Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, May 1, 1995 TAG: 9505010025
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: C1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: SARAH HUNTLEY STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
Out they came, Hobby Horse Farm's famed miniature horses, one after another.
Toy Boy. Short Stuff. Spotted Machine. Sweet Sue. Miss Moon.
And amid the rolling rhetoric of the auctioneers, the pitter-patter of the rain and the distant screeches of the emus, out they went.
Some standing no taller than 27 inches. Going for as much as $9,100.
Carloads of collectors and breeders pulled into Bedford County this weekend as Hobby Horse Farm and Fantasyland went on the auction block. From in state and out, shrewd bidders were looking for deals at this auction, and they found them.
Greenway's Auction Co. put the real estate and personal property up Saturday. Bids came in for more than 96 acres, a two-story log home, Fantasyland's Western replica village, farm equipment, carpets, even rusting buckets of screws.
``I've never seen so much junk in a place that should be so nice,'' one spectator said. "There's a couple of blades of grass down there. Maybe they'll want to sell those, too.''
But the animals were by far the auction's biggest draw. Besides the miniature horses, the farm had housed llamas, wallabies, Tennessee fainting goats and exotic fowl.
After 32 years of marriage and partnership, all of it was on sale.
`The hardest part'
Even without rheas, ostriches and emus, auctions are, by nature, strange birds.
A festival and funeral tied into one. A chance for bidders to celebrate their fortune, frolicking among nifty stuff as they chomp on hot dogs and scout out the best bargains. A day of dread for the previous owners, who stand on the sidelines and compete for their own belongings.
Fantasyland founder Bob Pauley knew it was going to be bad.
``I'll probably break up and start crying,'' he'd said Thursday, when he came to unlock Fantasyland's doors for the auctioneers. ``But that wouldn't be too unusual. I've done a lot of that these past months.''
Pauley, 57, has been breeding miniature horses for 28 years, pairing minute mares with the smallest stallions. When he started, his horses stood about 34 inches tall. Now some are as short as 25.
``Selling my horses will be the hardest part, unquestionably the hardest part,'' he said. ``The birds - I like them. The llamas, the wallabies - I like them, too. But I love the horses. They are second only to my children.''
The breeder's warm blue eyes welled with tears. He'd looked tough when he jumped down from his black pickup truck, two small Confederate flags displayed in the cab. He'd looked tough, his broad chest accentuated by a heavy silver and turquoise necklace, his hair clipped short on top and left long in the back.
He'd looked tough then. But not anymore.
``There's a lot of personal feelings and touches in this place,'' Pauley said Thursday, blinking as he looked away. ``I've invested my body, heart, spirit and soul.''
Until they separated, Jean and Bob Pauley ran the businesses together. He cared for the animals. She kept the books. It was a profitable venture, but it wasn't easy.
Both of them talk about the sacrifice. She mentions the vacations her family could never take. He recalls trips to church, interrupted because his mares were giving birth.
When the marriage soured, the partnership went bust.
For Jean, the auction is a way to put the past behind her.
``It's like starting a new life,'' she said as she leaned on a rustic fence, her sneakered foot on the second rail. ``I feel like a burden has been lifted.''
As the auctioneers waved her family's belongings - lawn chairs, statues, hanging plants and a baby crib - Jean was unfazed.
``My husband was a pack rat. I haven't seen some of this stuff in 15 years,'' she said. ``It's like it was gone already.''
She said she'll get to keep her clothes, some furniture, her jewelry, the Corvette and a portion of the auction's proceeds. She has a new apartment in Lynchburg.
But Bob couldn't walk away. He opened Fantasyland, part theme park, dude ranch and zoo, in 1993 after seven years of labor. He designed and built all of the buildings himself.
The village's centerpiece, a Western-style country store, does Pauley proud.
``I laid those beams myself. See the rafters?'' he said, pointing to the sloped ceiling in Fantasyland's main building. ``I fell through that roof. Took a chunk out of my hand.''
He flashed a shiny, white scar on his palm. Then Pauley looked up again, his eyes stopping on the ``chandelier'' - a wooden wheel with bulbs attached along the rim, a light at the end of each spoke.
``I got that from a genuine World War II ammunition wagon,'' he said. ``It's handcrafted. I don't know what I'll do if I lose this,'' he said.
`I have faith'
That's Pauley's way - speaking what's on his mind. The only things subtle about him were his stealth signals to the auctioneers. A wink here, a nod there.
Bob Pauley wasn't about to give everything up, and in the end, he did all right.
The auction brought in $801,000 on the first weekend day, and more than a million by the time it was over. On Saturday, Pauley managed to save Fantasyland and his home, bidding $65,000 for the park and $272,500 for the house, two barns and 75 acres.
Maybe it was his lucky outfit: shiny black Levis, creased down the back and front; a white button-down shirt; an ebony vest with white embroidery; a black cowboy hat and white boots.
On Sunday, he salvaged his prize minis, but they cost him a pretty penny, these horses that he himself had birthed, raised and fed. Pauley said he'd lost count by the middle of the afternoon, but he easily committed $100,000 on animals, bidding his highest for Golden Toy, a 27-inch stud.
Pauley stood behind his youngest son, Mark, his right hand resting on the teen-ager's shoulder as announcer Tommy Garten rattled off Golden Toy's breeding history.
``Looka here, boys,'' Garten hollered, his words quickly turning indistinguishable.
The bids came in, and Pauley's finger went up - not for long, just until he caught the auctioneer's eye. After a while, the shouting stopped. Golden Toy was sold to his breeder for $7,000. Pauley had held on.
He hopes to keep his dream alive and plans to reopen Fantasyland.
"I'm going to start again if I possibly can,'' he said. ``I can't just lie down and die.''
His daughter, Tammy, has no doubts he'll make it.
``I know he'll come out again and make another million dollars,'' she said. ``I have faith in him. If he says he will, he will.''
Memo: ***CORRECTION***