Since the beginning of mankind, people have collected things.
I’m sure even cavemen collected things.
Caveman Crug probably had an eye for shiny rocks and lined his caves with his finds. Caveman Thug would invite the neighbors over to his cave where he would “turn up the fire” to show off his collection of animal skins.
And every weekend, Oona and Bonka, the Cave Sisters, would get up early to hit nearby Cave Estate sales:
Neanderthal Sales
Mammoth skins.
Flint tools.
Rocks.
Skulls.
Cave paintings (sell with cave)
No lowball offers.
Know what have.
Like most people, I assumed everyone had “their thing.” I just never thought Frank did.
He wasn’t really into serious collecting. His life was consumed by two things: Family and Photography. Sure, he has antique photography equipment he’s collected as it’s come his way, but it was never something he actively pursued. For decades he has busied himself with his business and his clients and his craft.
This doesn’t mean, however, that he didn’t carry a secret love.
He did. Turns out, he had simply been hiding it.
It was 1/64 scale, forged from die-cast metal, and bore the name “Matchbox.”
It started back in Linwood, Michigan, in a tiny house by the lake, where on the front porch, he and his childhood friend, David, would take their Matchbox cars and play for hours. It was the best of times on that porch, and in an attempt to instill the same Matchbox zeal in his little brothers, Frank passed some of his favorite cars down to them.
But when you don’t value a thing, you tend not to take care of it. And to Frank’s dismay, his brothers quickly treated those Matchbox toy cars like…well… toys. (How dare they.)
By the time they were returned to Frank, they looked like they’d been through the wars. Frank cleaned them up the best he could and lovingly tucked them back into their case.
The whole scenario sort of reminds me of A Christmas Story, except instead of burying a broken leg lamp in the backyard, Frank was quietly laying his battle-scarred Matchbox cars to rest.
(And yes, I’m fairly certain “Taps” could be heard playing in the background.)
Sure, the guy has purchased additional Matchbox cars here and there over the years. They are kept in their boxes or in their cards and displayed in his home office. And woe to the person who mistakes them for “Hot Wheels.” (We don’t use the “HW” name in our house. Even our children know that. To Frank, it’s like the Voldemort of die cast cars. It must not be named.)
But his little Matchbox collection went no further than that until a year and a half ago.
And a trip to Prescott, Arizona.
And a vintage toy store.
For there, sitting behind glass like the Crown Jewels, were his childhood Matchbox cars. In mint condition. Not all of them, mind you, but enough to make a grown man weep. (Okay, he didn’t really cry, but I swear he got close to it.)
And thus began Frank’s journey into Matchbox collecting.
I don’t know how many cars he has. Seriously, there are so many at this point I have no desire to count them. Even he doesn’t know. And it’s not just cars: it’s vintage cases and displays and signage. He has old Matchbox sets and unopened paper sets. He has taken over the basement. It looks less like a collection and more like Mattel opened a secret regional branch office beneath our house.
At this point, if Mattel ever has an emergency, I think Frank is legally obligated to step in.
The man has all things car related in his “Mini Matchbox Museum.” Durango, Colorado’s first traffic light, vintage oil cans and gas cans, tires, rubber mats on the floor that look like tire tread (and smell like it, too. How long does that smell take to disappear? I’ll let you know when it happens.)
And because it’s Frank, presentation is everything. Put those little colored jewels away in a box? Are you kidding? That’s only for the duplicates. These little colored beauties cover the walls and line antique wood cases and rotate happily encased in vintage Matchbox displays.
And just when I thought the Matchbox Mania could reach no greater heights, he met Jim Gallegos.
Or “Matchbox Jim,” as I call him.
Jim, and his beautiful wife, run the annual “Matchbox Gathering of Friends.”
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For 24 years, Jim and his team have organized this event. People come from all over the globe to attend. When Frank learned of it, I feared his excitement would result in a cartwheel attempt. He gleefully marked himself out of the schedule to attend. (Okay, in all fairness, he never really marks himself out. If someone needs a session and there is literally no other time for them or their family, he will take one for the team. But to mark himself even “sort of” out doesn’t happen often. This was big, people.)
So there we were, Friday night at the Marriott. A place we know like the back of our hands thanks to countless weddings. But this time? Oh, this time was different. Instead of tuxedos and bridesmaids, the rooms were filled with grown adults discussing things like axle variations and wheel castings.
We didn’t know what to expect.
Do we dress up? Down?
Do we come armed with Matchbox cars?
What is this “trading taking place in rooms” business?
Toy show on Sunday? Yes, please.
I could bore you more than I have already with the details of it all. But allow me to summarize it in one sentence…
Matchbox Gathering of Friends completely shattered every stereotype I had about collectors.
To begin with, we sat with designers from Mattel.
MATTEL, people!
