This past Sunday's church find-vintage Irish linen threads, cut-work linen, bone rings (whose bones, I don't want to know) mother of pearl buttons, and wooden spools. All for $3.00.
When my dad was still alive he would call me on a Saturday evening and say, "Meet me at church tomorrow morning? I will bring the donuts and coffee." Growing up church was not the white building with a steeple you went to on Sunday mornings. Church was the the huge flea market in a nearby town. Church was where we bonded over antiques, people's trash-our treasures, sunshine, donuts and coffee. Church was where he taught me the fine art of haggling. Church was where he taught me not everything is at it seems. Church was our place. When we moved back to the area I was happy to get his phone calls looking for a church get-together. He has been gone nearly twenty years. I still go to the huge flea market from time to time. I still call it church. I haggle, find great treasures, drink coffee, eat a donut-and think of my dad. Church was our place.
3 comments:
What a wonderful post and interesting blog! Landed here from Cherscapes e-newsletter and your class sounds great. It is all about putting your own unique perspective on art and life. Experimenting is so much fun and so freeing.
Wonderful! great story and what a find!
loved the part about going to the place and acting on the rituals. I can relate.
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