It would be many years before I would meet “the spade” again: before I would painfully learn that the contents of that crate, so long ago, would have been worth enough to buy my house. With my limited knowledge I concluded they looked intimidating and severe. Their silver work and design enthralled me, even at that age, but the mouthpieces, keen old spades, frightened me. I remember my impression of the bits then. I had just begun the journey of my life, riding horses and studying them. The crate was full, of what I now know to be an assortment of old California spade bits, misused and misunderstood, tossed aside as junk. The sun slanted in past a crack in the booth and glinted on its contents. Leaning lazily on a folding table covered with cheap trinkets, I glanced down into an old milk crate. I’d ridden along with my friend’s parents to the sprawling Los Angeles swap meet. I stood at the corner of one of the hundreds of booths that checker boarded a huge asphalt parking lot. ![]() The following discussion is printed with permission from the author, Gwynn Turnbull-Weaver.
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