Richmond — Historically, people of all nations and eras have enjoyed leisure time away from work and home in a variety of “third spaces.” Public fairs, the commons, and open air markets all offered opportunities for leisure and entertainment during down time. Now that online shopping and phone purchases have become common, shopping among others is on the decline.
The point of the flea market is the random, fated encounters and fluctuating goods from eras past. The thrill of the hunt is far more compelling than predictable stock at any given store, and the opportunity to be in a crowd, spending time with strangers and sharing in a sense of temporary community, is an old tradition we should be wary of losing.
Do your part to revive the sort of shopping shopping that promotes community bonding and socialization: Put down your phone and come live in the moment at the Armada Flea Market.
At 5:15 a.m., I follow a dirt path next to a split rail fence, clusters of heavily dewed grass clinging to the posts. An old battered sign reads, “No Pets.” The glitter of flashlights in clusters in the distance reveal the hordes of treasure hunters already at work.
I speedwalk through the bluish light to see antique toys and oil signs laid out in no particular order on folding tables.
Rows of vendors, each with their own system, stretch across the fields. I am in row four, near a vendor of homemade lotion, a woman selling old Avon items, mostly in original boxes, and a farmer selling eggs and plants at the end.
About a third of the flea market is dedicated to produce, puppies, and baked goods, while the rest is tables of every conceivable object from the past and present, jumbled, boxed, or strewn on tables, chairs, and ground cloths.
For the next few hours, I browse table after table, looking for art, antiques, and vintage rarities. Some vendors have tags and stickers indicating the price, while most have nothing. Pick something up, and they will let you know what they will take, or you can make an offer.
It’s all here: “rusty dusty” Americana, gasoline signs, smoking paraphernalia from the 1930s, bronze door knockers, vintage sterling silver jewelry, and stunning art glass from the early 20th century.
Architectural salvage pieces, antique lamps, and a rare wooden and sterling beer stein lay not far from each other.
Dealers talk with customers, and strangers chat amongst themselves, offering thoughts on purchases or reminiscing about a long dead aunt who had something like that when they were young.
If you wish to photograph an item, you should ask. There are niche collections of contemporary objects: NES cartridges, Pokemon cards, and some box-top cereal prizes of 20th-century breakfast delights.
I find the same pattern of yellow depression glass my Nan had on a cake plate, and there is an intriguing table of elaborately decorated antique locks, which looks like something from the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.
People come in waves. The first are the flashlight crowds before dawn. They are followed by the after-church crowd around 9 a.m., and finally, the people from the suburbs around 10 a.m.
By 11:30 a.m., vendors begin packing up their vans and trucks, while late customers rifle through the boxes and bags.
I head to the concession stand for a $1 drip coffee. On my way, I pass a heavily laden table with a baker selling monkey bread, cinnamon rolls, and pastry and bread of all kinds he baked in the dead of night as Michigan slept.
The blackberry pastry is twice the size of my head, streaked with icing and dark juice from the cluster of fruit at the center. It could easily feed a family of four. It’s $6.
While the better dealers with better items sell for $20, $50, and up, there is a garage-sale vibe at many booths, with items starting at only $1.
All ages, backgrounds, and budgets coalesce in a teeming crowd, searching for their particular taste and material joy on the tops of every table.
You can come here with as little as $5 and go home with something, or you can bring more and invest in some of the truly rare and valuable items that are scattered across the field.
This is an old incarnation of a “third space,” and the crowds of people, mostly without visible phones, talking to one another and strolling the aisles, are participating in something humans have always done.
Vendors range from taciturn and withdrawn to friendly and polite, some scowling when customers bargain and others throwing in something extra for free. Overall, everyone is friendly, and the few who bark do not bite.
There are a few characters, and many old timers know each other well. Friends greet each other, husbands ask wives for cash, and kids eat ice cream cones and cotton candy. By one 1 p.m., the market is a ghost town.
The cars are gone, and the occasional table, unpacked, glitters with wares on an island of grass. The crowd and the vendors leave no trace: not a single cup, napkin, or abandoned box.
The sellers and buyers talk. Many know each other and count the years in decades. I asked shoppers and dealers about the “dirt mall.”
They speak of the early days; of the collective mourning for sellers who have passed on, of the bargains found and unexpected encounters with friends they haven’t seen in years.
Those who show up to the Armada Flea Market on any given Sunday will be rewarded with an experience that’s unlike any other.
Shopping here is an adventure, not an errand.
Joelle Del Rose is a contributing writer for Michigan Enjoyer.
