Books:

Discovered! 505
Odd Enterprises

Hidden Dollars

How to Make
Money at Home

Small Business
of Your Own

You Can Own
a Business

"In fact," says Johnny with a grin, "a few old bottles, a rolling pin, and some paint, have completely changed my life."

We were standing in one of the two rooms in the Lenhartsville hotel that Johnny keeps full of the things he has made from objects other people have discarded as junk. Johnny—he dislikes being called plain John—stood in the center of the room and glanced proudly around. He is a middle aged man, stout, with an almost perpetual good humored smile on his lips.

"The things people sell for a few pennies or even give away as junk," he said with a rueful shake of his head. "There isn't a single, solitary thing I ever saw—no matter how old or abused, or faded or dirty—that can't be cleaned, mended, and changed into something else."

Hanging around the room, or piled on tables, or lying on the floor, were such things as old cradles that were now gaily painted magazine racks; potato mashers, painted and attached to renovated frying pans (also brightly painted) to be used as dinner bells; all kinds of bottles and jars, painted and now used as flower vases; sheep and cow yokes, magically turned—with the aid of Johnny's imagination and paint brushes—into tie racks.

"Sometimes it takes a little while to figure out what you can do with some things," Johnny said with his usual smile. He picked up what seemed to be a violin case. "Look at this. I bought it for twenty-five cents. Every day I looked at it and thought that here at last was one thing I'd never be able to do anything with."

Johnny opened the case—not black as it once had been, but painted with colorful flowers—and displayed the interior. It was lined with brightly colored material and was partitioned into one of the most useful sewing boxes I had ever seen.

"See what I mean?" Johnny asked, grinning. "If you think hard enough you can make something out of anything."

We walked into the other room, the room Johnny really works in. There were paints and brushes and varnishes spread out on a long table, and with every imaginable article in some degree of rehabilitation or change.

When I glanced around at the seemingly endless variety of things Johnny had bought, either from private persons or at auctions, I was amazed. There were bottles, jugs, harnesses, chairs, wooden spoons, old wheels (to be eventually made into clothes racks), old clothes trees, iron kettles, milk buckets, flatirons (to make door-stops and bookends), old tin plates and all kinds of toleware.

"There's a satisfaction in making something new from something old," Johnny philosophized, following my amazed glance around his workroom. "It's a satisfaction I've never found in anything else I've ever done. I think everything should be useful. And if something has gone out of style—or for any other reason can no longer be used for the purpose for which it was first intended—why not figure out how to make it useful in another way? That's where the fun comes in—and profit, too!"

THE REALLY amazing thing about Johnny Ott and his hobby of turning old things into new is that until about fifteen years ago when he started his hobby, he hadn't been interested in painting or reconditioning, or anything even remotely similar.

Johnny Ott's trade was cooking. "Not 'chef'," he points out with a smile. "I was just a plain cook—working in hotels and restaurants around Reading, Pennsylvania."

Fifteen years ago Johnny decided he would buy the old hotel at Lenhartsville, Pennsylvania, and become a country hotel keeper. He did just that, and the Lenhartsville hotel will serve meals and look after the comforts of travelers on Route 22, the highway that runs from New York City into the West. But for years now Johnny has turned the cooking department over to Mrs. Ott. Johnny is too busy attending auctions and making a profit out of the things he buys there. Not that Mrs. Ott cares. Johnny's hobby has helped increase the business of the hotel; in a way his "new things from old" has made the hotel a kind of landmark along Route 22.

"Now don't misunderstand," Johnny is quick to put in. "Both businesses are completely on their own. The hotel would make us a living without the hobby—and the hobby would support us without the hotel."

I asked Johnny Ott what had started it all. What the one thing was that had tripped the switch and begun things so that now, years later, we were standing in this room talking about the many new things he had made from the old.

"It was a chair," Johnny said, reflecting, "an old beat-up kitchen chair. It was right after we took over the hotel. Mrs. Ott brought this old chair down from the attic and showed it to me. It seemed to be sound, but it was the dirtiest chair I had ever seen. Well, I washed it with plain soap and water, and when it had dried I sat down in front of it and thought about how I could decorate it. Remember, up until then I had never painted anything. Oh, I had touched up wood work and things like that, just as everyone has done at one time, or another. But I had never decorated anything, or even tried to. Well, the more I looked at that old chair and thought about it, the more I decided I'd actually go ahead and do something with it."

Johnny Ott sat down in a large wooden chair, a chair that had been painted black and then decorated with bright flowers. He motioned for me to sit down, too.

