Off the Shelf: Bob Jackman and 6,000 parking places

Bob Jackman didn’t wake up one day and decide to become the caretaker of more than 6,000 model cars. The collection grew the way the best obsessions do, slowly at first, then all at once, built from a lifelong fixation on automobiles, a sharp eye for detail, and a willingness to let the hobby expand into whatever space it could claim.

His car story starts early, back when he was a kid in St. Louis and cars weren’t just transportation. They were mystery, identity, and possibility. He’ll tell you the hobby really began around age seven, right after World War II, when the car companies were scrambling to get back to civilian production and new cars were scarce enough that buyers put their names on lists and waited their turn. Bob remembers the dealerships running promos, and he recalls doing the kid version of wheeling and dealing: making the rounds at the end of the model year, trying to talk dealers out of their promotional models—or, if he couldn’t charm them for free, buying them for a dollar. In truth, the spark may have been even earlier. He had a pedal car when he was four, a wartime gift from his grandparents, back when metal was being reserved for the military and a toy like that felt almost impossible to come by.

While other teenagers might have been hanging around a mall, Bob was haunting used car lots, walking the rows, squinting at badges, studying shapes, and trying to understand what made one vehicle special and another forgettable. That curiosity wasn’t theoretical. He was the kind of teenager who would work for what he wanted, polishing cars, cutting grass, picking up shifts at a drugstore, anything that turned time into cash.

That hustle paid off in a way that still sounds like a tall tale. At sixteen, he spotted an unusual car sitting in a dark lot: a 1933 Pierce-Arrow Silver Arrow. He didn’t even know what he was looking at until he came back in daylight and started asking questions. The dealer explained the basics, V12 engine, mechanical brakes, and, more importantly, admitted nobody else had shown the slightest interest. Bob did. He scraped together the money, bought it, and drove home with the kind of story that only happens to someone who is both curious and bold enough to act. A year later he flipped it for a profit when a buyer walked into the drugstore and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. At the time it was simply a win for a seventeen-year-old who knew what he liked and wasn’t afraid to make a deal. Years later, when the same car sold at a major auction for a staggering sum, it became something else: proof that his instincts were real, and that “car crazy” wasn’t a phase. It was a built-in setting.

As adulthood arrived, the passion didn’t fade. It evolved. Full-size cars remained part of his world, and not just as a spectator. Bob has been deeply involved with restoring cars his entire life, doing total restorations himself, the kind of work you only learn by getting your hands dirty and staying close to people who know more than you do. He hung around a body shop and absorbed what he could about paint, bodywork, and the old-school stuff he picked up back when bodywork was done in lead, not in modern fillers. He’s the kind of car guy who can casually mention that, as a teenager, he customized a Mercury the way kids did in the ’50s: an Oldsmobile engine, shaved hood and door handles, and louvered hood. 

He’s also the kind of collector who can talk about a Chrysler Imperial and then mention a Corvette or Thunderbird sitting outside, because those cars are still real and present in his life: a 1961 Corvette he’s owned for more than five decades, a 1963 Thunderbird Sport Roadster convertible that took him five and a half years to restore and has won national awards, and a 1955 Imperial he keeps original down to its bones. But model cars became the place where the obsession could become more expansive, more imaginative, and more unstoppable. A model didn’t require a garage bay or an insurance policy. It required only a spot, one more “parking place,” and Bob became very good at creating those spots.

What began as a hobby turned into a household geography project. It wasn’t that Bob tried to take over the home. It’s more accurate to say the cars gradually convinced the home to cooperate. The earliest turning point came with a domestic compromise that still makes him laugh. His wife asked if the model cars could stop occupying the living room and dining room. Bob agreed, thinking he could simply relocate a modest collection to a modest display. They settled on the entryway, and the solution became a curio cabinet. Bob imagined a few hundred dollars, while his wife envisioned something far more substantial. The cabinet they bought wasn’t cheap, but it was transformative. Bob added shelves and counted capacity like an engineer: 81 cars neatly displayed, a small triumph that felt like a peak at the time. In hindsight, it was simply the first major expansion of a system that would never stop needing more room.

As the collection grew, Bob’s approach to collecting revealed itself as unmistakably his own. He isn’t a single-brand loyalist or a strict historian who insists everything must be in chronological order. He collects with curiosity. His shelves jump across decades and manufacturers, Packard near Thunderbird, a GTO near a Lincoln, an MG sharing space with something entirely out of left field. It’s not random, exactly. It’s more like a portrait of a mind that loves cars in all their forms. The guiding principle isn’t uniformity. It’s fascination. And if you ask him what he’s drawn to most, he’ll tell you without hesitation: American cars. He has plenty of foreign cars in the mix and he’s owned—and loved—cars like Austin Healeys, but age and a bad back have a way of narrowing your practical choices, even when your affection stays wide.

That fascination shows up in scale as much as it does in subject. Bob collects across a range that would make most hobbyists pick a lane and plead for mercy. Some of his smallest models are HO size, while others are large enough to demand their own visual presence. He spans classic collector scales, 1:64, 1:43, 1:24, 1:18, along with larger formats that feel almost architectural. In Bob’s world, a hallway wall can become a floor-to-ceiling display. A bedroom can become a gallery. Doors open to reveal yet another dense, meticulously arranged landscape of miniature chrome, paint, and glass. There are cars in the family room, cars tucked into the laundry room, cars staking out part of the breakfast room, and a garage that functions less as a garage than as a 1:18-scale showroom.

