11 minute read
Steve’s basement
Collectible Christmas
Steve Maze injects a glowing ‘it’ factor into his basement full of holiday fun
Story by Seth Terrell Photos by David Moore
There is a certain “it” factor that gives any story life. Sometimes there are heroes so memorable they are interwoven within the reader’s consciousness, perhaps forever. Sometimes a rarefied and elevated prose bears a story upon its angelic wings toward a transcendent plane of euphoria where time and place flourish unbound. And then there are some tales with plots so delicious and twisted and thrilling that the reader becomes a willing captive in the throes of the story’s sheer, beautiful force.
As I stand in Good Life Magazine writer Steve Maze’s basement south of Arab, surrounded by an insurmountable number of Santa Claus blow-molds and rusty Coca-Cola signs while also trying to admire a handmade replica of a two-story outhouse (yes…an outhouse), I’m not sure about any delicious, twisted plot, or rarified prose, but one thing’s for sure – there’s plenty of “it.”
My eyes attempt to take in my surroundings as I pour over this trove of memorabilia. My problem is not finding enough words to describe it, but rather finding words adequate enough.
A well-kept, wall-to-wall, palace of nostalgia … no.
How about a down-home depot of reminiscence? … no.
A whimsical, walk-in time capsule … maybe.
“I always feel like the hardest part of writing a story is figuring out how to start it,” Steve says, as the two of us sit on a couch amid his basement world of memorabilia.
“Yeah, I agree,” I say. And usually I would, but as Steve becomes my tour guide through what feels like a DIY museum of Americana (bingo, that’s it!), I think to myself, “Nope. This story’s going to crank right up.” My first familiarity with Steve Maze came when he was the writer and publisher of his former magazine, Yesterday’s Memories, a regional
Walking down the stairs and entering Steve’s basement is a riot of collectibles and memorabilia that can’t be absorbed in a single look. Even when not set up for Christmas, the basement’s packed. Many of Steve’s Christmas collectibles are blow-mold figurines, such as the dog, reindeer, Santa and the foreground carolers at upper left . Blow molding is a process in which plastic is melted, put into a mold then shaped into an object by blowing compressed air into it. Some folks – Steve at far left amongst them – collect vintage blow-mold objects, especially Christmas decorations that are further enhanced by lights glowing inside them. Blow molding is also used to produce items that don’t appreciate in value, such as the ubiquitous drink bottle.
periodical focused on fascinating characters of history, southern legends, rural mysteries and where-are-they-now’s of past celebrities. Though the publication was focused mainly on North Alabama, its readership spanned 46 states with hundreds of subscribers.
My dad, Donnie, was once featured because he lucked into owning an old woodstove that previously belonged to Marshall County folk hero Stocklaw Johnson, a legendary figure of whom Steve had written extensively. He penned that particular piece in such a way, as he did all the stories about Stocklaw, that I could see
the legendary figure come alive, could imagine him standing over the open stove, cooking cornbread perhaps. I still have copies of those stories on my bookshelf and those vivid images stacked along the shelves of my mind.
Speaking of folk heroes, Steve may qualify as one, though if he allows this mantle to slip past the editing and remain in the story at all, he is probably chuckling as we speak. But it’s true. For thousands of southerners, including his former subscribers and current readers of his pieces in Good Life Magazine, Steve is a walking, talking encyclopedia of our collective past.
For readers new to Good Life who may not know, or for our faithful readers who may not have paid attention, Steve and I are teammates of a sort, sharing the proverbial stage as writing colleagues.
I remember when I first started writing for Good Life and would get my hands on the first copies hot off the press, I would do two things: I would first smell the pages (what?...you can’t tell me I’m the only one who does this), then I would quickly flip through my own story, however decently written, to find Steve’s piece and devour every word. Slightly jealous, always entertained. “I’m glad you’re the one writing this story,” Steve says, a bit out of the blue, but also as though he’s read my mind.
“Me, too,” I say. “I just hope I don’t let you down.”
“Listen,” Steve says, offering some sage advice, “you can’t write the story based on whether you feel the subject is going to like it or not.”
He says this, coming from the place of a man who has learned from experience. Retired from the finance world, Steve’s writing career led him to interviewing a plethora of people with various ties to fame. Descendants of Jesse James, actors like Keith Thibodaux from “I Love Lucy,” Dee Presley, Elvis’s stepmother, all of Hank Williams’s Drifting Cowboys, John Schneider from the “Dukes of Hazard” and many others.
His latest brush with fame, however, has to do with the basement collection now spread before us. I follow him over to an item in his collection that sets the tone for our tour. It is an electric “Elsie” Those who have followed Steve Maze’s writing over the years – through his books and Yesterday’s Memories, through local newspapers and now Good Life Magazine – would probably agree that this is the only way his basement could possibly look.
cow from the 1940s that, when plugged in, moves and shifts as though it were a forerunner to some animatronic creation born in a movie studio.
The cow, and others just like it, were a marketing tool for Borden Dairy and were set up in grocery stores around the country during the 1940s and ’50s. Mike, from the show “American Pickers,” once had his eye on the cow during the filming of one of the episodes, but ultimately didn’t buy it. One thing led to another, and Steve ended up with it. Mike has contacted Steve on multiple occasions asking about buying parts of Steve’s collection. But Steve rarely concedes.
