The junk a person chooses to sell at a flea market in Podunk whats-it-called-town, Georgia, tells a lot about them. It’s just like the ornaments a person chooses to hang from their rear view mirror, especially if those ornaments were purchased from said Saturday market off Highway 15 if you’re lucky enough to spot the odd assortment of crooked tabletops teeming with jars of food fit to survive a nuclear attack, boiled peanuts to your heart’s (dis)content, torn linens that make you wonder just how long cotton is fit to last before dust deteriorates it, and chairs you could have sworn you threw away personally a decade ago.
However, there’s something ever so charming in the raspy drawl that crawls from between missing teeth that makes me not only want to fervently listen, but inquire further, just to hear more. Indecipherable dialect to those unfamiliar with intonations the likes of Deliverance or To Kill a Mockingbird, I find there’s more said in the spaces between words than the words themselves. The wrinkles that divulge expressions presented for too many years in too much sun, soaked from the inside out with too much liquor distilled in barrels as far from home as this very market appears to be, kitty corner to the trailer park bordering the one grocery store in town called “Ingles” (positively not to be confused, and possibly accidentally correlated with the word for “English” en Espanol).
Watching residents rearrange their collections of doll parts, assortment of dried pens for sale, once or twice used spools of floss, and the like, I find myself consumed by the idea of simplicity. There’s no disapproval, discontent, prefixed dis-anything but disconnected from the norms the rest of us have disappointingly chosen to socially abide by.
When your worth is valued less by possessions and more by the happiness you posses spending weekends meeting strangers, as surely you’ve met all of the familiars by now, your life becomes a collection of stills easily insertable into the slide film viewfinder collecting dust on the stack of doileys, 5 for 50 cents, if you’re willing to make repairs.
If “the way you do anything is the way you do everything,” sign me up for a booth at the next local weekend flea market, because I’ve got a lot of junk stored in my trunk.