He’s had at least twenty jobs, he said, and his work for a natural birth control company, which aimed to help women predict fertility based on the consistency of their vaginal mucous, had slowed. Preble opened the museum in 2000 after a trip to Albuquerque in 1999 changed his life. Preble covered an outer wall in a pastel mosaic, a project that must have taken more patience and time than he’d readily admit (“Most of the stuff back there took me a month at night,” he says, later, with mock humility), and spring green vines have begun to cover the mosaic a project that, knowing the Louisiana tropics, must have taken a single night. Upon arrival, after taking myself on a tour of the miniature Second Line scene, the two-person organ (one cranks, one plays) and a cave carved out for a miniature being, curiously titled “Ned’s Claim,” among other treasures, I sat down for an interview with Preble, only to learn that he would also be interviewing me. “I never pictured myself behind the counter of a museum gift shop, but after fifteen years, I’ve met all sorts of people.”īefore I left New Orleans to make the hour-long drive to Abita Springs, I called Preble to let him know I was running a little late. “This is one of the greatest jobs in the world,” he said. The group passed by, agreeing to pay the cost of admission after the self-guided tour, and Preble turned back toward me. “And if we break it, we’re buying it?” one woman asked with a thick Southeast Louisiana accent. “There’s nothing private, nothing’s gonna jump out at you,” Preble said, a well-rehearsed line that you could tell he wished he didn’t have to say. The introduction to what lay beyond the gift shop’s door was short and sweet. “It’s three dollars apiece,” he said, “except for Batman. John Preble, the owner and founder of the museum and the artist behind its winding menageries, looked up from his perch and welcomed the guests, counting all seven.
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