FLEA MARKET ARTICLES INDEX

COLORADO FLEA MARKET DIRECTORY

A Day in the Life of a Flea Market Shopper

by Pamela Lister

A flea market shopper chronicles her day tracking down flea market bargains

5:30 a.m. The full moon still peeks over the treetops when my son, Gig, and I hit the road, aiming to beat the crowds for a shot at the best stuff. (I learned my lesson a few years ago when I arrived at a flea market at 8:30 a.m. to find only dregs remaining.) Incredibly, a shooting star streaks across the sky.

7:15 a.m. Oh. My. Gosh. The place is mobbed. And the vendors haven't even finished setting up!

7:30 a.m. Past Beanie Babies and bonsai trees, we trudge up and down the rows, afraid to miss a thing. Although the flea market stretches the length of a football field without obvious interruption, it is, in fact, two overlapping markets, the Golden Nugget Antique Flea Market and the Lambertville Antique Market. Between the two of them, there are about 400 outdoor stalls, and then more indoor vendors in the four buildings at either end of the field.

My only shopping rule is "Gotta love it to buy it," and for a few minutes, I worry that I'm going to go home empty-handed. But then I spy a child's oak rocker, circa 1920s, originally $110, now on sale for $50. My heart jumps a bit -- I've been wanting a miniature rocker for my six-year-old daughter. The vendor, a middle-aged man who's working with his 20-something, much-pierced son, tells me he found it at an estate sale, under several coats of pink paint that he stripped himself. He's pretty nonchalant about the sale. In fact, he practically ignores me while I look over the rocker, letting my desire for it grow unfettered by a pushy sales pitch. I try to pretend I'm not sure that I want the chair. It's a dance, and we both know it, but he's better at it, so I drop my pretense and pony up the cash without bargaining.

Gig and I are about to move on when a painting of a farmer and his son selling vegetables at a stand catches my eye. It's acrylic, probably from the 1950s, in vivid colors of eggplant, pumpkin, apple green, and sky blue. The work isn't signed, but I know it's not a significant piece of folk art because, well, it's a little too childlike. Other people are eyeing it; if I waffle too long, I'll lose it. My offer of $80 is accepted (it had been marked $100), and I fairly snatch it out of the hands of a couple bending over to examine it. If this and the rocker are the only things I buy, I'll say I had a great day.

8:30 a.m. Unfortunately, a lot of what you see these days has been overworked. Pieces that shouldn't have been stripped of their paint are now nude (and worthless), or they've been reupholstered in inauthentic styles and fabrics, or fixed up with hardware that's of the wrong period. Some junk is just that: junk. And I'm seeing plenty of it. Suddenly I spot some haggling going on at a table between a dealer and a guy in his early 30s. Their intensity makes me think maybe there's something of value at stake here, so I shamelessly elbow my way into their conversation: "Waddya got?" The young guy is holding up two enamelware pitchers that would look great filled with daisies; in mint condition, the dealer says, they might fetch up to $500 each, but because they're rusted in small spots where the enamel has chipped, they're only $20 and $15. "So, do you want 'em or not?" I blurt out to the guy, not even questioning why a bit of rust would cause such a huge price difference. "Oh, umm, I dunno," the man stammers. But I don't even let him finish before interrupting: "Well, if you don't, I do." I smack down $25 for both, which the dealer counters with $27. Fine. I've learned from experience that a reduction of 20 percent is reasonable. Anything more, as I just got, is your very good day.

I walk away pretty proud of myself but, I have to admit, with a nagging, uneasy feeling about this purchase. In my haste, I'd assumed that the two men had been haggling their way to a deal -- and that therefore I might lose out -- when in fact the guy holding up the pitchers had never made any real move to buy them at all. A while later I see that the so-called shopper is actually a dealer down the row a bit! Lesson hard-learned: Rein in the greed. Luckily, I love what I bought or I'd really feel like a jerk.

