Allegan Sunday April 25

I have a chronic, perhaps pathological, habit of buying junky pieces of furniture or otherwise broken down , vintagey household items, then painting them or rewiring them or embellishing them with other bits of junk, slapping a price tag on them, packing them, then bringing them to an outdoor antique show to sell as a benefit for an international relief organization.  It’s something we’ve been doing as a family business for a few years now, and we are getting organized and practiced at all the hard work of setting up for the one-day show at the fairgrounds about forty-five minutes south of here.  Set up is on Saturday, but we begin packing two minivans (one ours, one my mother-in-law’s, the dear woman), on Friday to spread out the workload.

Paris Picnic-ing is my absolute favorite thing to do, and I only get to do it six times, maybe seven, per year.  I was reflecting on it today and realized that of all the things I do, from mothering to wife-ing to teaching to friending, this is the one thing I do that doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable, while everything else is just a little bit out of my comfort zone.  Basically, most of the time I am willing to do things God calls me to do, while relying heavily on His help in accomplishing them by the skin of my teeth.  At the antique show, though, I feel like Eric Liddell of 1924 Olympic running fame when he said he felt God’s pleasure when he did what he was created to do. I do realize it is silly to compare selling junk to competing in the most elite international sports competition, but I get my thrills cheap. Literally.  We all have a role to fill, and some are more obvious or glamorous than others. My role, apparently, turning trash into treasure.  My dad always thought I would be a bag lady when I grew up, since I was bringing miscellany home from garage sales on the back of my bike in high school, so I guess I've come pretty close to fulfilling his prediction. I don't think it's something he would brag to friends about if he were still around.

Anyhoo, this past weekend was our first antique show of the season, and I was both nervous and excited.  It was our first time to use our newly purchased vehicle, so I didn’t know how much I could realistically pack in it.  I scaled our inventory way down, including only three picnic hampers instead of the usual eight or so, plus only the best stuff for spring to make for a pretty show.  I was so pleased that everything fit into the two vehicles easily, maybe even with a tad bit of room to spare, which was truly a first.  Next time I can definitely bring more, but the good news is that once it was all set up and merchandized, you could hardly tell there was less than usual.

With the help of our son's friend, who agreed to work for us for the day for even less pay than his regular job at a greenhouse, set up went quickly.  Having less inventory certainly helped, and thank the Lord, the rain in the forecast proved to be a bluff, so we had merely cool weather rather than cold and rainy. Nothing makes antique sales more miserable than trying to keep them dry in a downpour, which we have done many dismal weekends. We drove home in time to pick up our son from his karate conference to celebrate at Pizza Ranch, where I finally tried their famous taco pizza . Tim and I had a quiet evening while the boys had an overnighter at our house in order to wake up early for show day.

Waking up in the fives to get to the fairgrounds by seven was not as hard as I thought it would be, and definitely better than sleeping in freezing or damp or steaming hot vans in a creepy field near a river teeming with raving prison escapees.  One child rode in a van with one adult, and I got my son.  Fortunately or unfortunately for him, when I read a sign that said our exit was closed and that there was a detour, I actually took the detour.  On this particular day the detour took me, literally, through a swamp that sometimes has “water over the road,” as the sign officially announced.  Said road was gravel and wound through what appeared to be meth lab shack central, and I was never happier to see smooth asphalt than after twenty minutes of fearing a flat tire or a gunshot through the windshield.  Keeping my cool, I pointed out to my  son the beautiful spring fields and trees and cows, while he half-dozed.  His major concern was that there was no wi-fi for Minecraft out in the country.

We finally arrived long after the sun rose, but there was still plenty of time to arrange a few things I brought with me from home.  Truly, everything looked gorgeous, just as I had hoped, and we had time to sit and relax as we waited for the first customers. The first slow hour always tricks me into thinking that this is going to be the show when you come home with only a few hundred dollars for all your hard work, not even covering expenses. It's a heart-sinking feeling, sort of like when you are sure you are going to fail a pop quiz.  But as the shoppers made their way from the main entrance to our booth at the opposite side of the market, our sales were consistent with past shows, despite having less inventory than usual.  It’s as if there is a certain amount that people can spend per hour during that show, regardless of what I bring. What a huge relief, and pleasure, to sit in the sun, enjoying the first truly beautiful warm spell of the season, as people of like mind take home bags full of beautiful junk that I will not need to repack and bring home later. Aaah, bliss. 

I am still, a week later, feeling the high of doing what I love, and looking forward to next time.  There is no way it could be better than this one, but it will be fun to see what surprises I find packed in the baskets and suitcases for our next monthly Paris Picnic.