I am a finder, and maker.
I am a 67-year-old woman,
I hate to travel, but the opportunity to spend a week roaming around Provence
with Corey as a guide seemed like a worthwhile endeavor.
Corey took us to a small market in her village,
while the others in the group shopped and wandered,
I watched as the vendors did a dance that was familiar to me.
I loved being a street vendor,
For many years I sold at a weekly flea market in Seattle,
I loved the pace of my Sunday mornings.
Unloading the van, putting my tent up, going for coffee with my Fremont friends,
Pursuing the wares, hunting for a hidden treasure before returning to set up my own wares,
Then petting the dogs, chatting with customers, and selling my offerings.
With the pace and swirl of it all, I recognized that same swirl in vendors in France.
In fact, I have never been to any Flea market that I did not.
That is my tribe, I know the dance. The language barrier was frustrating.
I wanted to tell them I know you. I understand your day.
But instead, I watched and wished that I could join them.
I started my street selling at a young age,
I grew up on an idyllic bit of a farm.
It was my job to work the farm stand in the summer,
my uncle Joe sold Dungeness crab that he had pulled from traps
hours before and I sold whatever was ripe, laying, or blooming on the farm.
My future husband remembers when he was around 8 years old
driving by our farm stand one day,
I was yelling at cars to stop and buy these damn flowers.
That was the beginning of my retail training
I honed my trade by doing Markets and small boutique shows.
I was talking to my husband's oncologist.
She asked about a show that we were hoping he would feel well enough to do.
She asked what it was like,
I told her it was like a very prestigious oncologist convention,
except we are all a bit shabby and not as educated,
That is a show I do in Spokane Washington, it is what is considered
by most to be the creme de la creme of shows here on the west coast.
I have been included in this show for 10+ years.
And every year I have the same emotion about it.
I feel a bit shy like I am worried that my booth,
my stuff won’t be up to the standard that is expected.
These are my peers, my tribe elders. I want them to know that I belong with them.
I wait, and a few come by. They nod or buy.
That's the thumbs up I need to go on.
It is a heady weekend.
A gathering.
And even though I don’t really have the energy to do it as much anymore.
I still want to be a part of that.
Feel the comradely.
The laughs, the customers screaming as they run inside.
Hard to let go.
I spend my days now as a shopkeeper, my store is a 5000 sq ft space,
that I split with a real “antique dealer” filled to the brim.
Luluz & co,
it’s in Tacoma Washington on a street called, Antique Row.
On a good day, I would say it has a European-influenced vintage vibe.
On other days I think I could do better,
My instinct tells me 14 ft ladders are not a good idea at this age
Nor is pushing and shoving stuff around is not so much of an option as it used to be.
If I could I would travel from show to show setting up and selling.
But my body isn’t cooperating, it's hard work.
If I were a millionaire, I would be doing exactly that,
Only hire a team to set up and takedown.
But for now, I have a quirky store filled with odd bits and pieces along with the items I create.
My dogs are happy here,
as is my 20-year-old cat
Lily
she has people come by just to pet her.
My beautiful amazing husband died 4 years ago, my life has changed.
I am getting older, my knees and shoulders hurt,
my enthusiasm for creating a booth worthy of an opera isn’t there anymore.
I still create.
Now, the tribe comes to me.
I sit under a ridiculously over festooned pink tent and make stuff.
My French mother had the remarkable ability to make everyday things beautiful.
All that I treasure most about myself I got from her.
She wasn’t particularly warm or caring as a mother to a scrawny only child.
But she did show me what living a beautiful life was like.
We were not extravagantly wealthy.
But it looked like we were.
A basket of fresh eggs on the counter was a bit of art,
the summer brass and iron beds placed around the farm
with duvets and pillows on them.
Waiting for a hot summer night or an afternoon nap
after a long bit of reading are etched into me like a religion.
In fact, that was my mother's, Frona's, religion.
Creating beauty.
In turn, I love beautiful things,
not a traditional beauty,
but imperfect beauty.
Beauty to me is a white ironstone bowl with crazing, a piece of architecture with peeling paint,
a Santos hand without a body.
Every day I get to look at items like this,
treasure them and then send them off to the next owner.
And while it isn’t exactly like selling on the street,
I do have my store on a street that is filled with personalities:
The nudist, the ex-rock star that dresses in tight jeans,
a lovely ex-diplomat, and a retired judge that is a dandy.
It’s still my tribe.
This is a business filled with folks just outside the box.
Gypsies, artists, risk-takers, the disenfranchised more than the stuff
I love the people.
"I am going to make everything
around me beautiful
That will be my life."
Elsie de Wolfe
In a year like this last one has been,
I have found myself many a time thinking about all the joy
I have gotten from being a part of this business.
I think back on the beautiful market I helped create in an old navy air hanger in Seattle,
the night setting up while snow drifted in some of the broken 2 story windows,
I remember early morning at willow nest in the fog with deer dancing through the booths.
I remember Fremont in mid-summer and
the hippy woman selling pot brownies before they were legal.
I remember how much I have loved every part of being a junker,
as this odd year comes to an end
I am grateful.
Linda's shop
755 Broadway, Tacoma, WA 98402, United States
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