Unfortunately, there are countless ways in which I am reminded that I am getting old. Some are tangible and horrifying—like looking in the mirror—while others are more subtle but insidious. One of the latter occurred last Saturday as I thought about my changing relationship with the Harvard Flea Market over the years.
My first encounter was 42 years ago, shortly after we moved to town, and I fell in love. So much old stuff to put in my new old house! Thereafter I would await the flea market with great excitement, and on the day of the event, I was hovering at the gate long before opening time. Next to Christmas, it was the highlight of my year.
In those first years, I was obsessed with the Wicker Lady from Clinton, always in the first booth on the left from the Bromfield driveway. I bought a rocking chair and gave it a place of honor on the screened porch. I was ecstatic to discover a mate to the rocker the next year, stationary but with identical sagging springs. When the upholstery nails holding padding on the chairs’ backs started to rust and fall out, I plopped on random pillows. At the time I had every intention that they be temporary. A chair of a different shape and weave followed and then an adorable potty chair, which I repurposed as a plant holder.
Then the unthinkable happened—the Wicker Lady stopped coming. Devastated, I ordered a wicker double seater from L.L. Bean and then realized something had to leave the porch to make room. The “odd” wicker chair was relegated to my bedroom where for many years it has served as a closet annex.
My obsession turned to old wooden wheelbarrows, and for a while there was always at least one to be found and wheeled through the elementary school grounds to its new home on my hillside. The weather saw to it that the wheelbarrow had to be replaced after two or three years. About the time wheelbarrows were getting hard to find, I realized that they were an extravagance I should probably curb. I now have a small, cheap, rookie wheelbarrow looking lost on the hill, bravely trying to uphold the tradition.
In the in-between-wheelbarrows years, I would buy some other unnecessary item that I just couldn’t live without. One year it was a metal seat from an old buggy that now sits on the living room floor, called into service once a year to hold Christmas presents. A red cupboard, wheeled on a dolly through the schoolyard, has proven more practical as a storage place for untold (and, alas, unlabeled) photographs of children and grandchildren at every stage of life. A table with one “It’ll be a snap to fix” short leg still can’t be trusted to keep anything on its surface.
Downsizing talk among my peers started to rub off on me, and I began to limit myself to purchasing one or two small items at the annual flea market. Soon I had to confront the reality that I have not a single empty spot in my house, so I would leave my money at home and go just to look. At first that was frustrating and stressful, but a few years ago I realized with surprise and dismay that I really was “over” the flea market.
I still get excited as the date approaches, as I still get excited at the prospect of a snow day, even though I haven’t taught in 15 years and every day is a “snow” day. But now I sit at an admission gate and enjoy interacting with eager shoppers, petting dogs, and talking to friends. Still, last Saturday, when I saw that woman go by with the funky vintage wooden box, I felt really envious—and old.
