Seens At The Flea Market

I've started selling my yard sale stuff at the flea market lately. I seem to enjoy it better than having a sale at my house. I guess it's easier in some way. I've met all sorts of interesting folks and I told you about some of them in Sharing a Tailgate a while back. Flea marketing is a lot of fun, and some days, you can make some cold hard cash. It depends on what you got to sell and if somebody wants it. Trust me, people will buy anything. If you've been visiting for a while you know that I like to tell you about the seens that I have seen from various places. Yes, I spell it that way on purpose. No, I ain't ignorant. I just like to and it's my blog so I'll do what I want to. (I'm not sure if C Smith 202, Mrs. Russell and Mrs. Rosselot are reading, but you never know. Those were my high school and college grammar teachers and they really did learn me good.) So, back to the flea market. It was during a slow period and this fella, late 5Os, unshaven, pop bottle glasses with a John Deere cap perched on his head wandered by the table and gave me a nod. "How ya doin'?" I asked. "Fine," he muttered. He was looking over my table and I noticed that he was mumbling to himself. The only thing that I could really understand was the word shit. "What'd ya say?" "I said nobody gives a shit anyway, so why tell'em how you feel." I thought that was so funny that I started laughing and found myself agreeing with him. I told him I was a good listener and would be happy to listen to how he really felt. He was silent for a moment, touched the brim of his cap and said this to me. "Ma'am I really was feeling poorly, but you perked me up. Thanks for asking about me, whether you meant it or not, I sure do appreciate it." I guess the moral of this story is be careful what you ask. One day they might really tell you how they feel and you might just make somebody's day.

Sharing A Tailgate...Part I

Since spring is finally here, and with it, the advent of warmer temperatures and the unofficial beginning of yard sale season, it was no surprise that I decided to celebrate the Fred Sanford in me by participating in my first flea market of the year. I have junk, I love junk and I like to sell junk. Normally, I like to have a yard sale at my house, but during one of my recent undercover assignments I discovered a flea market, where, for a small table fee you can bring your own stuff to sell. I immediately liked the idea of this--no hauling and setting up of the tables from the basement to the front yard which can really be quite a task for one person. I also didn't have to worry about the amount of junk I wanted to sell--whatever fit in the Mustang was what was going to the flea market with me. I had done everything the night before except pack a lunch to take with me. I did that early the next morning and I was out the door by 7:30 AM. Now, depending on where you are from, 7:30 AM can be early, right on time, or why bother going. I almost fit into the why bother going category because when I pulled into the parking lot 45 minutes later the place was packed. I was beginning to panic because I had driven almost around the dealer area and there wasn't a table to be had. I found a spot in the very back row between a guy that makes signs and license plates for folks (Jim Bob loves Sue Ellen) and a group of people that had about 5 or 6 tables filled with everything but the kitchen sink. (They did have a blue bathroom sink that they were trying to sell.) I spent a half hour frantically setting up my table, moving things here and there, doing my best to get everything set up just right. It was close to 9:00 before I started to calm down and sent Mom a text telling her that I had almost blown it by hitting the snooze button one too many times. Not long after, I made my first sale of the day (a box of books for 5 bucks) and started to notice the dealers around me. It wasn't hard to notice the guy selling license plates because his equipment was hooked up to a generator that ran the entire time he was there. (HUH?) (WHADDYA SAY?)(NO, I DON'T NEED A LICENSE PLATE now, maybe later.) (The generator ran out of gas as I was making that last statement.) The group on the right of me consisted of 3 women and a Hispanic male and took turns conversing in English and Spanish. It turned out that they were grandmother, mother, daughter and son-in-law and they had been flea marketing for years. I inquired to the mother if she was a writer because she kept writing on these note cards. "No, I'm not, but my son-in-law is. I see you didn't bring a chair with you, you're welcome to sit on my tailgate with me..."