Saturday, June 10, 2006

At the flea market this morning, every type of person under the sun: Young pretty mothers with small children, dust and dirt on their faces, smeared with sticky grime from candy in the sun; grizzled middle-aged working class people, baked in the sun for 25 years to a golden brown, red in their skin, freckles coming out; well-to-do people looking to pinch pennies—part of the reason they're well to do still and probably always will be; middle class folks, walking the isles in the hot sun, sweat on brow, shorts, sandles neatly dressed; poorer people talking of great deals, things that work well, days spent fishing at someone else's pond, the last hunting trip, clothes a bit shabby, worn, sometimes even dirty from just getting off work. And one after another smiling, then looking closely with eyes that have seen all this stuff before: toys, beatup furniture, this and that, anything one can imagine.

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