news from the flea market

My young companions think its called a flea market because of all the puppies for sale. We spent some time in a section of the market where an elderly man sells tchotchkes. He’s been there for over 10 years and has never been particularly chatty, but today he was charming. I think the kids brought out his puckishness. I coaxed some personal information out of him. He’s originally from La Porte. He worked for Gates Chevy in Mishawaka for years. His name is Shoemaker. He lived in Reverewood. He said he misses springtime in St. Joe County, and so do I, but I miss autumn more.

It’s hotter nearly everywhere else right now than it is here in Florida. The flea market, shaped like a wheel, used to have air-conditioning in the hub, but it’s hard times, and now there are only fans. I suspect it was over 100 degrees in some of the “spokes.” Beside Mr. Shoemaker, we met a young man who propagates and sells plumeria (Their slogan is “Just Smell It.”) We also met a couple who sell deliciously scented soaps. One of my companions liked the chocolate coconut soap, so I jotted that down on the back of the soapmakers’ business card. The woman told me she doesn’t recommend the basil eucalyptus scented soap as a bath soap because it makes her “private bits tingle.” If you are on my Christmas list, you may get one of their soaps, but not basil eucalyptus, unless you request it, of course.

I bought an oil portrait of a darkly handsome man for $2.00. Some of us were disturbed by the skull in the background. I paid too much for an antique leather-bound album for cartes de visite with no cartes and in poor condition, because it had a printed card from Bazar Bel Bacha, Casablanca, “vous offre une selection d’objets d’art marocain” tucked inside, along with a tiny fan-shaped calling card with the name Fred A. Dorn engraved on it. I also bought a leather carrying case full of mismatched playing cards, some of which have an advert for “La Cage” at the Riviera in Las Vegas, featuring Frank Marino as Joan Rivers.

what he said

One of my brothers is staying with me. Here are some of the things he has said lately. He keeps me on my toes. Please don’t blow my cover.

Is it co-workers or cow-orkers?

Are you skeptical or are you dubious?

She’s a nice girl but I think she has Tourette’s.

Maybe dark matter is what black holes poop after they’ve digested matter.

I took a detour to Git but now it’s time to get back to Go.

You should get Roku.

You know everything I know, so don’t ask me any more questions.

To be continued….

ravens

“Ravens are the birds I’ll miss most when I die. If only the darkness into which we must look were composed of the black light of their limber intelligence. If only we did not have to die at all. Instead become ravens. I’ve watched these birds so hard I feel their black feathers split out of my skin. To fly from one tree to another, the raven hangs itself, hawklike on the air. I hang myself that same way in sleep, between one day and the next. When we’re young, we think we are the only species worth knowing. But the more I come to know people, the better I like ravens.”
from The Painted Drum by Louise Erdrich

Friend or Foe: Corvidae

tipi envy

I have the best neighbors. They moved in the week my husband died. The first time I met Mrs. J., she came right up and hugged me, and said “I’m so sorry.” Then she ran into the house, and came out with a jar of homemade jam that she carried with her from Montana. It was the color of honey. She picked the berries herself. She made we forget my sorrow for a moment, and again every time I tasted that jam.

Mr. and Mrs. J. are Native Americans. When they tell me they’re heading out to gather blueberries, or going fishing, or going to a pow-wow, I want to go too, but I would never ask. Once they invited me over for an iced tea. The walls were hung with Native art, the rooms arranged with things collected over the years and things inherited. Everything had a story, just the way I like it. A breakfront in the dining room held a collection of keepsakes and family photos. One of those photos planted itself in my skull. It was an old black and white snapshot of a tipi. Mrs. J. said the tipi was her grandparents’ home on the reservation. It stood next to the frame house where Mrs. J. grew up. Her grandparents refused to live in a house, she told me. They stuck with the tipi to the end.

I saw a real tipi at the Plains Indian Museum in Cody, Wyoming. It was larger than I expected. The hide was translucent, so if there were a fire inside, the tipi would glow in the dark.

overheard

In the allergist’s waiting room. A mother and her 20-something daughter, Asian, the mother has an accent.

Daughter, slamming her book closed: I don’t like this book at all. She assumes we are all victims. That’s just not right. We’re not ALL victims. I’M not a victim!
Mother: Are you going to finish the book?
Daughter: I think I’ll just skim it. I don’t agree with her so I don’t want to use it.
Mother: What is the subject of your paper?
Daughter (who now begins to sprinkle her speech with Korean words and phrases, so this is all I could get): It will definitely be about the Korean diaspora, but it’s too big of a subject. I have to be more focused. Somehow I didn’t know there were Koreans scattered all over the world (laughs). I thought they were just here. I think I might concentrate on the Korean communities in the U.S. and in Russia, because there is such a disparity there. We’ve been prosperous in this country, but over there the communities are poor and they’ve been persecuted.