the Vinca primitive meets franksolich at an antique flea-market

[franksolich]

Disclosure: Even though antique flea-markets are a common cultural phenomenon all across America, franksolich himself has never been to one; it's not anything that rocks his chair, rows his boat.  And so while the characters in this story--the decent and civilized ones, and the primitives--are real people, the description of the antique flea-market might, or might not, be less than credible.

Also, this is the first stalking-franksolich parody in which the hippywife primitive, Mrs. Alfred Packer, does not appear, because there was no place for her in this story.  To make up for this hurtful but unavoidable omission, this story is dedicated to Mrs. Alfred Packer, with the humble hopes she finds it amusing.

the Vinca primitive meets franksolich at an antique flea-market.  "Oh, look," the neighbor's wife said, pointing to an advertisement in the directory of flea-market operators descending upon the Sandhills of Nebraska for the Memorial Day holiday.

Folding the advertisement in half, she showed it to franksolich: SPECIALIZED DEALER IN ROYAL MEMORABILIA: QUEEN VICTORIA * EDWARD VII * GEORGE V * EDWARD VIII * GEORGE VI * ELIZABETH II.

"Maybe you'll find something there interesting after all," she said, hopefully.

franksolich shrugged.  "You know I don't buy any of this stuff excepting from a reputable person with a permanent location--and besides, ever since I got the cats, I haven't bought any at all, because I can't display it."

The neighbor's wife and franksolich were dining upon coffee-and-rolls at a local cafe, as they had arrived into town too early, and it was pouring rain.  The neighbor's wife, in her early 30s, is into collecting what are called "pioneer primitives" (or something like that; I dunno); usually kitchen implements dating from circa 1880-1910, which were "pioneer days" in Nebraska.

The neighbor's wife is also an avid attender of antique flea-markets, while her husband, like franksolich, is indifferent about them.  franksolich was with her on this expedition, because the neighbor had work to do, and the paternal grandparents had the four children for the day; franksolich, being a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one could ever hope to meet, had agreed to go along with her.

"You really don't enjoy doing this, do you?" she asked.

"Yeah, mingling with sharpsters trying to cheat on used goods," he agreed.

"But you go to thrift stores for most of your clothes," she insisted.

"That's different," franksolich said; "since I'm rather casual and careless with clothes, it's always been best to spend as little as possible on them--six shirts for a buck and stuff--and besides, being from the tail-end of a big family, new clothes don't have the same comfortable feel as used ones do."

"But you've been in antique stores."

"Reputable dealer, permanent location," franksolich responded; "if something's not what it's said to be, one gets one's money back.

"You have to watch people who think they're 'sharp;' otherwise they'll steal your eyeballs."

Just then, the local chief of police came in.

"We nabbed a big one last night, possibly the biggest one since Lucky Luciano," he announced.

[franksolich]

The local chief of police and franksolich were in high school together, a long time ago, and because of old school ties, has for the past few years been on the lookout for primitives from Skins's island stalking franksolich.

"Apparently a high-ranking caporegime in the notorious d'Alessandro crime family of Baltimore, with connections to the d'Alessandro-Pelosi mob in San Francisco.  He was up here with his 'associates' Louie the Butcher, Alphonse the Grinder, Salvatore the Knife, and Meyer the Shiv.

"They heard about this flea-market, and went around to all of the exhibitors, demanding that they buy 'insurance' for 'protection.'  But their rates seemed a little high; $100 per dealer, and 60% of the gross.

"Somebody complained, and so we went after them, finding them holed up in the motel.

"The head guy wouldn't say a word, until we threatened him with calling his wife in Baltimore, telling her about all the pretty girls that were with them in the room.

"That scared him shitless, and then he started squealing like a stuck pig.

"One couldn't shut him up; finally, the FBI came up from Omaha and took them all away.

"It was a good thing, too, because the county was going broke, holding them.

"The jail doesn't have a kitchen, and so when we got somebody in there, we have to call for carry-out or delivery from one of the local restaurants.

"These guys were costing the taxpayers a bundle, all these Valentino's pizzas and lasagna."

[franksolich]

The rain had let up, although it was still drizzling, when the neighbor's wife and franksolich walked over to the county fairgrounds.  A woman was sitting at a card-table at the gate, with a sign, ADMISSION $2.

"Wait.  Whoa.  What?" franksolich stopped.  "They charge admission for people to come in and buy things?

