My Smart Mouth: The Allure of Other People's Junk

What is it about other people's junk that so enthralls us?

I was asking myself that question last Friday as my family and I began our second circuit around Lincoln's annual flea market, eagerly seeking treasure.

Flea markets crop up all over the world, bazaars made up of a variety of vendors selling cheap and used items, collectibles, antiques, and specialty food and beverages.

The decidedly un-glamorous term "flea market" likely comes from the French marché aux puces, a name originally given to a nineteenth century Parisian market dealing in the cheapest second-hand goods of questionable origin.

As I perused battered paperbacks, used tools, bottles empty of liquor, vintage ceramics and kitschy crafts with ten dollars burning a hole in my pocket, I couldn't help but note that much of what was on display could probably be found in triplicate in one of our own outbuildings.

It occurs to me that there are two types of people: those who suffer from nostalgia and the need to preserve evidence of bygone times, and those who do not. Being firmly one of the former, I am constantly agonizing over someone's declaration of "I wish I knew you liked old clothes...I just donated all of mine," or "I didn't think anyone listened to records anymore. I just took my turntable to the dump!"

Actually, perhaps there are three types of people: those who venerate the past, those who do not, and those, like my intrinsically capable mate, who simply cannot stand to see something useful go to waste.

We both have the habit of "acquiring" things. My tastes run to clothing and dish hoarding, while he hoards metal and wood. Luckily, thanks to a shared need for business and order, we have the chaos of inherited, found and rescued items somewhat under control and thus each tolerate the other's foibles with relatively good nature.

"Next year we should really get a spot and sell some of our own junk," I remarked to my loving partner in hoarding.

"That's what I was just thinking," he responded, stopping to examine a second-hand sluice box with avarice in his eye.

"We have some pretty good junk," I went on, noting with vindication the $50 price tag on a stack of 1970's-era Pyrex mixing bowls in avocado green, identical to the set over which we remain locked in a weekly battle of the wills as to whether they should ever see the inside of the dishwasher.

In fact, we probably have enough "junk" to single handedly stock our own flea market. So what on earth were we doing there, shopping, with our kids?

Teaching them about money, for one thing. They've both earned some cash recently - her from helping Daddy with chores around the yard, him from bravely pulling out his second-ever loose tooth while waiting for a pizza at the Wilderness Bar, much to the delight of the evening crowd. When I asked them if they'd like to go to the flea market, I assured them they could buy whatever they wanted (within reason), but that they had to pay for it with their own money.

Sister, who resembles her father in nearly every aspect and thus has the innate thriftiness of someone born before World War II, made two careful circuits of the entire park before spending a much-deliberated $2.50. Meanwhile her brother, having declared his intention to "blow all of my money," happily grinned a gap-toothed grin while juggling a bag of marbles, a vintage children's card game, a pinky ring and a horn handled folding knife, rusted shut at the hinges.

Secondly, for children born post Y2K, the flea market is a living history lesson - a veritable cornucopia of "obsolete" gadgets and obscure and bizarre goods.

"I know what that is," my stepdaughter said proudly.

She was pointing to a rotary dial phone, and I was reminded that, although she's never before seen one in the wild, we did once have a lengthy tutorial on pre-cell phone era communications, sparked by the (working!) old phone booth for sale at Rusty Relics.

"Yeah, and I want it," her brother chimed in.

Nostalgia took hold, and I kind of wanted it too. However, no longer having a landline, I was forced to move on to the next table.

In a world full of overflowing landfills and overworked consumers just dying to upgrade to the newest model, there's something to be said for junk, and the people who love it.

For one thing, older items are often better made. They're built to last and, when they break, easier to fix.

For another, in the year 2018, when 10-year-olds carry iPhones, your car tells you how to get where you're going, and everyone strives to be unique and "cool" in a world where money equals status, the person who uses a rotary dial phone, carries a handkerchief or buys local products stands out. What could possibly be cooler, after all, than supporting your neighbor, emulating the grandfather who stormed the beach at Normandy or channeling the great aunt who was the family's first flapper?

Lastly, you know what's coolest of all? Preserving the world for the enjoyment of future generations. Reducing the amount of waste you create. Re-using items that another has no use for. Breaking free of materialism and the need for status and valuing objects for their uniqueness, usefulness and heritage. Caring about history, about the local economy, about the environment - well, not to sound like your junior-high guidance counselor, but that's pretty danged cool.

Almost as cool as having a can opener that actually works well, every damned time. How many of you have one of those? Tell the truth. If you do, chances are it was made before the year 2000, am I right? Well, eat your hearts out, because I now have one, thanks to the Lincoln Flea Market. And I didn't even have to blow all my money.

See you there next year.