Sunday Photo Essay: We Go Flea-Tiquing

Chef David and I had a rare weekend all to ourselves, no obligations to anybody or anything outside of routine chores. Today we decided to visit our local flea marketer/antique dealer, a biggish operation in a mashup of old buildings, at least one of them almost certainly a large barn at some point, but with other sections smooshed into it here and there over time. Inside it’s like a maze, which makes walking through it a real treat, with a surprise around every corner. It’s not a bad way at all to spend a grey afternoon in early fall in Vermont.

Whose handsome sepia-toned men were these?

When I was a young student of historical archaeology, finding a cut nail in situ was a big deal; here was an entire bowl of them.

Southern friends, these are maple tree taps.

Somebody’s proud moment.

These made me think of my great-grandmother Gracie, who told me when I was a child she’d often threaten her late husband Ed, when he misbehaved in some way, that she’d stitch him up in a sheet and beat him with an iron skillet. Only she pronounced iron, ARN.

Horror movie-worthy.

Because, Vermont.

The missing text here, is “…monastery.”

Have no idea what these are, but I need ’em.

The phones of my childhood; don’t say a word. My friend Robin and I knew how to take apart the mouthpiece and listen in on household conversations without detection. Sorry, mom (not sorry).

David believes we need this; there was another, a matching set.

Or maybe we should have this reclining Buddha….

More of Vermont.

Elegant timepiece, in my opinion.

Here was today’s takeaway. It’s perhaps a tablecloth, fairly ancient, I believe, all linen, I’m pretty sure, probably made for a child.

It was a beautiful way to pass the time on a dreary fall afternoon in Vermont.


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