Off the Shelf: Randy Rusk Goes from Magazine Clippings to Museum Displays

I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t fascinated by old cars.

My very first memories of collecting don’t even include the models; they were focused on magazines. When I was about seven years old, I became obsessed with photographs of brass era cars. I’d pore over old magazines, carefully clipping out images of early automobiles and arranging them into collages. There was something about those cars, their elegance, their engineering, their design, that grabbed me long before I understood why.

(a reimagining of my old collages that have been lost to time)

The moment it all clicked into place came on my ninth birthday. My mom gave me a Matchbox Models of Yesteryear 1912 Rolls-Royce, finished in gold and red. I can still see it clearly. That single model flipped a switch. 

From that point on, birthdays and Christmases often meant another Models of Yesteryear joining the lineup. Before long, I was saving my own money, earned by mowing a neighbor’s very large lawn for ten bucks, so I could buy models at our local Ben Franklin store. Those second-series Yesteryears were under two dollars each, which felt like a fortune to a kid, but I never hesitated.

By the time I reached high school, the pace slowed a bit, though the interest never disappeared. That’s also the first time I saw brochures from EWA and Sinclairs and a world of other brands revealed themselves to me. When I left for college, the collection stayed home, boxed up but not forgotten. It wasn’t until I got my first apartment and physically moved those models again that the spark reignited. Seeing them all together reminded me why I loved them in the first place.

That was also when collecting became more intentional and far more adventurous. This was still pre-internet, so I subscribed to collector magazines and mailed away for Xeroxed price lists. I’d study those lists endlessly, circling items I didn’t have, mailing off checks, and waiting, sometimes anxiously, to see what would arrive. Looking back now, it feels almost unbelievable that this was how the hobby worked, but there was a real thrill in it.

Around that time, I answered a local ad from a man selling his Rio Models collection. I remember standing in his basement, staring at those beautifully detailed models that seemed impossibly exotic compared to what I owned. I wanted a couple badly, but he would only sell the entire collection, and at about $30 per model, it was completely out of reach.

Not long after, a co-worker mentioned an estate sale auction that included some “old toy cars.” A little digging revealed they were Models of Yesteryear, and I immediately took a day off work. That auction changed everything. Sitting a row ahead of me was a guy named James, and in his hands was a book that blew my mind: full-color photos of every Models of Yesteryear release, along with all their variations. That was my introduction to MICA—the Matchbox International Collectors Association—and to the idea that collecting could be systematic, documented, and deeply researched.

I bought far too many models that day, swept up in the excitement. Some had no boxes. A couple turned out to be Code 3 recolors. None of that mattered at the time. Soon, I joined MICA and set my sights on becoming a completist with at least one example of every official release, sometimes more. Even as an adult, my mom continued to encourage the hobby, occasionally tracking down hard-to-find pieces as birthday gifts, like the Arnott’s Biscuits and Sunlight Soap out of Australia.

That pursuit carried me through the Mattel takeover, when Models of Yesteryear became largely mail-order subscriptions. Eventually, though, the line lost its soul for me. The endless reissues with beer logos, newspapers of the world, or Coca-Cola tampo printing didn’t interest me. I’ve always been drawn to real vehicles—authentic designs with real histories—not fantasy or adult collectibles.

So I started looking elsewhere.

The next hook came in the form of a brochure from Bob Hooper at Dominion Models. In it was a Brooklin Models Airstream trailer, towed by a Packard woody with a roof rack. I wanted those two models instantly, but at $65 each, they cost more than double what I’d ever spent before. It took some time, but I eventually bought them. That purchase opened the door to white metal models and, with them, an entirely new level of craftsmanship.

From there, everything expanded. Brooklin led to other makers, other materials, other scales. Dick Browne invited me to attend the 1:43 show in Chicago, and suddenly the hobby wasn’t just about objects, it was about people, friendships, and shared enthusiasm. Forums like diecast.org connected me with collectors and dealers around the world. Some, like my friend Peter, who passed away in 2018, became friendly rivals in the hunt for the next great camper model find. Or others Eric Gabriel, my trusted Brooklin dealer and friend, who also left us too soon.

My collecting philosophy evolved naturally. For years, I bought anything that spoke to me: diecast, white metal, resin, across multiple scales. The only real rules were budget and responsibility—bills paid, family first—and I’ve been lucky to have a very understanding wife. The internet accelerated everything, making it possible to find models from Europe, Japan, Australia, China, even Russia. I always gravitated toward exact scale replicas rather than toys, but beyond that, curiosity led the way.

While campers became a meaningful theme, rooted in childhood family travels and memories of tent camping, pop-ups, and RVs, they were never the whole story. My collection grew into a broad landscape: woody wagons, hearses, fire engines, Motorama-era show cars, oddballs that fascinated me simply because they existed.

Today, my collection numbers more than 20,000 models. My most treasured piece isn’t a camper at all, but a 1:43 scale 1910 Brooke Swan Car made for One43. It’s delicate, unusual, breathtaking… and yes, weird. It sits just over my shoulder as I write this, a reminder of where that childhood fascination with brass era cars ultimately led.

At a certain point, I had to ask myself a hard question: did I own the collection, or did it own me? That reflection, sparked by turning 50 and a close call with floodwater in the basement, led me to downsize, refine, and eventually donate my entire camper collection to the RV and Manufactured Housing Hall of Fame in Elkhart, Indiana. Seeing those models displayed, making connections with visitors who recognized pieces from their own lives, confirmed that the decision was the right one.

I still collect today. White metal and resin still catch my eye. Hearses, wagons, classic show cars, and beautifully rendered oddities, especially from Autocult, continue to find their way into my home. The thrill hasn’t faded, it’s just matured.

What started with magazine clippings and a single Rolls-Royce has become a lifetime pursuit of history, craftsmanship, and memory, all captured at scale.