Kitschy Kitschy Ya Ya Da Da...Flea Market Finds

Head Case
All photos and text by Shelley Powers
To escape the world of laundry, dishes, and vacuuming, I decide on Saturday to venture into the valley of bad ideas and forgotten fads.

I decide to go to the flea market.

I get in my car and drive 15 minutes south of Jackson, past Wrights Fruit Stand with its vibrant display of mums and pumpkins...past the last Wal-Mart for 40 miles...past the Crawdad Hut...past a herd of cattle grazing on a hill whilst a lone bull saunters amongst his ladies.

I soon pull up to the Hwy. 49 Flea Market and Antiques...a commune of five connected buildings made out of corrugated sheet metal and packed with the best collection of crap this side of the Mississippi.


One could spend hours in these buildings...and still not see everything.

I walk in and am greeted by two baby grand pianos, which look to be from the 1940s. They sit in the entryway, draped with an old couch throw and topped with a spray of silk flowers shooting from a chipped vase. I can't help but feel I'm in some parallel universe to a decadent metropolitan hotel lobby. But a breeze from the nearby oscillating fan and strains of Skynyrd from some hidden radio bring my thoughts quickly back to this roadside market on a rural Southern highway.

As I pass the pianos, I plunk a key or two...no reason...just compelled by their presence.

Almost immediately I spot a 1930s-style antique oak sideboard...complete with missing front doors and a beveled mirror that has more than its fair share of silver chipped away from the back. It's only $75, and my torment begins.

I want it, but absolutely don't need it. Plus, it will require a good deal of elbow grease to make it even remotely presentable.

I snap a couple of pictures with my phone and e-mail them to my mom...whom I then call so we can discuss.

She gives wise council...and I decide it's best to move on.

I scale my wanton thoughts down and half-heartedly resign myself to searching for a metal butter dish...one with a handle on top. I could really use a new butter dish...though it's not life-shattering that I find one.

As I meander through the maze of clutter, my eyes grow wide with wonder at how all this stuff came to reside on these dusty shelves. How many people have touched these trinkets and baubles and pots and pans and clocks and books and...and...and...and...?

Crumbled Hummels

This seems to be a land of things once treasured that are yearning to be treasured once more.

I spot a well-worn baby doll half asleep in an upside down lampshade. From the patch of missing hair to the left eye that has broken free of its weight and is now permanently open...it's obvious this little one had been loved to death. Is it possible that she'll ever be loved again...or is she simply destined to spend eternity in her musty lampshade cradle?

I ache for her a little...but I move on...as I suspect most folks do. I ache a little more.

I wind around through to the second building and spot a shiny display of old equestrian trophies lining a top shelf. I can't help but think of all the hours and years of practice that went into winning each of them, as well as the joy that surely came when they were awarded.

They are now $3 each.

Moon Trophies

The walls of the market are covered with a gallery of artwork made up of pieces that, I suspect, were at one time selected and hung above various living room couches simply because they matched the curtains. It's a painful collection.

Interspersed in the cacophony of uninspiring artwork are the real treasures...original pastels, charcoals, water colors, oils, needlepoints, crewel works, etc. Some are quite good...but so out of date and so niche that, I'm convinced, they will never leave this place. Such is the fate I fear for a $20 charcoal I find of "Growing Pains" star Joanna Kerns. I wonder...who will share in the laughter and love with Joanna now?

It's obvious that, while pieces like the Kerns' portrait were crafted with real talent...other original works have a more...um...strained...sense about them. These masterpieces may have been meticulously toiled over in some horrid community college art class...but I venture to guess that not even the artists' mothers would offer encouragement by sticking one of these to the 'fridge or hanging one in an upstairs guest bath. So, these works have made their way to this lonely spot in Mississippi, where, I'm certain, they are now a part of the Hwy. 49 Flea Market and Antique Gallery's permanent collection.

Scattered here and there throughout the entire market are lamps of every size and shape and style. I pass one that is made out of burnt matchsticks and fashioned into a pump well. I marvel at its craftsmanship...and I marvel at how much I don't want to buy it.

