At the market, that is
I love flea markets.
Now, let’s be clear. I mean real flea markets, the garage sales on steroids, not what sometimes passes for a flea market these days, the ones where they are mostly selling the fake fleas. You know what I mean. Tube socks in their plastic packaging, rows and rows of nail polish and clippers, sheet sets and maybe even tires.
Those are dollar stores without a roof.
A real flea market may have some of that, but it will be hard to find among the booths selling used books and mismatched crockery, three matching bar stools, assorted Christmas ornaments and a music box with the castle’s flag pole broken off.
A real flea market is a place of adventure. Of possibility. A place where you can save money and acquire stuff you didn’t even know you needed. A place where creative ideas abound. (Hey! I could put those wheels on that box and make a cart. Or, a little glue and a little paint, turn that shutter upside down and hang it on the wall, and I could have a nifty thing to hold mail. Or, there are a couple of chairs for $10 bucks apiece—they’ll work until I find what I really want.) A place to get what you need to try something you aren’t sure will work. A $5 phone isn’t much to risk if you want to see if that phone jack on the dock is good for anything but frightening the herons. (When one of them answers the phone, I’ll be frightened.)
One of the places where Florida has it all over New York is in flea markets. As far as I could tell, in NYC, what passes for a flea market is the outdoor dollar store concept. Even a street fair tended to have more seconds and stuff that fell off the back of a truck than anything else. But down here in my new location, we’ve got flea markets!
Always good for a Saturday outing, full of potential and possibility and projects to be.
What could be better?
