My mother insisted on that. What did he do when we left town? He put on a French beret, which mother certainly would have condemned. He was a tall guy, so I always could find him easily back between the crowd. Grabbing his sleeve and asking him some money, explaining him what treasure I have found, comics, exotic things like a real GI helmet, or a model kit I've never seen before, that was just pure excitement.
When we got back, and reached town he took of his beret, put it in his pocket.
People shouldn't get a false impression and mum just shouldn't know either.
We both knew, hush hush and top secret.
These were the first steps into collecting things, for the sheer pleasure to look at them, even if I don't have time to play too often with them now. It's all about the thrills out of chasing an item, calculating and deliberating the budget, talking with the lady of course, hoping you won't be beaten by another overbidding guy, waiting till the postman finally arrives and holding that boxcar in your hands. Overcollecting? You never can't have enough boxcars, and without a fine GP in front they are missing something. One GP? Without a switcher that little friend is a bit lonely, and at least one electric should be there too.
Kieffer
Kieffer your great story brings back memories of my Dad and flea markets and looking for antiques and trains.