"The first thing I did after deciding to work on that chair," he went on, "was to find out what kind of paint and brushes I'd need. So I simply went to my local paint dealer—and that was a smart thing to do. I've never regretted it."

"Why?" I asked. "I mean, why was that so important? You could have used any paint and any kind of brushes, couldn't you?"

"Sure," Johnny Ott replied. "But remember, I didn't know a single solitary thing about paints or varnishes—or even the first simple steps in reconditioning an object. Certainly I could have tried various methods and things, and would have learned by doing; how do they say?—'by trial and error.' But going first to someone who knew all about paints and finishes saved me a great deal of experimenting, and it also made it more certain that what I spent time working on would hold up. Why, some of the very first things I decorated look the same now as they did the day they were finished. I may be fussy, and may worry needlessly about doing a good job, but it's a wonderful feeling to know that you have used the very best of materials on the things you sell."

"I see what you mean," I said. "When you do something for money—I mean when you sell something—it should be as right as you can make it."

Johnny laughed and nodded.

"You know," he said, "that's something every amateur—or let's say every hobbyist—should think about and understand. When you make something, or decorate or recondition some object, and then give it away—that's one thing. If it doesn't work, or grow, or the paint fades, well, what can anyone say? You gave it to them! But when they pay you! When you accept money for something you have made, or painted—well, then you must be very, very sure you have done the best work you know how to do on that object. I'll bet you've never heard of anyone making something too good!"

Johnny certainly had a point there; and it was something I was sure would be of interest to every hobbyist.

Johnny went on to tell me about calling on the local paint dealer. He told me how that merchant had explained the various kinds of paints and enamels and the types of brushes to be used with each.

"I remember I bought red, blue and yellow enamel," Johnny recalled. "And for a while everything was painted with those three colors as they were, or a mixture of them. Of course now I have every color of enamel that's manufactured. By the way, you've probably noticed that I use enamel more than any other decorating medium."

PAINTING THAT first chair gave Johnny Ott the decorating bug. He began to look around the hotel for other things to "touch up." Before long there was hardly a piece of movable furniture in the place that hadn't felt the effect of Johnny's inspiration. However, in the beginning a chair was what he had started with, and chairs were what he was going to continue with—until every chair in the hotel, dining room, bar, and the rooms for guests, had been newly painted and decorated. Tables were next, and then Johnny began to paint the walls and ceilings. Now when you enter the Lenhartsville hotel you are immediately struck by the sight of hand-painted flowers on the walls, and bright geometrical designs on the ceilings. Johnny even painted curtains on the windows—dotted swiss and colored ones. There is no curtain washing at the Lenhartsville hotel.

"But then there came a time," Johnny said, grinning, "when everything I could reach, pry loose, or get to had been painted. I had worked myself out of a hobby! And just when I was getting into the swing of it!"

I looked around at the display of items that filled both rooms.

"What did you do then? How did you get all these things?"

Johnny waved a hand, as though these hundreds of redecorated and reconditioned objects meant nothing at all.

"These two rooms," he explained, "have been filled as they are now at least twice each year for the last ten years. Thousands of items have passed through here."

"But how?" I persisted. "Where do you get them? How do you get them?"

"Auctions," Johnny stated simply, and, nodded his head as though that was what he had been leading the conversation around to all the time. "Auctions—how I dote on 'em!"

Auctions are to, Johnny Ott what cards, television and the movies are to many other people. He simply loves them. He goes to every one within a radius of 100 miles. He attends an average of two a week, and there were and are some weeks when he is at an auction every day except Sunday.

Johnny has been at so many auctions over the years, and has become such a familiar figure to the auctioneers, that he is known to all of them as "the nickel man," No matter what they put up for a nickel or a dime or a quarter—Johnny will buy it. In fact, Johnny is very proud of the fact that he has never spent more than twenty-five cents for any one item at any auction, anytime, anywhere. Many times during an auction—either to stir up interest, or to kill some time while large objects are brought up—the auctioneer will hold up some small item and ask "Who will give me a nickel or a dime—or a quarter for this?" No matter what it is, Johnny always raises his hand. But what Johnny likes best of all is when a whole boxful of odds and ends is put up and the auctioneer asks a "quarter-of-a-dollar" for the "surprise package."

"I buy everything like that," Johnny said, "And you'd be surprised at what I sometimes find in those 'surprise packages.'"

WHEN JOHNNY is attending auctions and buying things, he doesn't take the time then to figure out what he can do with each item. As long as things are cheap he simply keeps on buying. It's when he gets the stuff home and begins sorting it out that his mind goes to work on each item.

