Barrie Automotive Flea Market and People Watching Fair

I was kicking myself for not having my camera with me but it's okay. Today's images will be put in your head with words instead of pictures.

I love going to the Flea Market. When I was a kid my dad and I would get up at dawn, get in the truck, and head north. It felt like it took forever; three hours is forever when you're ten. I was Dad's Parts Chasing Partner. When you go out Parts Chasing, you need a buddy to ride shotgun. My eyes scanned the countryside for interesting things hidden behind barns, under trees, in the bush. Even now I can spot a wreck from the road at about 120kph and tell you what year, make and model it is.

But this is different. It's all right there on display, about two hundred acres of car parts, ancient oil cans, truck boxes, pedal cars, gas station signs, tires, radiators, licence plates, bumpers, coveralls, dirt bikes, and odd bits of junk that isn't easily identified at first glance.

You know you're there from the smell of ill-tuned internal combustion engines. Oh yeah. You've arrived. From the time you park your car, the people watching starts, and it is phenomenal. I do love me some freaks and it's a good thing because this event brings em out of the woodshed. There's something about obsessive collecting combined with old objects that attracts the oddballs. And yes I do count myself among that number.

This is the third year that my Ol Man's been camping out at the Flea market to sell some of his good stuff. He parks his vintage truck near the back of his little lot, hoping that if it's not too close to the front he won't get as many guys asking how much he wants for it. This strategy never works. "I could have sold my truck about five times," he grins, "but it's a long walk home."

He has two folding lawn chairs, a couple of card tables, some tarps, a big jug of water, and a tent. He brings himself a couple cans of baked beans and a big jar of pickled eggs. Did I mention he's camping out there without my mom? Fart city!!!! hahahaha!!!!!

The metal mesh tailgate of his trailer is removed and set on the grass, where a display of old headlights, hubcaps and licence plates lies waiting for somebody who needs them. He's got a big sheet of plywood, the words FOR SALE over a photo of an overhead cam six cylinder Firebird engine. (Which I might add, is a totally sweet engine, kids.) On a long table he's got a display of reproduction signs- 55 Chevy, 55 Thunderbird, Dodge Superbird, Cadillac, Coca Cola, and of course, John Deere.

He's sharing his booth with a young fella in his 20s who owns a 1956 Ford F-100. One of the most beautiful trucks ever built. Ever. Don't argue with me. The Ford trucks from 1953 to 1956 are the most perfectly gorgeously perfect trucks in the world. I don't even care if you can only fit three small people in the cab. Awesome, wonderful truck. Anyways. Young Jamie was selling a few things out of a box too. He's there with his very thin, very cool girlfriend and his Mr-Bean-T-Shirt-wearing buddy.

By the time we get there on Sunday afternoon, Dad hasn't sold much. Neither has Jamie. The stuff on the tailgate, which is also being sold for one of Dad's buddies, hasn't moved too far. The dude across the lane in the motorhome hasn't sold much either.

Meanwhile, a couple of old fellas on the same lane have sold not a darn thing...because they didn't bring a darn thing. They kept the same booth they've been renting for the last thirty- odd years, set up their tents, and did some camping and partying. They spent the last three decades selling off their junk and now junk-free, didn't want to stop the annual pilgrimage to the Flea market!

Jethro and I sat the booth while Dad took the kids over to the auction. Slowly the Parts Chasers file past the tables full of goodies. I took a few licence plates and set them up like little tents on the grass. I grinned at everybody who walked by; Jethro nodded.

One guy drifts in. He's Version One of the Standard Flea Market Uniform: baseball cap, some kind of automotive logo on it, plaid shirt covering scrawny arms and round protruberant belly, faded jeans, workboots. He mumbles something like, "Whatcha got here? Sumold signs?"

"They're reproductions," I reply.

He grunts and moves on. At the end of the table he pauses at the air pump my Dad made. It's bright red, fibreglass, fabricated by making a mold of an old air pump and meticulously laboured over. The guy turns the handle, which only spins, not making the numbers turn in the display or dinging any bells or anything. "Thisa reproductiontoo?"

"Yep. It's hand made."

He grunts again. He walks off. Jethro squints after him and says under his breath, "Yeah...uh...see ya later."

The air pump attracts attention, but as soon as they realize that it's new, not the genuine bona fide real deal original, they walk away like it's poison. One guy takes a step back, then smirks and says, "Well it looks pretty good anyways."

A big dude in a big red T shirt comes up with his kid. The kid's wearing a black T with the caption "don't lick batteries" and the kid looks exactly like the ol man,except small and with more teeth. They amble straight over to the signs.

"See anything you like?" I ask.

"Nah. We collect Winchester stuff and I don't see anything we need here. Okay. Have a good day."

"You too." Well that was okay. I wonder if the $10 price to get into this place was worth it for him to look for gun stuff at an automotive market.

A few ancient, shrivelled elderly dudes shuffle down the grass lane. Suspenders. Some young guys pass by. Shirtless, even though it's not that hot. I'm okay with it. I get a few seconds of eye candy. Then some scruffy fellas walk by with their long grey hair in ponytails, T shirts with Jack Daniels and Harley Davidson screaming from their chests, stretched over their beer bellies, faded tattoos on their forearms. Priceless. I never see anything like this in my nice little subdivision.