"Isn't this like if the grocery store charged customers a buck to two just to walk inside, to buy groceries?

"What's up with this?"

Oh, just pay it, the neighbor's wife said.

Upon his payment for admission, the lady at the table handed franksolich a piece of cardboard, covered with transparent plastic.

"What's this?" franksolich asked.

"It's a name-tag, my dear," said the woman, who was wearing one herself, bearing the name PEGGY.

"Why does one need a name-tag?" franksolich queried.

"It's to show you paid admission, my dear, and besides it puts everybody on an intimate basis, where they're not strangers to each other. 

"Sure you don't like being addressed as 'Hey, you,' my dear."

The woman gave franksolich a black Magic Marker; "You're supposed to write your name on it, my dear."

Now, franksolich has always had a particular hostility about name-tags, thinking that if someone ever wanted to know his name, they could ask him, and he'd tell them.  This has caused problems for franksolich in some jobs requiring security measures, but that's a whole another story.

"Oh, just write down any name," the neighbor's wife said, anxious to get going.

And thus bearing DAVID ALLEN on his chest, franksolich and the neighbor's wife entered the fairgrounds.

Because it was raining, those outside the main pavilion were concentrated under open-air tents and canopies covering picnic tables.

franksolich, the neighbor's wife at his elbow, stopped when seeing the phenomenon of some guy sitting at a picnic table, with a jeweler's-glass in his eye, and miniature file in hand.  That was not the odd part of it; the odd part was that the guy, circa 60-61 years old, tall and thin and shaky in a spasmodic way, was all geared up in what is called by non-natives, "cowboy stuff," which in actuality has no similarity, no similarity at all, with what authentic cowboys wear.

He was red-faced and angrily impatient.

franksolich approached closer; he was taking ordinary 1937 "Buffalo" (or "Indian Head") five-cent pieces and filing off a leg of the bison on the reverse, to make it three-legged.  The standard 1937 Buffalo nickels are commonplace; the three-legged bison (a mint mistake) are rather rare, and command stratospheric prices on the market.

And the directory had listed coin-dealers at this auction, not only selling, but also buying.

Because it wasn't light, and because the "cowboy" was leaned over, franksolich couldn't see his name-tag, which announced REDSTONE.

franksolich however did notice with grim satisfaction that he was filing off the wrong leg.

[franksolich]

Once inside the pavilion, the neighbor's wife went her own way, while franksolich sought out the "specialist" in royal memorabilia.  The specialist was nowhere to be found; as it turned out, he'd cancelled at the last minute, choosing instead to show up at another antique flea-market somewhere else in the Sandhills.

Seeking idle amusement, franksolich went to the area rented by a dealer in old magazines, hoping to perhaps find a pre-1941 Time or Life magazine he didn't have in his own collection.  There weren't any, but his eyes caught the figure of a black guy sifting through the comics-books.  The guy looked like a nerd, a dork, trying to pose as a bad guy a tough one, a mean one, and failing absurdly.  He had a bulbous pear-shaped head, with a crewcut on top.

His name-tag was covered up by the lapel on his shirt, but anyway, it said MR SCORPIO.

He was busy going through the comics-books, a large stack of his selections in front of him.

But he was even busier surreptitiously stuffing some others inside his shirt.

Just then, a tall, blond-haired guy, maybe in his early 50s, approached the dealer, all upset and bent out of shape.  His back was to franksolich, but if his name-tag could be seen, it was ATMAN.

franksolich can't hear, and so asked the dork what all the yelling-and-screaming was about.

"Oh, him," Mr. Dorkio said; "he's some rich white dude from Connecticut who found a bunch of old surfing magazines in the '20 for $1' boxes, and since stuff he wrote's in them, he thinks they're worth more, and that the dealer should raise his prices on them.

"He's insisting his stuff is worth lots more than that, that his profile of some guy Dorian Paskowitz is a classic.

"By the way, who was Dorian Paskowitz?" the dork paused.

"Some surfer for Yasser Arafat," franksolich said; "his kids disowned him."

"Oh, thanks," the dork responded, "and that it's an insult, that the dealer's trying to get rid of his stuff for five cents apiece.

"The dealer's saying he got stuck with them when buying several boxes of Saturday Evening Posts of the 1920s, sneaked in between the good goods, and so there he was..... because they were printed on glossy paper, he can't give them to a paper recycler; he wants to find a landfill that'll take them.

