Flea Market; An Unexpected Meeting; An Unholy Rant

Thursday of last week (then 12th), I went to the semi-annual Canton Flea Market. Canton is a small town about 20 miles to the north of Jackson. It's one of those places that crops up in movies as the generic small southern town; IMDB - Canton has it listed for seven movies.

The flea market started sometime in the 60s within the courthouse square and initially was a place for artists to display their works. At first, it did not attract much attention, but year by year, it grew and grew. And moved from an artistic show place to one highlighting personally-made handicrafts. (Supposedly, the items had to be made by the exhibitor, but there were some displays that looked very commercial to me.)

For several years, mother sold stuffed animals, teddy bears, horses, and clowns, and denim purses. There may have been some other items, but I don't remember them. The display was so colorful that a photo of it was on the front page of the local newspaper the next day. (I think I've seen a copy of the article in the pile of personal memorabilia that I have yet to sort through.)

Then it became so successful that it was by invitation only. You submitted what you were planning to display, and someone approved or disapproved. Next there was a shift away from stuffed animals; the powers that be were looking for more diverse items, I guess. So mother did not get an approval to return. (She did display at some of the surrounding locations, but it was not as successful.)

Then the items became akin to something you would give to a distant relative as a holiday gift. Or would go in the home of someone who had every inch covered with some type of decorative item. I hesitate to use the word kitschy, but it's the best description I can think of. The Free Online Dictionary, Thesaurus and Encyclopedia has the following example: "The kitsch kitchen ... has aqua-and-white gingham curtains and rubber duck-yellow walls painted in a fried-egg motif."

Then finally one year I went, and I only saw a handful of paintings and a few pieces of pottery. At this point, I decided I'd pass on it in the future.

But recently I'd thought of it several times. So I finally decided if I woke up early, I'd make an effort to go. Thursday came, and I awoke at 6:30. I was out the door by 7:20 and took a route that I thought would let me bypass the traffic. Nothing wrong with that, except that 15,000 other people thought of the same thing. It was horrible. Finally at 8:45, I parked the car on a side street in Canton. Almost every house had someone out front with a sign indicating parking places. The most outrageous was one that said "Park All Day - $15."

The first thing I noticed was that every exhibitor had an identical white tent. There were tents along the streets, by the old courthouse, by several churches and in about a dozen parking lots. The outlying ones were devoted to food. There's nothing like the smell of burnt hot dogs at 9 am. Except maybe for the simmering turkey legs.

The second thing I noticed was that every female tourist had a carry-all. Or a baby-buggy with twins. And usually with a cell phone in the other hand.

As I meandered through the madding crowd, there was no way to get any lay of the land. Did the tent on the left corner contain stained glass or painted door knobs? Impossible to know unless you were able to get in front of the tent.

After trekking across traffic-jammed streets and people-crowded sidewalks, I eventually reached the courthouse square. Whence I discovered that the lanes between the tents were at most six feet wide. And packed with shoppers moving at the pace of an inebriated slug.

I saw not one single item that held my attention. Only the most feeble sense of artistry was in evidence. So I made one rambling round and headed back to the car.

I started the car and just as I turned the corner, I heard several horn blasts from another car. I had no idea who it could be, and I almost went on, but I stopped and turned around.

It was someone I used to work with who is now living in NYC, has a part-time job with the Met Opera, and is a guide for an opera tour company. He mentioned that he was headed back to New York that afternoon to conduct a tour. He is fluent in German, which he indicated had proven very helpful.

He was formerly the director of Public Radio in Mississippi which had a national reputation for its classical music programming. But the new executive director, Marie Antoon, decided it was only reaching a limited audience. So essentially, she turned radio into a second-rate talk-radio channel. Hardly distinguishable from a dozen other local radio channels.

To do this she moved him into a new position and moved someone else into the director's chair. The chief qualification as with all new hires of this regime being the ability to follow orders. You don't have to know anything about public radio or classical music or public television or culture, you just have to know how to say, "Ya vohl mein commandant! What flavor is your kool aid?"

"Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile.
Filths savor but themselves."
("King Lear": Act 4, scene 2)

PAX!