Blow-molded figurines set an Americana atmosphere stage in a Nativity scene that usually has a more classical look to it.
“It’s an addiction,” he says grinning. “To collect like I do, you have to have money, space and an understanding wife.” I lean in, grinning myself, waiting for the punchline. “And I’ve run out of all three.”
Nearly silent in the background, a dehumidifier hums along, a key component that helps Steve keep his collection in great shape.
“My barn is full,” he says, “my garage, too. So I have to be picky about what I collect these days.” But no mention of selling any part of it.
Steve walks me past the Borden electric cow and over to the toy section of his basement. Here is a toy rack, stocked with unopened toys from the 1950s and ’60s, tokens of Steve’s childhood.
These “off-the-rack” toys, as they were called, consist of pop guns and toy cars and whistles. Steve keeps the rack full because he remembers as a kid that his dad never let him buy the off-the-rack toys when they found themselves in a general store.
Just above the toy rack sits another old toy that holds even deeper memories of his father. It is a Pinocchio toy from 1939, the same year the Disney movie came out. His father, who grew up during The Great Depression, rarely had the good fortune of getting toys, so he kept the Pinocchio in pristine shape and later gifted it to Steve as an adult.
Like most things surrounding us, the Pinocchio toy in all its whimsey, is difficult to describe, but suffice it to say it is a rocking, wind-up marvel of a contraption. Steve has taken it and some of the wellmade older toys to local elementary schools on certain occasions. The intricacy and engineering of those old toys often leaves kids transfixed.
“I love demonstrating for today’s children how these antique and vintage items worked. It would really please my dad that kids still get such joy from these,” he says.
Herein is the heart of Steve’s story: his vast collection is not about an obsession, rather it’s about the connection to the past, to a time of wonder and innocence of childhood.
“All that I collect reminds me of that time period when I was growing up,” he says. “It reminds me of simpler times. Good times.”
We carry on through the wellorganized labyrinth. Each exhibit teems
These days, the internet easily fuels Steve’s search for memorabilia, along with the help of his daughter, Tonya, who calls or sends photos every week of items she’s sure her father can’t turn down. Besides Tonya and his wife, Brenda, Steve also commissions the assistance – or complicity, if you will – of his grandchildren, with his granddaughter, Lauren, helping to arrange and curate his basement space to make it truly endearing and inviting.
with nostalgia. There are glass bottles of all types: former “bulk oil” bottles and unopened soft drink bottles with RC or Coca Cola still inside. There is a fully lit Spur gas station sign that offers a cooling ambiance to the whole place.
“I think everybody should have a fully lit gas station sign in their basement,” Steve laughs.
On the walls on either side of the sign, hangs an immaculate collection of car tags, one from almost every state and all but two ever issued by the State of Alabama.
“I enjoy collecting old license plates because they remind me of the old cars we had as a kid,” Steve says, pointing out an especially mint-condition one from 1912, the first year that Alabama began issuing tags.
“I’m fascinated with history,” Steve continues. “I can look at a 1927 tag and know Babe Ruth hit 60 home runs that year. I can look at a 1945 tag and know that World War II ended that year. And, of course, I can look at 1956 and realize that was the year I was born.”
We come to another rack with accompanying shelf that is full of old metal lunchboxes in perfect condition, many with the thermoses carefully wrapped inside. From among the stack, I am drawn to a few in particular: The Jetsons, Evel Knievel, Bonanza and Gunsmoke. Steve has amassed his lunchbox stash from keeping his eye peeled around yard sales, estate sales and auctions. Steve holds one of the lunchboxes for me to inspect, A Dukes of Hazard edition, complete with John Schneider’s autograph.
“If there’s a metal lunchbox out there,” he laughs, “I have to have it. There are no self-help meetings for avid collectors like me. And, if there were, we probably wouldn’t go to them.”
I ask Steve how his wife, Brenda, feels about his many affinities and the overall collection.
“Oh, she likes old things, too,” he says, “I mean she is married to me after all.”
Friends and families often stop by, especially around Christmas, to take pictures among the multitude of blowmolds. In fact, the blow-molds are so
Experiencing Steve’s basement is not far removed from a visit to the North Pole.
numerous, and give off such light, there is hardly any need for the overhead fixtures.
He owns a platoon of blow-mold Santas from various eras and a sizable herd of reindeer. They are all surrounded by a celestial band of fiberglass angels from the 1960s.
“I really enjoy it when other people can come and experience this and learn,” Steve says, “it’s one of the biggest rewards I get from collecting.”
Our tour of the basement concludes with a walk up the stairs where we are flanked on either side by movie posters, many from the old Ritz Theater in Arab. Bruce Lee and Dracula and Elvis all eye us as we ascend.
Our last passage takes us through an attic bonus room where Steve’s additional collections of baseball cards and memorabilia are ordered along a wall. Photographs of several celebrities from a bygone era all smile back, many of them autographed. There are enough photos of the cast of Andy Griffith to make an entire album, and at least one snapshot of Atlanta Braves legend, Chipper Jones, reading a copy of Yesterday’s Memories.
As Steve and I say goodbye, I find myself wanting to schedule a return tour. While my own love for history may never result in a basement storehouse of cultural artifacts, I’m very glad to know that somewhere down a country road there exists a cozy, meandering path down memory lane and a benevolent tour guide always ready to lead the exploration into the past.
Good Life Magazine
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