In the dark, we wake. Groggy from wine, the dark of the morning is softened by the dewey summer fog. In thirty minute’s time, we must depart.
Donning no outfit but sensible shoes and a rakish combination of ill thought out bits, hot tea in hand, we drive out the road, over ridges and welts bent on tipping over our cups onto our laps.
The old volvo rattles us, in hot pursuit of treasure! wheeling down the road, through village after village. Fishing out a twenty, (hard won cash, due at the gate for we hungry early entries) I tuck into my tea in haste, every honey soaked drop, a lubricant to my honest ingenuity.
Close to the market, the road is a blur of turning headlights. No one in their right mind would try to drive strait past. There is probably a fee for not going. Elephant’s Trunk avoidance fee, $20. cash. No breakfast.
We slide easily into our favorite row. The one which turns left and strait out onto route 7 south. Makes for an easy getaway later. Truthfully, we must park on the same spot, about once every three visits. Law of averages, when you arrive within the same 2 minute window of time, every week, Just like all the rest of the dreamers, parched and starving for a fix.
$20. bill in hand, whipping on or off some sweater, depending on the coolth or degree of humidity. Is it the Candlewood lake syndrome, or just the Housatonic river raising such a mist every Sunday morning?
The line is jovial as ever. We who attend this worship, find ourselves fattened by the chase. The gate opens at 5:45 a.m. exactly and it is only by the good nature of the folks, that there does not ensue, a riot. Such is our mutual anticipation.
Best, is when there is still a mighty line of vendor’s vans and trucks, waiting to drive into place. Best is when they are still driving in, an hour after we arrive. Fat men, with rotten stubs of cigar, or tired girlfriends, shivering in the truck. Cross teenagers, expected to help unload, mumbling insults at the buyers.
The variety and range of humanity is well represented here. A generous selection of world languages, a cross section of the socio-economic mix that defines most places within a couple of hours of a major urban hub. In other words, the place is humming with diversity. What could be healthier?
The truth is, the flea market is a good example of how ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny.
ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny
English
Reportedly coined by zoologist Ernst Haeckel (1834-1919).
Proverb
(biology, social sciences, art, philosophy) The physical, cultural, moral, or intellectual development of each individual passes through stages similar to the developmental stages of that individual’s species, society, or civilization
The difference is, in our flea market world, we do not impose our own beliefs, judgements or expectations on each other. We don’t fight about what we disagree on. We simply get on with our own work and enjoy the day.
There are these dogs, or maybe it is a den of coyote, who always seem to speak at some length, early in the morning. They are slightly north of the Flea market venue, up the valley a bit, but their voices are very particular. It lends an air of disquiet to the chase.
In late summer, the Canada geese often pierce the air with their cries, flying in formation over the market, shitting on the merchandise and people alike. It is a wonderful sight.
As we pass through the gate, divesting ourselves of our twenties, we become predators for an hour or so. Pleasantries between us, suspended. There is no ill will, ‘though I may stalk a booth cannily, waiting for my competition to flag, peering, then pouncing upon some desired object.
The dim, cool morning’s exertions, a pleasantry compared to the grinding work of pick ups, once the sun has risen and the mist is burned off. The westward row, a palpable relief after the grueling, blinding slog eastward toward the sun.
But some days, the sunrise over the market is a most beautiful, heavenly temple. Clouds forming like the rood screen between the Apse and the Altar. Times like these, you know there is a creator spirit. I almost wonder, if we all stopped right there at the flea market, to pray like the faithful in temples, mosques and churches, would there be an end to war?
There is a kind of striding that sets the tone. The hot ticket dealers really move. No messing about, no small talk for that first hour. It is all business and luck and bloody minded focus and determination .
It is actually quite quiet, save for the dogs howling in the distance.
Brain fog is your enemy. My enemy. And also allergies.
It is also important on this one occasion to avoid liquids, so as to avoid the porta-potties. Later in the morning, iced tea or coffee is a practical necessity.(and they pump out the porta-potties at about 9:00)
Can I tell the story of when I was 8 months pregnant at Brimfield, with our first daughter? Needless to say, I waddled. Worst of all, I could barely close the door of the porta-potties.
I don’t think anyone realizes what hard work it is to cull objects of virtue from the swale of human detritus. Truly, imagine 3 or 4 hundred vendors of various goods. A tomato next to a snow thrower. A 1950’s permanent curl machine next to an 19th century copy of a painting by Lely. Or, even more perplexing, a bird feeder made from a single cowboy boot, with a bent license plate for a roof, next to a lovely Peruvian family selling pan pipes and CDs of their own music.
But that is just a taste! And a delicious and addictive taste it is too. Nothing gives greater pleasure than a morning spent careening around the field, over filling one’s eyes with the objects that will succeed us all. We pass one another on the rows, a bit greyer, a bit wrinklier, a bit more wizened, each season, and I am amazed that the leaning mirrors in booths, tell me the truth. That all this bliss, this crazy gypsy life that I love, is passing by just like the sand in the cheap chrome hour glass that I bought last week.
But what a life! Like the archaeologists of the future, we piece through the human condition. We hunt, we revel, we tear our hair. The best and the least bits of culture alike, are sifted and weighed. Incredibly, there is almost someone for everything. Every last broken plastic sprocket.
What a wonderful life! This heavenly and marvelously sustainable life of selling old stuff, to be used and loved again. Flogging the best and the worst. It is as it should be, a trove of possibility. A thrilling game, to find small pleasures.
In the not too distant future, I hope humanity will realize that we do not need to produce more stuff. There is already enough. We will simply need to shift the balance of stuff, so that everyone has enough and noone has too much.* Stuff will need to be repaired, as needed. And stuff will be passed down from generation to generation as it always has. Crummy stuff will break beyond repair and then we will know it was never worthy stuff. We will not make more of that.
In a hundred years or so, it might be that folks will need some new stuff. Their old stuff may be worn out. Frayed with use. Or lost or stollen because it was so good.
When that happens, a whole new movement of crafts people will emerge. Making beautiful, hand made stuff. It will be wonderful and it will be particular because it will be a new style. A new time. The new things will be made because people actually need them.
Until then, please buy old stuff. It is better for the environment, better for your Karma, and usually better made and more beautiful. And it helps to support the working people who salvage the material manifestations of human creativity, to put back into the loop of human consumption.
The Flea Market. Upcycling at it’s most stylish. Recycling at it’s best!
*and here is an affectionate wink to George Carlin.
sauviloquy 