"The rich dude's trying to convince him that he should autograph them, that way, they'd sell for $100 apiece or something.

"The dealer's not buying it; he just wants to be rid of them, and the overaged rich honky frat-boy too."

[franksolich]

Bored, franksolich walked outdoors again.  It was still drizzling, but not as heavy as before.

Taking a seat at an unoccupied picnic table underneath a canopy and lighting a cigarette, he surveyed two women sitting at the table next to his; the older middle-aged matronly sort, both in their 60s, the younger of the two looking flighty and giddy, and the older looking a little bit coarse, with some sort of hip-impairment that caused her to sit only with difficulty.

As with this sort of woman, they were both endowed with overheavy bosomage, and as he's been accused of looking at things "too directly," franksolich averted his eyes so as to not be thought discourteous, but if he had looked, he would have seen that the younger bore the name-tag GRASSWIRE, and the older, VINCA.

Since franksolich is deaf, and since no one was around to explain to him what they were talking about, he watched their faces, their expressions, read their lips, evaluated their body language.  It appeared they were exchanging trade-secrets of buying and selling used goods.

"You have to be sharp," the older one said; "you have to cheat them first, before they cheat you."

Since these were trade-secrets they seemed to be discussing, and since franksolich doesn't snoop, doesn't pry into other people's secrets, he politely disengaged from watching them, observing instead all the other people passing by, to and from the pavilion.

The younger one, the GRASSWIRE one, suddenly spotted franksolich, and looked as if she was wondering if she hadn't seen him before, somewhere, some time.

"You know," she told the older one, "this isn't the first time I've been in Nebraska.

"I was here about twenty years ago, down in Lincoln, and there was a young man holding a garage sale out in his front yard; it looked as if he'd emptied his whole place.  Everything was underpriced--Revereware copper-bottomed stainless-steel pots and pans for ten cents apiece, for example, or S/K mechanic's sockets for five cents each.

"I asked him why his prices--I didn't ask him why the prices were so low--I wanted to indicate they were too high, and so just asked him 'why' his prices, and he said he was moving away, going to Russia or Poland or something, and just wanted to get rid of stuff.

"He had a bookcase there--one of those 4x4 solid walnut smaller sorts--which he'd marked for five bucks, even though it looked almost new.

"Well, I never pay the marked price, and offered two dollars.

"'No way,' he said; 'this bookcase is a Regency [1811-1820]-era bookcase, and probably worth at least ten.'

"I told him that was no Regency bookcase; it looked as if he had gotten it at Nebraska Furniture Mart in Omaha within the past year.

"He admitted yes, that was true, but still insisted it was an antique circa 180 years old.

"This bookcase was made of wood from a tree that started growing when James Madison was in the White House, which made it a Regency-era antique.  It was made out of antique wood.

"I argued with him, intending to wear him down, and finally getting tired of me, he sold it to me for $2.50.

"Some months later, I myself sold it for $175, in Wisconsin."

"Yes," the older woman said, nodding her head; "you have to wear them down, make them get tired of you, so that they cave in on your terms.  One has to be sharp in this business, you have to cheat them before they cheat you."

[franksolich]

franksolich extinguished his cigarette and got up from his table, walking over to the table where the two were sitting; he greeted them, and welcomed them to the area, apologizing for the weather. 

The older woman beamed, in the manner of an older woman being paid attention to by a much younger man.  The younger of the two looked at franksolich quizzically, as if trying to remember something.  There was something about his voice; she had head it before, a long time ago.

Perhaps a long-forgotten high-school classmate of one of her children, she supposed.

The older one inquired his business, what he was looking for here. 

"Well, I was really hoping to find something that'd been advertised as being here, but the seller never showed up," he said; "coronation and jubilee memorabilia."

"You collect coronation and jubilee china?" the older one asked.  "It's a rather unusual hobby."

"Yeah, I know," franksolich said; "this fondness for fine china, and myself being, well, a guy, your usual standard typical customary hot-blooded American male, this Nebraska cowboy; it doesn't seem to fit.

"But most consider it a harmless little quirk, and let it go.

"After all, we all have those, harmless little quirks.

"When I was 17 years old, I saw a cup commemorating the coronation of Edward VIII in 1937--it was from 1936, and the coronation never happened, of course--and I rather liked the way it looked, and so bought it.

