The Woman from Winfield at the Flea Market

A haunt in my old hometown led to a much-loved flea market. One of the few places I know where a sense of community exists, this is a place for everyone. Big-ticket items for the wealthy are next to simple house wares and everyday essentials.

In the mood to shop around in the basement of this 150-year-old building, it was extra nostalgic this time since I had been gone for so long.

The ceiling of the flea market basement is a conglomeration of old fabrics and tablecloths stapled into a design. Brocades, gingham, velvets and lace function to keep out the dust, though nobody every said flea marketing is a clean activity.

In any event, I thought how wonderful that any income level of people could come here and find basic necessities for setting up a household. Glass casseroles for seventy-five cents are displayed next to myriad coffee mugs, entire sets of silverware, and kitchen utensils galore. Such good flea market prices may enable someone to stock an entire kitchen for less than twenty dollars.

Happily surprised and heading back upstairs with a 1950's era, lighted-face clock with huge, old time numbers, and 12 fruit glasses for a dollar, my arms were quite full.

I entered the hallway at the top of the steps when a woman whisked past me in such a rude manor, I knew she wasn't a local. My armload of things teetered a bit as I got out of her way. All she had to do was stay in the other walkway for two seconds to let me pass.

After I got out of her way, I headed for the check-out, and was complaining about how much I dislike rude people like the woman from Winfield.

My friend Wendell was behind the counter, and he didn't like the woman from Winfield, either, and we proceeded to talk and take our time while the woman from Winfield waited. This is how things are around here. People communicate, and the social interaction is almost more important than the money exchange.

While we dawdled and talked, the woman from Winfield scoped out my sandals and my old plebeian feet. I also do my own pedicures FIY, I was thinking. I also don't care if these are designer shoes, as long as they are comfortable. (They were designer, but were also purchased, brand new from the flea market.) After staring at my feet for a while. She began to complain that she had a flight to Florida she had to catch.

"What part of Florida?" I asked.

"Winfield, where Tiger Woods lives." She stated proudly.

Though unimpressed, Wendell and I decided to cut her a break, and let her go ahead with her order that she pushed her way through the store to get. I began wrapping my own fruit glasses.

When she wrote a check, her big diamond ring was noticeable, but the stone hardly looked like a diamond. Like her, it had no sparkle.

I'd rather have my luminous dial clock of the olden days, a flea market find that truly made me a happy woman.