One lamp phenomenon that has always amazed me is the practice of having a lamp socket shoot out of a figurine's head. I can't imagine how anyone ever thought this looked good. Seeing a socket protrude from the noggin of some serene statue always makes me think of the halo braces used after spine and neck injuries. I've always found it to be more disconcerting than stylish.

Lamp Head

By now I've wandered halfway through the market. As I bend and stoop and stand on tip-toe to see what I can see, I find myself smiling and frowning at the all the comedy and tragedy around me.

Every so often, my ears perk to the sound of a new patron entering the market...who, like I, couldn't resist plunking a couple of keys on the old foyer pianos. Most folks are timid, hitting a key or two as they pass. Others gingerly play a bar or more of something they probably memorized back when their mother made them take lessons.

But every note I hear...be it one or one of many...makes me smile. And I decide that at least one set of hands that touch those keys today belongs to a secret virtuoso...who, himself, doesn't even know of his capabilities. I make a wish that one day he'll reach his full musical potential...and the wishing makes me feel good.

Lost Keys
"Can I help you, hon?" A "saleswoman" breaks me from my wishing trance.

I hesitate..but then remember the butter dish...which I had forgotten about nearly five shelves back. I explain what I'm looking for to see if she's spotted one amidst the insanity.

"I haven't, but let me ask some of the other dealers to see if they have."

"Oh...really...don't go to any trouble...seriously," I say, suddenly feeling guilty for having asked her to locate my needle in this haystack.

"It's my job, darhlin'," she says with a smile, then scurries off behind some shelves...never to be seen again.

I assume she didn't find one...either that or she bumped one of the many tediously stacked racks of knick knacks and is now buried somewhere under the rubble. I hope they find her...and that when they do...she's clutching tight to the found butter dish.

I move on to building four, where I spot something I desperately want to buy for Gray Charles...an unopened Planet of the Apes costume (circa 1960-something). It's awesome. But, I decide a) it wouldn't fit Gray, b) I wouldn't know where to mail it, and c) it'd be a creepy gesture. So I snap a picture to give him instead...an early Halloween treat.

So much of the beauty of a flea market to me is in the dichotomy of the objects that share the nooks and crannies.

I don't know if it's because I live in the Bible Belt, but much of what is on these shelves are or feature religious symbols. I can't help but think that, at one point, these items had to bring comfort to someone...at some time. Seeing them now, scattered among kitschy displays seems absurd and, at times, obscene...as testified by Jesus seated at the Last Supper underneath the shadow of Dolly Parton's cleavage.

I want for these items to not be here.

Even they seem to not want to be here.

Jesus Head

A Fan of Jesus

I'm almost to the last building when a gaggle of older ladies pass me by...oooing and ahhhing over a clunky old candelabra one of them has found. It's being carried by a prissy little red-headed guy to the front for purchase. But the ladies stay behind and bicker over whether $30 is too much to pay for a 12-place setting of silver-plated tableware.

I chuckle quietly. Only at flea markets does so little money take on such value.

It seems a decision like whether or not to spend $5 to purchase a set of vintage plastic glittered tumblers is approached with the same caution and discussion one would typically expect at the refinancing of a home.

Five $1 bills never hold more potential or promise than at the threshold of the flea market doorway. And, funny enough, never are those five $1 bills so hard to let go of. Is it the thrill of the hunt...or just that vying for my $5 can be anything from the ridiculous to the sublime?

Whatever it is...those five $1 bills are a heck of a lot more fun to spend at a flea market than one $100 bill in a department store.

Or maybe that's just me.

I finally reach the end of the market...just 10 minutes before closing time. I didn't find my butter dish...I didn't spend a single cent...but it's okay. I've had fun.

So I climb back in my car, roll down my windows, drive back past the cows and Crawfish Hut, the Wal-Mart and the fruit stand...and I slowly creep back into town.

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Cherubim and Marilyn

Betty Oops

Purple Bottles

Bell Ringer

Dog Dishes

Naked Laugh

John Deere Head

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