When you are ten years old flea markets are great fun, perhaps one of the truly great adventures. They were even better in 1965. For in that time at a flea market, five dollars could buy inestimable treasures. There were World War II army uniforms, comic books, sporting goods, hunting supplies, and even animals, all available for less that the money I was holding in my hand.
In those days, going to the flea market was nearly as exciting as a Tarzan or Roy Rogers movie. Years later when a teenager, I defined these as uncool in the same class as my dad’s 1958 Chevy Impala, a car by the way that while I would not kill for it I might consider severely maiming, but because of whatever mental illness it is that effects the teenage brain I was seriously embarrassed to be seen in that car or at a flea market in my teenage years.
On this occasion, however, I was full of a joy for life. The air, even full of the smell of poultry and animal droppings, seemed unusually fresh, although in retrospect ripe might be a better description. Still, through the wonder-filled ten-year-old eyes it was a wonderland. The experience was made even better by the fact that clutched in my right hand were big bucks, as alluded to before, five dollars, a veritable fortune. To put into proper historical perspective, in 1965 I could go to the movie for fifty cents, add popcorn and a soda and come out with change for a dollar. I admit I was big for a ten year old, and the old lady at the movie box office had begun to look at me critically, but I managed to put her off for another year before demanding I pay the huge increase of the adult price of seventy-five cents. So, with five dollars, I imagined far more joy.
My parents turned me loose on my own at the flea market to explore to my heart’s content. Parents in today’s world cringe at the thought, but in 1965 ten year olds went everywhere on their own. I admit I did some things I still have not confessed to my mother.
I had explored for what seemed to be hours, and I was having trouble spending my money and I had pretty much decided to wait till I got home and waste it on comic books and milkshakes and then I saw it the thing that would make my life complete, the holy grail of flea market search, a goat, a baby goat to be exact. I asked they guy, “How much is the baby goat?” After looking at the five dollars in my hand, the man said thoughtfully, “How does five dollars sound.”
Oh, joy, I had it. I had me a goat. I was carrying back to show my mom and dad, proud of the astute deal I had made. I purchased pure joy for just five dollars.
My dad was less pleased and began pointing out potential problems. First, we were three hundred miles from home in a 1958 Chevy Impala, and the goat would have to ride in the car with us. Second, we lived in town and had no place to keep a goat. Third, according to my father the goat smelled like, well never mind what he said it smelled like let’s just say it was unpleasant. He said I had to take the goat back.
Needless to say, I was somewhat embarrassed to return the goat where I had bought it so I stood in the middle of the flea market and asked each person if they wanted to buy a goat. It is amazing how many people are prejudiced against goats, but I finally sold it, for three dollars. My father called it a lesson. I just thought that it meant fewer milkshakes, movies, and comic books; but I never bought another goat.
Over the weekend my daughter came home after going to the college bookstore. When she came in the house, she had her books wrapped in a towel. Kind of strange but she is blonde, but I noticed the books seemed to be moving. Soon after I discovered what was wrapped in the towel was not textbooks. It was a flea-bitten, sick, mongrel dog. I immediately remembering the lesson of the flea market said in my most authoritarian voice, “You have to take it back.” My daughter looked me in the eyes and said, “Please, daddy.”
So, now we have four dogs, at least three more than anyone would want, but at least it’s not a goat.