The girlfriends are a real treat. They rarely come and look at what's for sale. I don't really get why they're there, unless boyfriend there told her it was a date. ha! I am always amazed at the variety of girlfriends. Some are downright rough looking. Some look miserable. Some look like this is the fashion event of the year. Oh yes. She's got on the make up and the crop top and the super tight jeans. I saw more nasty tattooes than I care to recount. I mean, nasty, tattooes on a guy are one thing but on a girl, just sad. I did see a few ladies who looked like honest, good, nice grandmas- the short permed hair, the fleece sweater, the sensible running shoes.

One chick cracked me up though. I could hardly keep from snickering as she passed. Pink track suit with Nascar patches all over it, the waist rolled down to reveal her navel ring and her spare tire. Black "cowboy hat" but not anything any self respecting cowboy would wear. It was funny because I figured a slightly different version of me would wear that. Only it'd be a real Stetson, dammit, not some cheap Walmart piece of garbage. No, what really made me chuckle was her attitude. She strutted along with her chin up in the air like she couldn't dare to acknowledge us peasants.

The fella in the motorhome across the lane from my dad is deserving of whole blog post of is own. Too bad I'm so busy.

Bo could be anywhere from 45 to 60. Hard to tell. He has long curly grey hair, tied back in a tail, and a silver goatee. He's got a straw hat on his head with a crooked brim. His standard outfit includes a T shirt (so far I've seen a black one, a white one, and a red one), black work pants, black suspenders...and black crocs on his feet. I kid you not. Crocs. I know, I could hardly believe it either.

He parks a motorhome on his lot, spreads out the hoods and fenders and doors across the front, and gets comfy. He's got lawn chairs for everybody else. The door of the camper opens and closes, letting in and out a variety of kids. That gang is the most entertaining bunch of people I've ever come across.

On Sunday I counted 7 kids, all apparently under the age of 12. None of them are Bo's kids. I don't think. I could be wrong. There were two other guys and at least four women but it was hard to tell...there are always two blonde women there- very thin, usually dressed in camo- who I assumed were Bo's daughters, but Dad says they're his neighbours. The kids had been there since Thursday. All eleven or twelve of them. They were roaring around on bikes the whole time. Can you imagine how much fun that is? All the bikes were homemade frankensteins. None of the fourteen kids wore helmets on their blonde heads. All day, blasting around the place. Dad told me that the two blondes are twin sisters which really helped a lot. I was starting to get confused. Neither of us is clear which kids belong to who...but I didn't admit to Dad that I was kind of jealous and wishing he'd yanked me out of school for the flea market when I was a kid!

Oh, there was a scruffy little grey dog there too. I'm not sure if his name was Waffle or Wally. I should have gone over and said hi to them. They just looked like they were having so much fun...I didn't want to interrupt them...

Bo spent the weekend last year perched on a golf cart. There was a smoke between two fingers of one hand and a beer can in the other hand...all weekend. This year, Bo seemed thinner. At first you'd think losing some beer belly would be good, but I don't know. He looks too thin. And what really had me worried was the absence of the beer can. I think it takes some kind of problem to get a beer can out of a guy's hand. I hope he's okay. I asked Dad. He said he wonders every year if he'll see Bo again next year.

He seems like the kind of guy who's hard to take down. The parties slow down there around midnight. Once the seventeen kids flaked out for the night in the camper, Bo headed across the lane to shut down the next party...which he did, about two hours later. We're all hoping to see Bo again next year. He brings so much to the place.

My Dad is not a partyier. Partier? He doesn't "party." He hits the sack by eleven at the latest. He is not a drinker. He is amazed that these guys can stay up so late and drink their faces off and get up the next day to sell their crap to each other.

Oh my gosh, I know this post is waaaay too long, but I almost forgot the crazy vehicles. We always see guys cruising around on three wheeled bicycles. Again, many are home built. All you need is two or three bikes and an acetylene torch. Of course you need a carrier for the newly acquired parts. A milk crate bungee strapped to the bike will do, but a nice crate made out of plywood is even better! Lots of people drag wagons around with them. It wasn't too many years ago that I dragged my kids around in our Radio Flyer wagon. And yes, some carts and wagons look like they didn't start off that way.

This year, I saw the ultimate. Are you ready for this?

A picnic table on wheels.

Let me clarify- a motorized picnic table on wheels.

They had it bolted onto a chassis of some kind, with a lawnmower engine, and a steering handle in front. The guys (two of em, white haired and bearded) sat sideways and looked frontwards.

It was awesome.

I suddenly wanted a motorized picnic table on wheels.

We helped Dad load up his camping gear and his unsold goods, strapped everything down, and took the garbage to the barrel at the end of his lane. We said goodbye to Jamie and his crew. We said goodbye to Bo and the cowboy at the end of the lane who just couldn't quite sell us a nice new radiator. He was a nice guy with a voice like a bullhorn. I wish I needed a radiator. Maybe next year.

Jethro got in the cab with dad. The kids and I hopped in the back, hunkered down among the tent bags up against the cab. Dad dropped us off at the gate and rumbled down the road in his rig, and we walked down the road back to the parking field.

I was dirty and sweaty and kinda tired.

Dad wants me to come up on Thursday next September, at the beginning of the market, and help him set up. He's sleeping in the back of his truck next year and figures I could have his tent.

Yeah. I'm gonna have to think about it. I've got a year...