What's Hot? What's Next?

8:45 a.m. Oh, boy, it's getting tough out here. You need an eagle eye to pick through the junk. Finally, I find a white Victorian-style washbowl-and-pitcher set that the dealer says she bought at a yard sale. I turn over each to show her that the signature marks are not the same -- one is china, the other has a pottery mark from Trenton. It's not a real set. Still, the pieces look amazing together, especially once I negotiate the price from $38 to $25. Three people stop by and say they wish they'd seen the set first. Yesss! I think, with a little inner cheer. Their envy helps me recover my going-for-broke attitude.

9:00 a.m. My son sees them first: a really sweet collection of miniature copper oil cans, priced between $8 and $16 each. Ridiculous! I have a collection at home that I started with five tiny cans bought at a garage sale for $5 total. These prices are outrageous, but once you start collecting, you're at the market's mercy. I buy three cans for $29. I also pick up three metal maple-sap buckets, painted in blue and green, that I'll put on top of the sideboard in my family room. They're pricey too -- at $35 for three -- but I'm happy because you don't find them everywhere.

9:40 a.m. Gig has been begging me for an hour to get something to eat, but I'm afraid to bow out of the race, even for a few minutes. I finally agree to refuel -- a muffin for him and a coffee for me -- but it must be carryout. We're on a roll!

Mistakes Shoppers Make

10:00 a.m. Uh-oh. This is ugly. We're at the silver tables, and the women are three deep, shoving one another. As we sift through piles of silverware, I'm elbowed in the ribs, my feet are stomped on, and my kid is banged around by large women who practically grab ladles out of one another's hands. It's very unpleasant, and I'm embarrassed to be part of it, especially because the dealer is such a sweet young woman. She sells me some silver-plated demitasse spoons with an 1887 mark for $15, down from $30.

But unlike the other dealers, who've been happy to dish, she refuses to reveal her name or let us take her picture. She says she doesn't want her friends and family to know she does this as a side business. My bet is that taxes have something to do with it too.

11:30 a.m. By now the hunters outnumber the bargains, and I feel very lucky when I spot an interesting cabinet, maybe from the 1930s, with magazine racks on both sides. I'll have to strip it, but it's a good deal at $60. I don't buy broken things, because I never get around to fixing them, but things that need beautifying -- that I can handle. Again, someone stops to inspect the cabinet just as I'm paying, and I have to gently let him know I got there first. In a show of courtliness, he bows to me. Garbage pickers may be competitive, but as in any sport, we do appreciate one another's good finds.

NOON The vendors are already packing up; it doesn't pay for them to stay once they've unloaded their big-ticket items. The shoppers here now aren't diehards; they're simply out to enjoy a day poking through old things. This is the time to make a rock-bottom offer, because dealers are happy not to have to tote their wares home. From 20 feet away, I spot a beveled-glass, oak-framed mirror being loaded into a truck. "Stop! Wait! Is that still for sale?" I yell, running to the dealer. He laughs at my enthusiasm but pulls the mirror down and shows me how to polish up the scratches on its 100-year-old surface. I am tired, but our little exchange is as rewarding as the $20 purchase.

1:30 p.m. I'm done. My legs hurt from walking, my arms hurt from carrying things, and my jaw hurts from general tension. Pulling out of the parking lot, I feel as if we've emerged from some kind of dream state into reality.

3:30 p.m. Back home, I start arranging and rearranging my purchases. I've come home with far more than I expected. Better yet, I've spent only $376. The little cabinet looks fabulous between two oversize chairs in my family room, and my daughter loves the oak rocking chair as much as I'd hoped.

But the hit of the day is definitely the painting. It goes on a wall in the kitchen hallway, over an antique metal stand where I plop my mail. On close inspection, Gig and I discover that the man in the painting doesn't have hands. The artist apparently couldn't paint them, or maybe he just forgot. But you know what? That makes me love it all the more.

Copyright Pamela Lister

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