"After that, the deluge; I started collecting pieces commemorating the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria in 1897, the coronation of Edward VII in 1902, George V in 1911, the Silver Jubilee of 1935, Edward VIII, George VI, Elizabeth II.....but I stopped with collecting pieces after the Silver Jubilee of 1977, because since then, it's all been junk.

"I don't do Chuck and Di or Billy and Kate, for example; it's all junk.

"The prize piece I have is an anniversary clock--one of those thing with the four balls rotating on the bottom, under a glass dome--from the Silver Jubilee of Elizabeth II in 1977; nearly all the metal in the clock is made of sterling silver.  It's really neat, and I wish I could display it, but with cats, you know, one can't, because they'll knock it over.  I can't display anything, with cats."

"But the Edward VIII cup must be more valuable," the older one said; "after all, he was never crowned, you know."

franksolich of course knew, but was kind enough to not point that out.  When a college sophomore, as a lark, franksolich had written a research paper, The Socioeconomic Implications of the Abdication of Edward VIII in December 1936, and it ran for 26 pages, single-spaced.

(The paper had been written as a lark, but much to franksolich's surprise, the professor from Yale who was teaching at the University of Nebraska thought it a rather scholarly work for a 19-year-old, and gave it high marks; franksolich was bored in college, and was always submitting unassigned papers to professors, which had the unintended consequence of upping his grade-point average.)

"Actually no," franksolich said; "as it turns out, Edward VIII stuff is pretty cheap, as no one wants it."

"But it's rarer than George VI's, his younger brother's, stuff," the older one insisted.

"Yes, but nobody wants it," franksolich illuminated her.  "During most of 1936, the china and pottery works of England went into overtime, churning out pieces to commemorate the upcoming coronation of Edward VIII.  But then he abruptly abdicated in favor of his younger brother.

"Since the Edward VIII pieces had been made to commemorate an event that wasn't going to happen, the china and pottery works in England had to destroy all their goods, possession of such things being considered bad luck.  Made mountains of crumbled and shattered glass in the landfills of England, all these Edward VIII things.

"And then the china and pottery works had to go into double triple overtime to get out the goods in time for the coronation of George VI, and as the demand for those was much larger than they'd been for his older brother, they were still on double triple overtime long after the coronation.

"George VI pieces outnumber Edward VIII by, surely, at least 100,000-to-1, if not more, but still, George VI pieces get a higher price on the market.  People don't want Edward VIII stuff, even if it is much rarer." 

"You know," the Vinca primitive said, "I think I myself might have something of interest to you; it's from 1902, and's Shropshire china.....and it's out in my car, so I'll have to go get it."

[franksolich]

As the older woman made her way, impaired by her new hips, outside the county fairgrounds to her motor vehicle, the younger woman and franksolich remained at the picnic table.

The grasswire primitive was nervous; she was sure she remembered this person sitting with her, but from where?  She tried to imagine what he'd look like, say, twenty years younger, and circa 15-20 pounds heavier; maybe that would place him.

A teenaged delivery boy from Valentino's pizza strode by, eight boxes in his hands, walking towards the pavilion.

"You know," franksolich said to his guest, "this is a small town, not even 2,000 people, but it's got a lot of eating places--Joe's Bar & Grill, the Country Club, the Tumbleweed Cafe, Hop Sing's Mexican Eatery, Manuelo's Chinese Take-Out, the Coffee Shoppe, plus the usual Valentino's and Godfather's and Burger King and McDonald's and Wendy's and &c., &c., &c.--but even with all these places, one can't get a decent slice of pie in this town; you know, pie like grandmother used to make.

"A prime business opportunity here for someone, a good pie shop.

"But, I suppose," franksolich said upon further reflection, "a pie shop by itself wouldn't make it.

"But it could make it if one sold fishing bait and 5-gallon cylinders of propane for outdoor grills, on the side."

[franksolich]

The vindictive primitive came back, bearing something that was wrapped in tissue-paper.

"I got this just last week, in New Hampshire," she said; "it's a gravy-boat commemorating the coronation of Edward VII in 1902; it's fragile but in new, unchipped, condition, a perfect piece.  It's Shropshire china.  It's worth $1500, but because you're such a nice young man, you can have it for $200."

Unwrapping it, she showed it to franksolich.

It was a gravy-boat, yes.

