WILL YOU TAKE A DOLLAR?

By Marlene J. Waldock.  2025

    It was mid-September, the cool days were getting shorter, and at 5 am, it’s still dark.  At this ungodly hour my friend and I, armed with a jug of water and a small moneybox, squeezed into my overburdened Chrysler, bulging with so many prized possessions, and set off to the local flea market. To secure our space, the flea market manager, Wendal< insisted that we arrive between 6 & 7 am. The flea market didn’t actually open for business until 9:30. However we were aware the many professional shoppers, mostly vendors, made their purchases before the crowds arrived, so we didn’t question the instruction.

    What should have been an uneventful 30-minute drive turned into a nearly 2-hour diversion with stops for donuts, muffins, sausage and biscuits and of course coffee. We were now ready to take on the barterers and bargain hunters of the day,

  Upon arrival we were greeted with the greasy aroma of sausage. The odor seeped into the cool morning air and hung like a wet blanket over the entire area. It was still dark at 7AM and the only flickers of light were from the flashlights of exhibitors attempting to locate their booths. We began our search, without a flashlight, but couldn’t find booth number 151. We did find Wendal, who guided us to the right place.

  For a nominal fee of $15.00, each exhibitor had the use of a sheltered table or two and enough space to park a vehicle. At first glance, the row of approximately 20 booths gave the appearance of an abandoned stable.  As daylight approached, the sun unveiled two weatherworn wooden tables, reinforced many times over with scraps of wood nailed in a haphazard fashion, attached to rough wooden posts that held up the roof.  It was certainly impossible for anyone to haul off the table at the end of the day.

  I stared in silence at our luxurious retail space and thought, “People will do anything for a dollar.” Fortunately, among the treasures packed into the trunk and back seat of my car were several pieces of cloth that we used to cover our display area. Neatness counts, even at flea markets.

   Just as we opened the trunk to begin unloading our treasures, the first customers arrived. One of our items, an old green and white leaded glass lampshade shaped like a pyramid, was marked $40 and prominently displayed in the center of the table. As our customers paraded by, their “you’ll never get that much glances” signaled that the price was too high. Back in the trunk it went.

    Before we had a chance to unload the rest of the car, we sold a black and white TV with no sound for $4, a somewhat mangled bedroom lamp for $2, a clock radio, that had long ago stopped keeping time, for $3, and a brown glass hurricane-style lampshade for $1. We were off to a rousing start. For the uneducated, these early flea market customers were in fact dealers who scavenged the booths of unassuming exhibitors in an effort to restock their own inventories.  Obviously, the dealers’ game plan was to resell these items at a hefty profit.

    Our display area was really beginning to take shape, particularly because of our table covers and plastic flowers.  We merchandised our space with items ranging from a stuffed spider in a cage to a digital clock that chirped as though it had just given birth to family of crickets. We were so busy unpacking these marvels of modern civilization that for a moment we failed to notice the frail man whose unsteady appearance and irregular breathing alarmed us.  As he eyed the lampshade that was nestled of the floor of the trunk, I was certain the he would collapse right in the middle of our exquisitely merchandised booth,

            “Whatcha got in there?” he asked

            “Just an old shade,” my friend replied.

            “How much do Ya want for the ‘ole shade’?” he asked

            Making a quick judgement call, we said $30.”

The man looked at the shade, turned and quietly walked away. A few minutes later, he reappeared to try his luck again.

“Is it a Tiffany?” he asked.  An authentic tiffany lamp shade ranges from $5000 to over $1 million. It was obvious that the shade marked $30 was not a “Tiffany.”

“No it’s just an old shade that’s been around for several years,” answered my friend.

“Where’s the rest of it?” asked the man

“I don’t know. The base was broken years ago, and that’s all that is left.”

    The man stared at the shade, examining the variegated green glass, raised jewels and bronze frame. “Thirty dollars,” he grunted, as he told us that he and Wendall, the flea market manager, were partners. They maintained a permanent booth at the main hall and had an antique shop in the neighboring town. Again, he examined the shade, turned and walked away.

    By 9 am the market had come to life as exhibitors emptied their trucks and cars in preparation for the onslaught of customers eager to purchase their wares.  Permanent trailers displayed all types of trinkets, fake and antique jewelry, rows of furniture, fruit and vegetables, as well as various and sundry items. In a carnival-like atmosphere the only things missing were the bearded lady and the snake charmer.

    Unfortunately, it was our luck that this particular morning lacked the large crowds that typically shopped the market. We learned later that the entire day was the slowest they had experienced in several months.  Although it may have lacked buyers, it was not without interesting personalities, like the woman in the “Hot Pink” warm up suit with the Santa Claus demeaner.

    Humming happily, she carefully examined our merchandise until se selected a small cast iron skillet marked $2. “Will you take a dollar?” she asked.  Before I could respond, she handed me a dollar, picked up her skillet and as she turned to leave, spied the straw and chiffon floppy-brimmed, ice blue wedding hat that hung strategically from one of the wooden posts that held the roof up. “That’s exactly what I am looking for,” she said. “I just love blue.”  Much to my amazement, she removed that hat from the post, plopped it on her head and said, “I am wearing this the rest of the afternoon to keep the sun out of my eyes.”  The jolly-lady paid for her hat, picked up the skillet and toddled off, bouncing and swinging as she went.

    The lady in pink had no sooner disappeared than the silence was broken by the frail, teetering man.

            “Whatcha think your friend will take fer that ‘old shade’?” he asked

            Startled by the question, I looked up and responded “$29.95.”

    Just then my friend returned from a short break, somewhat amused to see that the man was back to negotiate for the third time.

            “He said that he’ll give us “$25.” I said.

     Exasperated, we conceded and sold the “Tiffany” for $25.  The man thanked us and with the shade in hand, promptly returned to his booth.

    Knowing that the man was a dealer, I waited a short time and went into the main hall to search for the shade. And, there it was, strategically positioned in the center of the table with a price tag of $50!

    As I turned to leave, my eye was drawn to a familiar looking lamp in the adjacent booth.  It was the brown hurricane shade that we sold earlier in the morning for $1, reunited with base and now priced at $30.

    It was only 11 am and I felt like I had been at this flea market for days. Just as we debated whether we should go or stay, our friends arrived to cheer us on. They caused such a commotion that in a flash our booth was filled with customers, anxious to buy anything before everything was gone.

   At one point, a fight almost broke out between two customers who both wanted to purchase an old five-piece set of pots and pans. The entire set marked a dollar, was missing a few handles and lids. One woman offered $.50 cents for just one of the dilapidated pans, saying that she wanted to use it as an accent piece on her stove. OKAY! As they negotiated an acceptable price, the only thing I could do was shake my head.

Once the buying frenzy ended and the excitement ceased, we sat back and observed the sparsely populated crowd.  By 2 pm, we decided enough was enough. Back into the trunk went the stuffed spider in the cage and the chirping digital clock. As we drove away, less burdened than when we arrived, I glanced over my shoulder at the people still milling around. How many more authentic “Tiffany” lampshades or floppy-brimmed hats would be sold.  I counted our profits, $130!

A short distance down the road, we were drawn to a vegetable stand selling bright red tomatoes, green and orange peppers, yellow squash and green apples. I selected a basket of tomatoes and handed it to the woman behind the table.  She weighed the tomatoes and said “$1.25.  I reached into my purse to get some money.  I looked at her and smiled and asked “Will you Take a Dollar?”