This weekend was the first of our weekly outings to our favorite Flea Market for the new season. While it was opening day for us, it actually wasn’t the opening day of the market. That date, it seems, had been moved up two weeks this year due to the unusually warm weather. That my husband (the coordinator) missed this fact has wreaked havoc on our marriage. However, when you come home and your car smells like “Barn”, you know you’ve had a good haul. And boy did I.
I will grant you, my husband is an infinitely better person than I am. He’s more forgiving, more generous, more patient and thorough. As this pertains to flea markets, he insists on going down one side of a row and then back up the other, essentially walking each aisle twice. This drives me crazy. Usually, I’m running laps around him. And then he kindly informs me of everything I’ve missed.
Not this day. On this outing I got stuck in the second stall, rummaging through baskets of vintage linens and napkins. When done there, I only made it two stalls further. He was two rows away by then, though I could still see glimmers of the safety orange sweatshirt he wore specifically to increase his visibility (I get lost easily) . Waylaid at the booth brimming with Hungarian feed sacks, I’m now out of cash. “Will you hold these while I find my hubby?” On my way to locate him, a favorite dealer has a rug I want. “Twenty bucks? Yes. Gotta find The Boy.” Completely gone from view, I phone him, “I’m out of money, out of hands. Where are you??” We reconnect at the car, he hands over the cash and goes to collect all the stuff I couldn’t carry (or pay for). I soldier on.
As I progress through the market, I find an oriental carpet I must have, and then another. And it’s big. “Zenny, can you hold this for me? When a guy in orange shows up for it, it’s good. Give it to him. “Is there a secret code?” Zenny wants to know. “Yeah, he’ll say ‘What’s she done this time?'” And my guy did say just that. And Zenny handed the rug over.
The day was a hoot. I scored vintage burlap sacks, antique doilies, and 1950’s Japanese stuffed animals. It was joyful. My studio is now brimming with a bunch of things that need to be cleaned, stitched, transformed. And I must bake something very good and gooey for the cute guy who hauls, hands over cash, and is pretty good at feigning enthusiasm without complaint.