"It's wonderful," he said, "what you can devise when you sit down and think about some object. At first glance you're likely to think: 'What in the world can I ever make out of this thing?' Then, as you study it, and turn it over and over in your hands, more often than not an idea will come to you."

Of course there are many familiar kinds of things he keeps a sharp lookout for at every auction. Things he knows from experience that he can turn into profitable items. Things like ironware, kettles, pots, frying-pans, and all kinds of plates and jugs and bottles—and of course, chairs.

"I think I must have mended and painted thousands of chairs," Johnny told me. "You know, people will buy a gaily painted chair when they might hesitate over something else. If the chair is bright enough and sturdy, there always seems to be a place for it—in the kitchen, on the porch, or in the yard. And people bring me their own chairs for me to decorate. I've painted dozens of complete sets of kitchen chairs for families; all with the brightest floral designs I could make. And on the seat or across the back of each chair I paint the name of a member of the family. These seem to go over big with people who have summer homes or bungalows. Children's chairs, too, are in great demand. People buy these chairs unpainted and then bring them to me. I put any kind of decoration on them they want me to, and I also paint the name of the child on them. Children love 'em."

Johnny got up and went across the room. When he came back he had what looked like a paddle in his hand.

"Know what this is?" he asked.

I turned it over in my hands. It was about six inches broad at one end, and it tapered to a handle at the other. It was painted a bright blue; and on this base of blue were painted tiny red and yellow flowers. Across the broad base the name "Alice" was lettered.

"It looks like a small paddle," I said. "What about it?"

Johnny sat down.

"How many of those do you suppose I make and sell every year?" he asked. When I shook my head, he said: "Hundreds of 'em."

Then he explained. The paddles are made from old wooden shingles. Johnny cuts the handles with a jig saw and then paints and decorates them. The space for the name is left blank. When a paddle is purchased Johnny letters the child's name in that space.

"Folks hang them on the wall," Johnny said. "When 'Alice' or 'Ruth' or 'Tommy' or 'Dick' get a little out of hand, all pop or mom has to do is point to the paddle. They tell me it works wonders."

Paddles and chairs aren't the only things Johnny individualizes with the names of people. On everything he paints or makes he is happy to letter the name or names of the persons for whom they are intended. There are some things, of course, that always have names painted on them: for instance the dinner-bells he makes from iron frying pans with potato mashers or wooden spoons attached to them.

"Speaking of frying pans," Johnny said when we got around to that subject, "just notice the different sounds or tones they make."

There were five or six of them hanging on the wall, each one decorated in a different manner, and each with a wooden spoon or potato masher attached to it with a leather thong. Johnny struck each of them, and each pan had a different tone. Some were deep, some were more vibrant than the others, and some were loud—but all of them were different.

"It depends on their size and the thickness of the iron," Johnny explained." "You should hear this place sometimes when a few folk are deciding which pan they like best. It sounds like a boiler factory."

JOHNNY HAD told me that he used mostly enamels in his decorating work. I asked him now just how he used them, and how he managed to get the attractive translucent quality I had noticed in the painted items. That had been something I had been wondering about and admiring ever since I had started looking over Johnny's things. Everything he had decorated—chairs, pans, tables, etc., had a solid base color over the entire object. This base might be blue, or red, or brown, or any other color, but on this base color the bright designs were painted. I had noticed that no matter what the color of the base—from black to bright blue—there seemed to be a quality of richness that I had never noticed in painted things I had seen before.

"That's one of the things I did learn by experimenting," Johnny explained, "and it's a very simple thing. This is what it is: Everything I decorate is first cleaned. If it's something that has been painted I use paint remover, and when the old paint is off, the object is washed in soap and water until it's clean. For a great many things I buy at auctions, especially wooden things like spoons and bowls, that is all the preparation necessary—just a good scrubbing! Then, when the item is completely dry, I give it a coat of filler. Depending on the condition of the object, I might give it a second coat of filler. When the filler is dry I give it a coat of white enamel. That's right," Johnny nodded, "no matter what the base color is eventually going to be—everything gets at least one coat of filler and then a coat of white enamel. When that dries I apply the base color, blue or black, or red—or any other color. But that first coat of white enamel sort of shines through and gives a delicacy to the base color. See what I mean?"

I could see what he meant. When I examined the articles within reach I could see now that there was a reason why the colors appeared to be so bright and alive. It was the white coat underneath.

"But what I about the things you don't use enamel on?" I pointed to some cobblers' benches and some stools that gleamed with the beautiful sheen of natural wood.

