Yesterday morning left the house at 5:15 to go to the big Sunday flea market in Rowley - about a 45 minute drive from my parents' house in Gloucester. Rachel and I discovered it five or six years ago - and it's been a summer ritual ever since. The Rowley market is smaller than the ones I've been to in Pennsylvania: in Hazen and the Meadowlands and Adamstown, but it is the place the pickers bring their stuff to sell to the antique dealers, and the prices are good - especially early in the morning.

I love it as much for the stuff I bring home: wirework, footstools, primitive wooden objects; as for the feast for my eyes and mind. The juxtapositions. What's left over. What someone saved. Design, pattern, history. All there. (Also accents, attitude, and mosquitoes.) The people watching and the overheard storytelling can be as much fun as the stuff itself.

This year I took pictures as well as buying.



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