by Janis Susan May/Janis
Patterson
This past Thanksgiving holiday weekend The Husband and I decided to
go to a gigantic flea market – the oldest in Texas – about an hour from our
home. Neither of us had been there for a decade or more. This is neither a
small nor a quick expedition; the market site covers many acres and has
everything from permanent buildings with interior stalls to miles of winding
sort-of-paved paths (just exactly the width of a large pickup) with individual open
air sites marked off with paint.
We were there about seven hours and, as we are
dedicated lookers who walk rather slowly, saw only about half of it. The
weather was cool and perfect, and a slight breeze kept us comfortable. A thin
layer of clouds filtered the sun’s glare. Every few yards there was a food
hutch of some variety or other and you could find all kinds of flea-market
delicacies. I could write an entire post on the corny dogs alone, and the
funnel cakes are to die for!
The day was one of the most distressing I have ever had.
Why, you ask?
One of the main draws of this particular flea market is the
antiques. You can find everything from a rusted kitchen ricer to an early 19th
century crystal chandelier. My shock came from what is now acceptable to call
an antique!
Apparently the pundits of the antique trade have now decided
that things from the 50s (that’s the 1950s) can legitimately be called
antiques. They even have their own official classification – MidCentury Modern.
It’s distressing to see things that I grew up with – some of which I still own
and use – marked as ‘antique.’
A hammered aluminum (which I love) casserole in
a much more battered state than mine was marked almost $40. A blue flowered
Corning Ware water kettle – identical to one I was given when I went off to
school – ran between $15-20. (Mine was
obtained for two and a half books of Green Stamps, a viable currency in those
days.) A rather undistinguished pressed glass bowl my parents received when I
was a child for some anniversary or other was well over $50.
And these were all marked as ‘antiques’ – not collectables,
not used-but-still-useful objects, but antiques. Arrgh!
Half of me was tempted to go home and clean out the house,
bring the stuff back, get a booth and start selling.
The other half of me wanted to cry.
After all, if these things are regarded as legitimate ‘antiques,’
what does that say about me?
Pardon me – I think I’ll go drown my sorrows in a nice, icy
Diet Dr. Pepper (the National Drink of Texas!). In an antique, MidCentury
Modern aluminum glass, of course.
