Yellow Daisies and Flea Market Finds

I love daisies.  They are such a very comfortable flower.  They can be stuffed in a broken crock or Mason jar and look quite at home.  They demand neither a fancy home nor artful arranging.

(vintage iron garden art from Shinola)

They look cheerful and accepting, never snooty or bored.

And when other more sophisticated flowers have begun to shed their regal beauty, the commonplace daisy is still smugly fresh and youthful.

Those same adjectives can be applied to flea market finds . . . comfortable, cheerful accepting, fresh.

(small silver pitcher from Pickens Flea Market)

When a little silver pitcher is already colored with the patina of irreversible tarnish or a milk crate is rough, worn  and its handle split, it lets me know I don't have to sit taller or keep my legs crossed at the ankles when it comes in to my home.

(vintage milk crate with original pint milk bottles from Barnyard Flea Market)

So, what better than to combine a big bunch of laid back daisies with several new comfortable flea market finds?

Ah, dreamy!

(passed down from My Mom)

And I think these little chippy, place-card-holding children from Germany, grasping their own imperfect but cheerful and unassuming flowers would agree.

Shinola

Ever since Youngest Son and I declared ourselves to be "pickers" (of sorts), we have begun to find little "holes-in-the-wall," pockets of picking goodness that we never before knew existed.

Such a place is Shinola.

Shinola?  What a unique name.  I asked the dapper owner where "Shinola" came from.  He glanced nervously at the 8 year-old and 12 year-old standing by my side and muttered a jumble of words that included things like "shoe shine," "the war" and "sticky brown."  From his discomfort, I could see that this conversation might be heading in a direction I didn't want to go, so I quickly laughed and acted like I knew just what he meant and we moved on.

Feel free to google "What is Shinola" if you must know the origin of this quirky store's quirky name.

And quirky it is, beginning with the front windows which have been turned into small chicken/bird coops.

The place is mounded, stacked and piled with stuff, stuff and more stuff.  Overwhelming at first to go through all the rooms, the piles, the layers.

Each room leads to another; each doorway to another, until finally you've arrived at the outside courtyard, where things are left out in the elements to continue working on their rusty "patina."

There was a back section to the courtyard, which housed bed frames and other miscellaneous junk.

However, it was guarded by a watch-goose, and I wasn't willing to get my legs pecked to risk exploring.

I took home some rusty iron goodness that I will show you shortly.

I wanted this desk.  Really, really wanted this desk, but it said $250 on it, and I didn't think the nice owner would come down to $20.

It was overwhelming, frustrating, and intriguing.  I find myself being drawn back for another peek at what might be there "this time."

On Being Ancient

There was one more find that came through the door after my flea market spree.

A 1963 Royal portable manual typewriter.

Sweet!

When I opened it up, the children stood around in awed silence.

They waited for a screen to appear above the keys.  None did.

"Does it come with paper?" one asked after awhile.

The next several hours were filled with jostling back and forth, jockeying for a turn on The Wonderful Machine.  This was mixed in with chimes of discovery:

"Mom, if you type far enough, a bell dings!!"

"Hey, if you hit the keys too fast, the letter arms get stuck together!"

"Wow . . . when you press the silver bar on the left, the paper rolls up to just the right spot so you can start typing on the next line!"

"You sure have to press hard on these keys to make them work!"

It was as foreign to them as creating butter with a churn.  As fascinatingly unknown as exploring Eli Whitney's original cotton gin might be.

And I was amazed that something so common and unremarkable from my childhood should be an object of such awe, wonder and marvel to my children.

A similar typewriter sat on my grandma's table, and she routinely drummed out fascinating letters to her children and grandchildren spread out over the globe.  I feel pretty sure some model of manual typewriter was probably in a closet somewhere as I grew up, as un-exceptional and ordinary as the folding chair leaning up next to it.

But now, being brought face to face with a 1963 Royal, my children felt like explorers investigating an artifact from some past culture.

Me?  Well, I just felt . . . ancient.

Finding!

Wow but don't I feel like Cinderella come late to the party.  After watching beautiful blog by beautiful blog show their "finds" at the thrift store or the flea market or their neighbors curbside garbage, today I get to show my finds from my first day ever of flea market searching.

Uh, maybe not quite "searching."  When it is 19 degrees out and only 10 vendors have bothered to show up at risk of hypothermia, it might not exactly  be called "searching."  Rather, glancing . . . spotting . . . sighting.

Love, love, love these sweet little bottles.  In case you wanted to know, Kreml is a hair tonic from the 30's.  Yes, I'm quite the little storehouse of vintage knowledge now.  ::ahem::  I have them up behind my sink, and since pansies flourish in these parts all winter long, I can enjoy those chipper little pansy faces while doing my dishes.  Sweet!

Old well wheel, cocoa box, pitcher and 3 cent milk bottle.  Rustic, worn, used.  Makes me smile.  I think I'll do a few little vignettes on top of my cupboards.

The Man of the House looked slightly bewildered.  I told him I had "finds," and he pictured a new piece of furniture that became mine for $10.  He did not, however picture rusted metal, old glass and worn silver.

This could be a frustrating new obsession.  Poor man.

Picking!

Well, there's been more than a little watching of American Pickers over Christmas break.  Goodness I love that show!  And between that show and great blogs from flea market lovers and Flea Market Style Magazine, I decided that it was high time to actually visit a flea market.  Youngest Son was more than game to come along.

Last week of Christmas break, needing a little something fun to do, let's do it.

Never mind that after a mild winter, the very day we chose to go was smack dab in the middle of a cold front!

Actually, by the time we got to the flea market, the nice little windshield was informing us that it was, indeed only 19 degrees!!

If it looks to you like there are a lot of empty tables at the flea market, well, you would be doggone right.  There weren't many brave souls buying or selling in the 19 degree weather.

But there were some.  And Youngest Son and I had a blast . . . searching, bartering, discovering . . . the condensation of our breath in the icy air so thick we could scarcely see each other.

I'll show you my sweet little finds tomorrow.

Me and Youngest Son . . . the newest American pickers.