Wherever you are, your area probably has the equivalent of
Chicago’s Kane County Flea Market. For more than 40 years, on the first weekend
of every month, dealers have arranged their stalls of stuff ranging from rusty
tools to repurposed doorknobs to vintage jewelry and clothing. There are
truckloads of shrubs and aisles of garden decorations. Row after row features
baseball cards, postcards, records, and toys. Depression glass, kitchen
utensils, long forgotten decorations, and grandma’s travel trunk bring back
memories even as bins of duct tape and socks give shoppers the chance for deals
on necessities. Nuns sell baked goods and rural folks their pickled beets.
Merchandise goes from shabby to chic in just a few steps. Nostalgia
is down every aisle. Crafters give a hint of trends to come. Some vendors offer
their goods at a reasonable cost and some are willing to bargain. Others overprice their wares and are
indifferent to casual shoppers. For many, this is part of their livelihood,
while others are dabbling for fun and the possibility of a few dollars. The
variety and sheer number of items can be overwhelming then suddenly there is
just the perfect piece for what you need.
I’ve got a wonderful old rocker I bought for $40 more than
20 years ago but recycled the $3 salt and pepper shakers I bought in April because
the stoppers were no good. Often I buy nothing, but enjoy being outdoors, with
friends, and experiencing a form of marketplace that is universal. In many
cultures such gatherings are daily or weekly community times of social
intercourse.
If we think about it, flea markets can raise deeper
questions. Why is there bounty and poverty? Where is the line between need and
luxury? How do we determine where to spend discretionary income? What is the
balance of time for recreation and service? I pondered such things yesterday,
with no conclusions. Sometimes just asking questions helps. So, my Sunday
morning lesson this weekend as I wandered Kane County Fairgrounds instead of
sitting in a sanctuary is that life is a lot like flea markets. You never know
what you’ll find around the corner.
Maybe even the kitchen sink.
Marilyn
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