These guys were like Toy Royalty. I felt like Tom Hanks in BIG. They even allowed me to pick their brains. I had to keep telling myself, “Stay cool, Cheri. Stay cool.”
I told them that in the game of “And what do you do for a living?” they will win every time. The only thing that could possibly beat them would be an astronaut. I mean, these guys literally design the toys millions of kids dream about finding on Christmas morning. That is winning Career Day FOREVER.
And I’m not gonna lie, I was girding my loins as I entered Matchbox Gathering of Friends. Oh, they were good and girded.
Because I’ve been around artists and creators all my life. I’ve been around collectors. And it has been my experience that so many of these individuals are very, oh, what’s the word here…ah, yes…showy. Their sentences are peppered with “me,” “my,” “mine.” A conversation turns into a lecture. These folks have done their homework and now we are all going to pay.
And at this event, we’ve got the trifecta: Mattel designers, collectors who’ve been collecting most of their lives, history buffs…I was prepared to plaster a smile on my face while seeking the closest glass of wine.
Oh, did I say glass? I meant BOTTLE.
But, people…none of that happened. Because none of that was necessary.
Jim Gallegos named the event Matchbox Gathering of Friends for good reason…that’s exactly what it is.
Egos were left at the door and replaced with genuine excitement and joy over tiny little metal cars. Yes, joy. People sharing what they knew simply because they wanted someone else to enjoy it, too. Nobody seemed interested in being the smartest person in the room.
They were just happy to be in the room.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
No hustle.
No hard sell.
No “me.”
No “my.”
No “mine.”
Just friends playing with cars. Learning more about them, buying, selling and trading all with a spirit of generosity instead of competition. The attitude that everyone ought to go home smiling.
This was not an event created to line the pockets of the organizers. Not even close.
The Matchbox Bingo money? All went to charity.
The live auction following the dinner? Charity.
I mean, if you won an item, you didn’t even write your check to the organizers. You wrote it directly to the charity.
And as we drove home Sunday afternoon, I realized something…somewhere along the way I’d become a little cynical. I’d gotten so used to people wanting something from everyone they met that I’d forgotten places like this still exist.
Places where you’re only a stranger once.
Places where people are genuinely excited to share what they love.
Places where nobody is keeping score.
Places where friendships are built over something as wonderfully ridiculous as tiny little die-cast cars.
And the funny thing is…I went because Frank collects Matchbox, but I came home remembering that the world is still full of good people.
And maybe that’s why the whole weekend felt so familiar…because that’s exactly how we’ve built Frank Frost Photography. Not like a business transaction. Not like a sales pitch. Just a place where people are welcomed, stories are shared, friendships are made, and everyone leaves a little happier than when they walked in.
After all, whether it’s tiny die-cast cars or family portraits, the best collections aren’t really about the things we gather.
They’re about the people we meet along the way.
And next year’s gathering can’t come soon enough!
~Cheri Frost
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Did I mention there was a really cool car show? Naturally, my Matchbox had to get in on the action.
Did we win the Charity Bingo? Well, we never “bingo’d” but we met great people and raised money for Alta Mira, so yes.
Yes, we DID win.
This is Tyler, one of Mattel’s designers. Yeah, you know, no big deal. (Listen, I am trying to stay cool here. But it took everything in my power not to leap across the table and say “HIRE ME.” I may not know a lot about die cast cars, but when it comes to dolls and robots, this girl holds her own.)
As they shared aspects of their jobs with us, I kept thinking of the line from BIG:
“So you got a job, where you play with all these toys?”
” Yup!”
And they’re gonna pay you for that?”
“Yup!”
I mean….
In my defense, there were butter chips on the table and I had a Matchbox car in front of me. What choice did I have? NONE.
Also in my defense, this was MY salad, so…
The Matchbox Gathering of Friends featured two signature cocktails in the Marriott Lounge. I opted for the
Porsche 911 Old Fashioned. Yes, I do realize the photo is a bit blurry. Did I mention I was drinking a Porsche 911 Old Fashioned?
And last but not least, a love story. I tell you, Matchbox Gathering of Friends had EVERYTHING.
She didn’t expect to find love at the Matchbox Gathering of Friends Classic Car Show. It was the last thing on her engine’s mind.
But then…she saw him…a ’59 Chevy Impala.
His power could be felt across the parking lot. His chrome glistened in the sunlight, beckoning her. As she approached, he bore his
engine’s soul and her pink Cadillac heart melted.
She told herself it could never work. She came up with a million reasons not to fall for him. But the moment she touched him, her windshield wipers came on, her radio began playing Barry White on a station she didn’t have programmed, and she got so excited,
she “oiled” a little.
She knew she should walk away. He was older. More experienced. Completely out of her league.
But when he revved his engine, all rational thought left her carburetor.
Listen…the heart wants what the heart wants.