At some point, organization becomes less about perfection and more about survivability. Bob learned that lesson the hard way when he tried to arrange a set of 1:24 Corvettes in strict order. One new addition, the kind of model any Corvette devotee would want, forced him to move hundreds of cars just to slot it into the “correct” position. It wasn’t just inconvenient. It was a warning from the collection itself. After that, Bob chose a more livable philosophy: group them as they fit, keep them visible, and accept that a collection this size can’t behave like a museum exhibit without becoming a full-time job.

Even with that relaxed approach, Bob’s collecting is anything but casual. He knows the manufacturing side of the hobby and pays attention to how it’s changed. He’s watched the shift from heavy white metal models to resin pieces that allow sharper detail and cleaner lines. These days, he’ll tell you, there isn’t much new white metal coming into the collection at all. The high-end resin makers have pushed the craft forward with brands he talks about with genuine amazement, because the best of them don’t feel like toys so much as one-to-one cars shrunk down to fit in your palm. He talks about precision the way a watch enthusiast talks about movements, how modern materials and techniques, including 3D printing, make possible a level of realism that simply didn’t exist decades ago. He also knows the market, like which makers disappeared, which pieces have become rare, and how certain small models can command astonishing prices. He doesn’t collect for resale, but he understands value, especially when it’s tied to rarity and craftsmanship.

For Bob, craftsmanship becomes most meaningful when it’s fused with story. The most powerful example in his collection isn’t simply rare. It’s personal history captured in miniature. Years ago he commissioned a model from Vlad, a builder in Ukraine. It was a 1905 Cadillac “Osceola,” a niche subject with intricate detail and historical character. Bob paid for it and expected, like any collector, that it would arrive when it arrived. Then the invasion from Russia came. Vlad’s life was upended. His apartment building was damaged. He and his family fled. The model became uncertain, and the craftsman offered to return Bob’s money. Bob refused. In his mind, the funds mattered more to a displaced family than to a collector waiting on another piece for the shelf. Much later, against the odds and after years of disruption, the model finally arrived. It was a painstaking assembly of countless tiny parts, a physical reminder of human resilience and the strange global threads that connect a hobbyist’s cabinet to a craftsman’s workbench across an ocean.

That’s the key to understanding why Bob’s collection isn’t just about volume. Yes, it’s six thousand plus. Yes, the walls are packed. Yes, you’ll find models two, three, even four deep because there’s only so much space and the cars keep coming. But the deeper truth is that Bob collects experiences as much as objects. Some models stay because of what they are, handmade, historically specific, beautifully executed. Others stay because of who gave them to him, because sentiment becomes another form of rarity. Even his “favorite” isn’t necessarily the most valuable or the most beautiful. It’s personal: a 1937 Studebaker built for him by John Roberts who combined parts from two different Brooklin models to create the car that mattered to Bob for one simple reason—it was his first car, the one he bought for twenty-five dollars. The collection becomes a ledger of stories, a lifetime of fascination, friendships, and moments when a small object carried big meaning.

Today, Bob is still collecting, still active, still receiving new arrivals every week. He’s plugged into online communities like the Forum where collectors compare notes, share leads, and joke about the shared condition that makes them care about details most people never notice. He also shares the collection in person, welcoming tours from car clubs several times a year. The visits create deadlines, and deadlines create dusting sessions, one of the few rituals big enough to match the scale of the collection itself. One group of Alfa Romeo enthusiasts toured years back, and because Bob doesn’t organize chronologically anymore, he turned the visit into a game, challenging these visitors to count how many Alfas were hidden across the house and offering a prize to whoever came closest. “They went absolutely nuts,” he recalls. It’s his way of keeping the hobby what it’s supposed to be: shared, generous, and fun. He’ll tell you that the models are great, but the best part of this world is the people. Cars are an easy way to get together, he says. To stay together, you have to like the people.

For all its size, the collection isn’t meant to be a monument to ego. Bob and his wife see it as something joyful, something they’ve built together in a home that also reflects her own creative world of miniatures and dioramas. They’re also clear-eyed about what happens later. They don’t have children, but they do have a plan. When they’re both gone, they hope the collection ultimately translates into a meaningful gift supporting the Missouri Humane Society. In other words, the cars are toys, yes, but they’re also a legacy with a purpose.

Bob’s story, in the end, isn’t just that he owns 6,000 model cars. It’s that he’s spent a lifetime following a thread, starting with a kid wandering a used car lot, turning into a teenager bold enough to buy something unusual, and becoming an adult who never let that fascination fade. The collection grew until it filled the house, but it never outgrew its origin. It’s still driven by the same thing it always was: the simple, enduring thrill of a great car, no matter what scale it comes in.

Part of Bob's story was captured in this video from "Two Guys & a Ride": The Ultimate Mini Garage Tour

If you enjoyed this article, here's your invitation to be part of it. Every collection starts somewhere—a first model, a first trip to a hobby shop, a car you rode in as a kid, a brand you can’t stop chasing, a moment that flipped the switch from “toy” to “collectible.” I’m gathering more collector profiles throughout 2026, and I’d love to feature yours, whether you have ten models or ten thousand, whether you collect diecast, kits, trucks, race cars, construction equipment, or anything in between. If you’re willing to share how you got into the hobby and what keeps you in it, reach out and let’s talk because everyone has a story, and these small vehicles have a way of carrying big memories. I can be reached at woodywagonfan at gmail.com.