When I was a kid, most of my weekends were spent with my folks at farm auctions. At first, my sister and I would wonder the fields playing until she would give out and plop down under a tree to read. I would head for the auction ring.
By the time I was 8, my mom was allowing me to bid for her—raise my hand and yell out her bid. I was also allowed to bid on an item own—some robot or baseball bat—something cheap. The kindly auctioneer would always make sure I won the bid.
By the time I was in high school, I was the bidder for the family and known by area auction goers as that “young kid.” Mom began to ask my opinion—but question it a bit when my treasure often included a stack or two of broken dishes.