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.
