Treasure Hunting

This weekend I went on a Brooklyn adventure!

Bethany's sister Stephanie was in the city for a weekend visit. (a super chilly weekend I might add!) And they invited me to join them for a trip to the Brooklyn Flea Market. I've heard great things, so I decided to make the cross-borough trek in hopes of finding some flea market treasures!

Once we walked into the lobby of the old Williamsburgh Savings Bank with its marble pillars and arched ceilings, I knew I'd be glad I braved the cold and inconsistent weekend trains to play in Brooklyn.

As I browsed through the piles of old tin ceiling tiles, stacks of classic records and collections of vintage jewelery, I realized that I was blissfully happy.

There was a man who offered us stories about his display of costume earrings. Clip-ons vs. screw-backs. How the sparkly pair we were eying were made with tiny strips of steel. Bethany decided she needed them.

I loved all the vintage pendants. I found myself picking them up at every jewelery table we passed, wondering who had worn these pins? Where had they been? And how did they end up here?

There was a charming old drop-leaf table that I desperately wanted to own...and would own if I had anywhere to actually put it. It would be ohsocute painted yellow. Or red. Sigh.

We stumbled upon a delightful couple from Boston who had quite the collection of vintage luggage. A particularly lovely navy and lavender hard-cased, leather-handled tote held our attention for a good 15 minutes before deciding that Steph had no way to get it back to Denver. And there was a little fold-down writing desk / chest that I absolutely adored. Again, nowhere to put it...and no other rich dark wood in my UES apartment.

In a back room on the top level, we came across a woman who disassembles type writers and sells the keys as charms and rings. I was ohsoexcited to find these 2 in her trays!

And in my flea-market induced happiness, I realized something.

That my appreciation for antique-y treasure hunting is yet another quirk I can attribute to the influence of both my Grandad and my mother.

Browsing in Brooklyn, I found myself remembering all the weekends I spent at First Monday in Canton when I was younger.

For those of you non-Texans who don't know about First Monday...let me just tell you that it is one of the most well-known and largest outdoor flea markets ever. Held on the first Monday / weekend of every month, naturally.

And my Grandad used to love spending weekends there.

I can't even begin to estimate the number of hours I spent trudging through booths in the suffocating Texas summer sun. I usually couldn't wait to leave. Table after table of useless old stuff didn't quite hold my attention when I was 10 years old. I didn't care where anything came from, I couldn't see the potential in broken furniture or rusty lamps. I clearly took it all for granted.

Seems that this weekend, in my Brooklyn Flea happiness, all those East Texas memories came flooding back.

I remember...
Grandad shifting through boxes of old glass door knobs until he found a few that were just right for his glass doors. How he looked at old chests and tables and clocks. Explaining how he could take them apart, rebuild them, make them new, but keep their character. Because "they don't make things like this anymore."

I remember....
when he found a glass kerosene lamp and converted it into an electrical lamp for my bedside table. And how I'd wanted a vanity in my bedroom. So he found a new mirror for an old vanity that was in his house. I repainted it for my room. Same with my iron and brass bed.

I remember...
In high school when Grandad found me a broken wooden chair for $5 that he fixed. I would later paint, re-cushion and decorate for my desk.

I remember...
Wanting to make a pair of old slatted wooden doors into a shelf. So Grandad did it for me. He bought the doors, knocked out the slats and he made the shelf just as I'd pictured. I'd wanted a headboard made out of old shutters for my college apartment. So he made that for me too.

I remember...
I used to laugh at my Mom, tease her that nothing in her house matched. "What do you mean?! Everything has a story!" was always her response. I don't think I've ever fully grasped how her antique-y, story-telling style has affected me until recently.

I really love that everything in my parent's house has a story. I love that there are so many pieces of furniture and light fixtures there that Grandad found at junk stores, rebuilt or repaired in some way.

Somehow, it's as if those things that fill the house are a reflection of him. A collection of all the things that he enjoyed and wanted to share with us.

It makes me smile now as I realize why I find such happiness in browsing at flea markets -- from uncovering the potential in something old that might be a bit busted up or discovering something unique that no one else could possibly have.

Suddenly it's quite clear that this fascination is a direct influence of my Grandad. His love of the old and broken and charming was never wasted on me.

I guess I forgot how much I love flea markets.
Thanks for the reminder, Brooklyn.