Rambling, with light rain

I can hear it...the light rain. Its a soft gentle patter. My coffee is hot and the shop is quiet, which I like before the hustle of the work day.

When one sits in the dark with the glow of only one small light and shuffles through the newspaper as a cup of coffee steams on the desk and the only noise is but of the few vehicles that pass outside it gives one time to think. Which, in and of itself isn't all good.

Well into my paper, this morning, I found myself half asleep. Seductive, rain and warmth. It eases you into a state of well being which frees the mind into deeper wells of uncertainty. Then, anger, if you allow it.

I refused and begin to plan my menu for Thanksgiving. Then it occurred to me my meal preparations should be altered from the norm and limited for only two. It'll make for a lonely table. Still I'll tend to my stock and plan my purchase of a fresh turkey and take as much care with the meal as usual.

*****

An apology is in order as I've been remiss in my updates the last few days. Over the weekend Sweet Wife grabbed me by the ear for daily road trips. She decided I was in need of additional restoration projects and since it's almost impossible to find camping equipment in this city (city boys don't like the outdoors) she said we should search the country.

She wore me out. 

Picture this - A flea market stall crammed full of junk, odd glassware and broken children's toys and old cardboard boxes filled to the brim with garage sale leftovers and rusty broken tools and dust and dirt coated clothing, six bins of yesteryear golf irons, and on every item a price tag worthy of Macy's.

Near the rear of the stall I find a high shelf. Scattered within the kitchen bowls and broken wall clocks are six dirty but still usable gas pressure lanterns, all worthy of restoration.

I reach and take one lantern. Its red and the globe isn't cracked. I like it as its a single mantle. No price tag. To my left are two old men seated on milk crates. I glance over and asked, "How much?"

The old man shifts and strains his neck upwards so I bend a little and show him the lamp. He grunts and said, "I don't know let me find the owner. He's in the other stall."

Sweet Wife is deep into exploration. I wait and watch as the shoppers move along the main hallway. There are pretty country girls dressed for winter even if the day is slightly warm. Asians with pull carts filled with vegetables and I can smell the sweet aroma of baked cookies and kettle corn. I like flea markets.

After a few minutes the owner of the merchandise appears and before I have a chance to say a word he yells, "Hey, that's expensive and you can buy it if you have the cash."

I instantly dislike this man.

Me, "How much?"

"It depends on the date. I price 'em by their age."  I take the lantern and look at the base. Its marked '3-66.' March 1966.

Again, "How much?"

He reaches and takes the lamp from my hands, holds it high and says, "Forty-nine dollars." I offer fifteen. The owner, a balding pot bellied gentleman of perhaps fifty-five does a Fred Sandford intimation. An act worthy of Broadway.

I wait.

Then, "Do you know how rare this lantern is? Its worth at least forty-nine dollars."

"Fifteen dollars. If you'd like, make a price on all six and I'll take them off your hands."

The two older men behind me mumble. Sweet Wife has now moved into position next to me and has placed an arm on mine. She tiptoes and whispers, "Stay calm."  

I thought, 'I am calm.' The owner, "Hey, I'm a Coleman expert. Been repairing them for thirty years."

I smile and say, "I've been using them for fifty."

Quick as a wink he came back, "One hundred and fifty dollars for all six, and I've a few more in my other stall. Even got a heater. My price on the heater is forty-nine dollars too. He likes the number forty-nine.

He leaves and returns with a Coleman 502 one burner camp stove. "See here, a heater." I don't correct him and made my offer on his entire stock of pressure lanterns and his 'heater.'

Sweet Wife has gradually worked me, by gentle tugs, towards the exit. His prices are high retail, high.

We walked. After a while she said, "I'm sorry, Honey. I know you liked them." I smiled and said it's fine. The man really doesn't want to sell his wares. He has an emotional connection to his stock. I bet he collects them and they're his show pieces."

Her, "True, that and he was an arrogant butthole."

My wife, she's bright lady.

*****

Later, at the same flea market I followed my nose to a mid-aisle stall where I find a table covered in plastic bags of cookies and banana bread and loaves of buttery delight. A nice slim man with an Indian accent stands and gives out samples.

He has peanut butter and oatmeal raisin and so many others I lost count. All freshly baked early that morning. He explains to me he's a chef - aren't we all. The Chef hands me a business card and explains he teaches the culinary arts at a local college but bakes at home to supplement his income.

Best damn cookies I've eaten in many many years. He offers me a plastic grocery bag and I begin to fill it. I'm like a kid in a candy store. Sweet Wife begins to worry and ever so often, "Honey, that's enough."

The Chef and I discuss his methods, the lack of state laws which give him the freedom to sell his baked goods at the market. He said business was good even though he only markets his cookies and cakes weekends. We discuss the underground economy and the market. We both agreed. Nice man.

Behind my back Sweet Wife had removed several dozen of my treasures. She allowed me the peanut butter and oatmeal....and one loaf.

I ate well on the drive home.

(Please excuse my lack of edit. I'm just too busy.)

Stephen









  


 

Flea Markets

I give up. There isn't a decent flea market left in North Florida, or at least in my neck of the woods. Today, after I closed shop, Sweet Wife gave me a cute smile and said climb into the car. I asked why and she said you will take me to a flea market. I sighed. 

