David David Smalley liked smallish things. When he found one, he kept it, and eventually he had a million or two. If you’d like to see them, drop by his museum some Saturday or Sunday afternoon and visit Mr. Smalley. Even though he died in 1963, you’ll like him. The Hyde Park Miniature Museum in Houston is the perfect illustration of the dictum that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Almost nothing in the attic room in the white frame house at 1406 Welch is remarkable in itself, but as a unit, the museum is a memorable portrait of the eccentric, compulsive artist, craftsman, and genius that was D. D. Smalley.
To enter the museum, which is marked by a small sign in the yard, one walks down a driveway to the rear of the house, up the back stairs past the rock display and into the neat bright attic. In the center of the long narrow room are two tables. One contains three roller organs, four stereopticons, and boxes full of songs and pictures to fit them; the other is covered with an elaborate electric train layout. Hundreds of displays line the walls of the room and the shelves under the train table. After a minute or two of trying to find the order of the place, one discovers there is none and begins to suspect it is all either a huge put-on or, more likely (and correctly), that the real exhibit is not the artifacts themselves but the spirit of the man who gathered them. There is little point in looking at the museum without hearing about Mr. Smalley, so stop right here by the petrified dinosaur turd and let me tell you about him.
Considering the intensity with which he attacked everything he did, the range of D. D. Smalley’s interests and activities causes one to suspect he had discovered an alchemist’s secret for stretching time. Though he worked fulltime for the Southern Pacific Railroad, he apparently took all of the courses offered by the International Correspondence School. He studied astronomy and constructed two large telescopes, grinding the six- and twelve-inch lenses himself. He taught himself electronics and built a robot that would turn its head, wiggle its ears, sing, dance, and move its mouth while Smalley ventriloquized for it. He played a one-man band device called the Little Jo and, for a time, had a radio program on which he challenged listeners to name a song he could not play from memory. He was an expert draftsman, an accomplished oil painter and chalk-talk artist, a ham radio operator, a natural historian, a juggler, a jokester, and a daring laboratory experimenter who ran thousands of volts of electricity through his body without harm. But perhaps preeminently, he was what he came to be called for much of his later life: The King of Hobbyists.
Just when Smalley first began to take an interest in hobbies is uncertain, but the crucial year of his rise to kingship was 1924 when, after suffering a severe injury to his spine in a fall, he spent the first of several extended periods confined in a body cast that left only his head and arms free. Rather than grow depressed at his fate, Smalley ordered a large bottle, some matchsticks, and thread, and constructed his first major miniature, a bottled rural scene he called My Old Kentucky Home. Pleased with the outcome, he produced numerous other models, then began to make and sell fancy beaded bags. To bolster spirits on the ward, he established a radio fund and rigged up headphones that enabled his bedridden fellows to “let the radio be your legs.” Smalley’s hospital confinement, and very nearly his life, ended when he contracted tuberculosis. Against the recommendation of his doctors, he decided not to die and cured himself by sitting in the sun all day and adhering to a strict vegetarian diet. Still, the long period of hospitalization had left its mark. He conquered TB, but never again would he be without a consuming hobby.
According to his granddaughter Vikki Carlberg, D.