It bore profiles of Edward VII and his wife Alexandra, much as those found on cigar-boxes of the era and later.

But still, it seemed most peculiar.

THEIR IMPERIAL MAJESTIES was THEY'RE IMPERIAL MAJESTIES, and "Alexandra" was misspelled.

And the date "August 9, 1902" was all wrong; it should've read "9 August 1902," in the English style.

franksolich flipped it over, finding on the bottom, AMERICAN DOLLAR STORES INC. MADE IN CHINA.

[franksolich]

"Well, how many butter churns did you find this time?" franksolich asked the neighbor's wife as they got together again.

"Oh, only one," she said, "but even more interesting, I got this," showing franksolich a spinning-wheel.

Now, spinning-wheels were once ubiquitous in American life.....but by the time anyone showed up in Nebraska, they were even then antiques, and so franksolich wouldn't call them authentic "pioneer primitives." 

Factory-made, ready-made, clothing are an invention older than Nebraska.

"I think it looks nice," the neighbor's wife said; "the seller swore it was from the living room at Mount Vernon and that Martha Washington used it, and wanted $500 for it, but I persuaded him it was a 1960s Vermontese re-creation, and got it for $20."

[Skul]

I went to a flea market in Hastings once.
Most of us called it the pet store.

[franksolich]

The two photographs, by the way, are from near my back yard.

[Chris_]

That was entertaining.

[BattleHymn]

It looks like you are creating a bit of a wake in those photos, frank. Do you ever do any fishing?   

[franksolich]

It looks like you are creating a bit of a wake in those photos, frank. Do you ever do any fishing?   

That is high water, sir; the rivers are pretty high, because it won't stop raining in Montana.

In fact, the floodgates are up in Omaha as I write this.

But that's the Missouri River.

The Elkhorn River and the Niobrara River, tributaries of the Missouri River, which flow across the roof of Nebraska (the Niobrara River meets the Missouri somewhere near Yankton, South Dakota, the Elkhorn River meets the Missouri somewhere down by Omaha), are pretty high at the moment too, although their own sources are not Montana.

For the illumination of stalking primitives, franksolich lives on the Elkhorn River (of which those photographs are), but only a short hike away from the Niobrara River.

As I commented a while back, I was surprised when I learned that Nebraska has more miles of river than any of the other 49 states, but having lived around them all my life, I'm enured to them.  It's just water.

[longview]

I enjoyed the story.  I think you got the flea market atmosphere pretty good, but then I don't attend them either.

Like the photos.  We've had quite a bit of flooding in our small creeks and rivers, which flow north and add to Montana's troubles.  That's a mess up there.

I've floated on the Niobrara west of where you are.  So pretty.

[vesta111]

Glad you brought this up Frank, in the last few day I have been going through some boxes of Family treasures--CRAP---and found a cleaver with a wooden handle.   

Grandmothers or her mothers possibibly.      The handle was carved on either a lath foot driven or electric too perfect to have been hand carved.

The cleaver itself is black, pitted as hell and as sharp as a fart.

I placed a magnite on it, it held so that is a clue to what the metal is.

How old is this damn thing, WW2 or before ????   It is hard to find out what kitchen knives, forks etc we made at that time as everone was gving anything made of any kind of metal to the govenment for the war effort. 

Pig Iron comes to mind as I bought some do-dads at a flee market and my mom knew what they were made of.

Now I wonder  should I stop trying to clean the darn thing or put it on display in the condition it is in.

In New England it is the shysters that get you, Auctons where the company that hold the auction have first and last bid.

My biggest cry about was a home auction and under the tent on a table was a dagger in some kind of leather shieth with marking I reconised as Masonic.   Darn My dad was in very ill health and I fgured he would love this as he and his father were past Masters of their Lodge,    I picked it up and moved to the line of folks that had found things they wanted to bid on when this Brute came out of no where grabbed the item and told me the item had been bought by the Auctionering company. 

My golly, this company had gone in and made $50.00 bids on everthing of value including 100 year old grandfather clocks to fine china.   They got the high end antiques for chump change and left the middle range stuff--Sleigh beds, and what ever else under a thousand bucks to be sold off.---   

[tanstaafl]

The two photographs, by the way, are from near my back yard.

Looks like the North Platte and the Platte last week, when I drove across Nebraska on my way home from Wyoming.

Lots more coming. They had 3 feet of snow in the Bighorns 2 weeks ago.