I knew I was in for a great sweat. But, I thought, I might find some interesting items. Things I need. Prep items, ammo cans, perhaps a good book, Coleman stoves and lanterns. It was possible to even shop for a bit of fresh produce; a few bananas, tomatoes and green peppers and then, perhaps later, I'd make a big salad for dinner

What do I find instead. A third world country. Black market junk.

Bangles and bobbles and broken trash and the sweet sickly scent of dollar a gallon perfume and rusted bits of sad cast iron and old ladies trailing fifteen ragamuffins each in full scream as their weary mothers trail behind with both hands filled with plastic grocery bags of ten for a dollar strings of Christmas lights and tacky shower curtains and torn tube socks and that, 'oh just perfect black velvet bulldog painting.'

I find dirt lanes and oppressive heat and dust and sun bleached wooden tables filled to the brim with day old cabbage and wrinkled vegetables and paper bins filled with small watermelons - most burst, covered in flies and wasp where older black men stand with dangled cigarettes and whiskey weary blood shot eyes long past care or ambition.

Piles and piles of old VHS tapes and broken children's toys and little glass topped containers filled with Chinese made knives and fake silver dollars and as you walk the hucksters monotone shrill chant of buy one get one free, over and over, and my ears ring and I'm thirsty and my shirt is heavy with sweat and my throat begins to burn and when I take her hand to hurry us along she resists and my anger grows. I can't catch  my breath and I'm about ready to punch someone, anyone, to escape.

The crowd deepens. Finally, I've had enough and take her hand and demand an exit. She relents. Then, as I'm almost free I see the thin man, his shiny black face covered in sweat with dirty towel wrapped around his neck and he too yells, "Come on man, buy one, buy one, buy one man and I will give you the second for free."  To me. He yells this to me.

At that point I am not a man you want to piss off. I'm ready to hurt you. I make my move towards him and he finally sees me. He steps back and lowers his voice and pats the container under his bony hand, and it sounds like, 'bong bong.' I take in the bong. Two twenty mil ammo cans. The price on the side indicates ten dollars.

In one smooth movement I reach inside my pocket and slap a twenty in his hand and reach and take both cans. 

Never again. You can have your flea markets.

Stephen  

Bits & Pieces

Spring is in full bloom here in the River City. Temps in the low 80's. Nice to be outside, and here I am inside. Shame a fella must make a living.

My Little Bit has been absent all week. I mentioned she is taking her Spring break with a couple of her cousins, both little girls about her age. They're having a blast. I miss her. But soon, very soon, she'll be back and will spend the weekend, through Monday night, with us.
Her parents and little brother, Sport Model, came over last evening and I fed the little booger raisins and yogurt. I wanted to make sure he filled his diaper. His father needs practice at changing same...

Killed an Armadillo last night. Went outside to bring in the cat. Flipped on the outside lights and the digger was in my herb garden. One shot to the head with a CB short and the sucker jumped cartwheels for ten minutes. I hate Armadillos, they undermine my house and fences. Guess I've shot ten or fifteen over the last two years. If any of you guys want some extra protein, give me a yell. I ship UPS.

My friend, Duke, came by a couple of days ago and left me two big bags of his pink grapefruit. I'd made a snide comment on his blog about my love of citrus after he'd posted a picture of all the fruit he'd picked. He took me serious. I've eaten grapefruit for the last two nights. Thanks, Bubba. You grow a mean and sweet grapefruit.

Last weekend, after I closed Saturday afternoon, Sweet Wife and yours truly took a drive. Since I hate the interstate highway systems we took a nice long secondary road trip. One of the odd aspects of the drive was the number of people on the shoulders of the road with stands packed with household items for sale. I guess its a sign of the times. I lost count of the number of people and their homemade posters touting their junk.

Then we came upon a flea market. If you are a Survivalist (or prepper) the flea market is a very valuable resource. I'm proud to say I walked away with only a couple of purchases.....a pound of shelled pecans, a bottle of water and a couple of sore feet. I did come across a beautiful piece of Wagner. A ten inch skillet of pure smooth cast iron. I still kick myself for not shelling out the forty two dollar price tag, certain I could of bargained it down a few dollars, because when we arrived home I hit Ebay and the prices listed there were all well above a hundred dollars. Sweet Wife said, "You don't need another skillet." She had a point. But, still....

The above picture is for my friend, Modern Day Redneck. Click to understand. Like I said, if you are a Survivalist and need cheap garden tools, flea markets are good bets. I came across one vendor with nothing but farm tools. He had one pile of shovels that numbered in the hundreds. Hoes (not the street variety) stacked deep, and tons of other items sure to please any wannabe backyard grower. 

One vendor sold only surplus military gear, some of it issued, most copies. Prices were steep. I passed. It's expensive to try and pass yourself off as a real veteran. Side note here: You'll notice true vets do not wear their hearts on their sleeves.  It's tacky. Just saying....

The one item I always seek at flea markets are ammo cans....didn't find a single one. That is strange. I can always use a few more. 

Did you notice that either Blogger or The Department of Justice removed the logo from my post of yesterday.......

Anyway, I've got to run. The Pimp just parked and wants inside.....I'll let you know.

Stephen