"As you can readily see," Johnny replied, "ninety per cent of the things I do are enameled. But for the few things that aren't, I simply give them a good washing, and after they dry, I give them a coat of filler. Then I rub them down with steel wool—very fine. Then another coat of filler; then a final rubbing with sandpaper—again very fine. When I've rubbed them until they're smooth to the touch I wax 'em. No special wax, but any kind that can be rubbed. I like 'em to shine!"

We sat quietly for a moment. Once more I let my eyes roam over the hundreds of items in the room; the magazine racks made out of milk buckets; the old jugs of all sizes, now decorated and painted with flowers and designs; sheep yokes made into tie-racks; ancient iron tea kettles—and every other imaginable kind of object; but all clean and painted and made into something new.

"YOU TALK of selling a hundred of this and a dozen of that," I said at last, "but how do you go about selling them? You said your hobby wasn't dependent on the hotel—that it stood alone. But aren't most of your things sold from here?"

Johnny shook his head. "What I told you about my hobby and the hotel being two entirely independent things is true," he said. "I do my decorating work in these two rooms here at the hotel for the very simple reason that I live here. If I lived on a farm or in a house in a small or large town I'd work there. Certainly, some of the people who stop here, at the hotel buy a few of my things. But the people who come here with the sole purpose of buying, or who bring things to me to decorate, would still come to me whether my home was here at the hotel or anywhere else. In a small way the two businesses do help each other; but each one could stand alone without the other. Do I make myself clear?

"Most of the things I make," Johnny went on, "are sold away from here. I'm a great believer in the philosophy that nothing can be sold if it can't be seen. What I do is to make very, very certain that my things are seen. For example: there isn't a gift shop in a radius of 100 miles that doesn't have some of my things on display—and I mean on display; I make sure of that myself. I put them in these places on consignment, of course. That means I put a price on the object, and when it is sold the proprietor of the store deducts his commission—in my case it's thirty-five per cent—and holds the rest for me. It's up to the individual hobbyist, of course, to decide what percentage. of the price of an item will be paid to the shop for displaying it. Some make it anything from twenty-five per cent to fifty per cent. Speaking for myself, I've always thought thirty-five per cent was fair, and most of the people I deal with think so, too.

"There's one thing I do that helps the dealers—at least they have told me it does—and that is to list all the kinds of objects I put in their shops; also the price I charge for decorating things brought into the shop, and for such services as personalizing items with people's names—all these charges, together with my prices, are listed in a little book I leave with the proprietor of the store. Each item I leave in the shop is numbered, and that number, with its price and a description of it, is in the book.

"I make a point of calling at each store or gift shop that has my things, at least once a month. At that time I collect the money due me, and put in fresh things. At that time, too, I see to it that the book I have left with them is brought up to date. The dealers seem to like that." Johnny stopped and thought for a moment. "I want to qualify what I just said about calling on each place once a month," he went on. "That's true if I haven't heard from them about special orders. If a proprietor has taken in a chair someone wants me to decorate, or if he has sold a jug or a dinner-bell, or anything else the buyer wants personalized by special lettering—if something like that happens then the proprietor phones me and I pick up the item as soon as I can. When it's finished I take it back to the shop and they let the customer know the object is ready. Certainly it keeps me busy; but I like to be busy.

"I have my things in roadside stands, in restaurants, and even some items in service stations. In other words, I place my things wherever I think people will see them. Of course, if I find, after a reasonable trial, that my things don't sell in one place, I take them out of that place and put them elsewhere. Remember, if they can't see your things they certainly can't buy 'em!"

"HOW DO you arrive at a price for your things, Johnny?" I asked. For a moment he didn't answer. He looked around at the various things he had made, almost all of them from things other people had discarded as useless, and then he turned to me.

"I just can't seem to find words to answer that one," he said, grinning. "I guess it's the same as it is in any other business where you start with nothing, and then by putting time and thought and work into it you eventually arrive at something better than what you started with. Bringing it down to the bare essentials, I figure what the thing cost originally, and then add to that the material and the time I spend on it."

He pointed to the chairs ranged along the wall. "If I supply the chair to be painted the price is from $9 to $12—depending on the amount of painting on it. If someone brings me a chair, or leaves a chair for me to paint at one of the stores where I have my things, the price for painting it would run from $3.50 up—again depending on what amount of painting I was asked to do on it."

He pointed to the frying pans. "I get from $1 to $4.50 for those," he said. "It depends on their tone, the original condition and how much time I've spent decorating them. For the iron kettles I charge from $3 to $6. The jugs sell for from $3 to $8. While for the paddles—the ones I make out of roof shingles and put the names of children on—I charge from $2 to $3 depending on how much personalizing I do to them."