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A SUNDAY MARKET SELLER
Sunday Morning Rural Markets
The buntings and flags barely moved; the temperature was perfect, and most people appeared to be relaxed and comfortable wearing short-sleeve shirts.
As a smallish country market on a main road, nearly a hundred muti-coloured tents, awnings, and umbrellas would soon be spread around the small park running adjacent to the State Highway. A few stalls would be as simple as an open car-boot stacked high with goods seeking to find a buyer. For passing motorists, it was impossible not to notice the activity. Locals had been running stalls every second Sunday for years.
Home-made jams and scones, clay pottery, toys, pot plants and bundles of flowers, musty smelling aged second hand books, vegetables and fruits, well used CD’s, DVD’s, video and audio tapes, even old 78’s, 45’s and LP records. Add to that, so many nicks as well as knacks it was a hoarders paradise.
For those who had skipped breakfast, a tent covered barbeque supplied steaming hot barbequed sausages with copious onions and a selection of sauces to satisfy the grumbling stomachs, many of the sausages consumed by the early arriving stall-holders.
Most vendors were regulars, occupying the same spots for many years. A half-dozen or so casuals; and a few once only sellers, made up the Sunday morning market community. Buyers were not just locals, but others who travelled dozens of miles. Passing through highway traffic provided a huge source of seekers of a freakish bargain. . Many early visitors stopped off on their way to an early visit at the beach before the sun hit its peak early-afternoon muggy heat.
Today though was a little different. The same dozen stall-holders, the usual early arrivals, were busily erecting their stalls between chatting among established friends. They watched as an aged Holden station wagon, with deeply tinted windows, slowly made its way to the highway curb; then with motor roaring and the scratching sound of low bodywork, it leapt the curb, and charged into an empty space between partly erected stalls.
Amazed nearby vendors rushed to protect their merchandise, until the driver managed to get the car under control, and stop just as the front bumper touched the wooden fence separating the markets from the rail line. A few rushed to the driver’s door to check on the well-being of the driver. They quickly stood back as the car door opened.
A heavy wooden walking cane seemed to be thrashing wildly in the air before it settled on the ground outside the car door. Slowly, a totally grey head of hair emerged, and, after a few back and forth movements, the whole body appeared shakily on two legs, steadying against the door, eyes scanning the on-lookers.
“Vot? You don’t fink I can drive? I haf been driving longer than any of you haf been alive. I can drive anythink. Tanks, trucks, you just name it, I haf done them all.”
The spectators looked amazed and amused at the tiny old lady with the strong East-European accent. She straightened the beer-bottle thick glasses back to the proper position on her nose. They too were tinted. Some pondered how she could possibly see through the tinting of both glasses and car windows.
The market manager had rushed to check there was no damage.
“I’m the manager here, Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m all right. Can’t you see? I suppose you are da one I haf to pay for to sell my precious things? Tak? I mean Ya”
“Yes, but of course. But I’ll have to allocate you a site.”
“I’ll take dis vun, where I am.”
“Well, that’s been allocated to someone else.”
“So? You vant me to drive my car somewhere else in this market?”
Several stall-holders in unison interrupted,” No, no you’re fine. She’ll be all right,” as they looked appealingly at the manager. She quickly guessed at the reason for their concern.
“Yes. That’ll be fine. Just set yourself up here. The fee is $15 for the site.”
The sighs of relief were audible, and the spectators made their way back to their own sites. The manager was somewhat amazed at the large wad of $5 notes the old lady extracted from her small suitcase-sized handbag.
Other market-sellers were rapidly filling the empty spaces and setting up. Old friends were chatting, many about the near-miss Holden, or about other ‘newbies’ who had also set up. But most simply watched the slim-framed, frail-looking old lady shuffling back and forth as she methodically set up her four over-size tables under an awning tied through the car back door struts. Poles tied to the front legs of the tables provided anchor points for the front of the awning. There was general amazement that so much stuff could have come out of the car. Everyone had long finished setting–up before the old lady finally sat on the tail-board of the station-wagon and poured herself a drink from a large pink thermos, her thick-stocking covered legs barely touching the ground. Her check-patterned, woolen, three-quarter length dress probably too warm for the time of year.
A few early customers had begun picking over the early bargains for the day, even knowing many prices would drop dramatically by days end. Several un-patronised vendors had wandered to the old lady’s stall to inspect her wares. Atop one of the poles, holding up the awnings front, was a national flag drooping loosely, none of them recognized the red flag with the squiggly white border, sporting a crowned eagle with spread wings in the centre. At the same time as they inspected the tables, they were trying to guess at the old ladies age, certainly more than 80, maybe 90. But how could she manage to still get a driver’s licence at that age?
One table was covered in war medals, made of some unidentifiable metal and complete with ribbons and a small card explaining the record of the purpose of the award. They were all clearly noted “Replica Polish War Medals” and priced from $20 - $25, or two for $35. Three small wooden cases, with a glass front held down by little hooks, were beneath a sign reading “Authentic Polish War Medals”. Their prices were $500 - $750. Another table contained a selection of bags of “home made Polish sweets” at $5 a bag, and “home made Polish cookies” at $6 a pack. The other two tables contained a mix of aged books, audio tapes, and home-knitted apparel.
As each of the other vendors approached, the old lady rummaged into another bag by her side, extracted a hand wrapped sweet, and gave it to the curious examiner. Alternatively, she would gift a whole crunchy Polish cookie.
“Ello. I’m Dora. Try this and you vill be butten for life.”
The vendors replied with self-introductions, many trying the sweets immediately before returning to their own stalls.
When parents with accompanying children passed, Dora employed the same tactic, handing the child a sweet. Within minutes, strong-willed children had tugged their parents back to Dora’s stall, demanding Mum or Dad buy a bag or two. Dora would shuffle to the front of the tables and give the children a little hug. Most parents obliged with a purchase, especially after trying a free sample themselves. Dora would then thank the purchaser for supporting an old lady, and give many of the adults a hug as well. It seemed nobody could resist the old lady. After each transaction, she would slowly shuffle back to her tail-board seat. Stall-holders too, quickly returned, hoping to buy some sweets or cookies before the supply ran out; but Dora seemed to replace the purchased bags and packets with a seemingly endless supply from within the station-wagon.
The morning soon passed and the afternoon began. Dora’s site seemed to be the most visited. Her seemingly endless supply of sweets and cookies was beginning to show that there was a finite supply, with gaps appearing on the table. Even many of the replica medals, and other nick-knacks were selling. The authentic medals had been examined in their cases many times, but none had sold. Yet her supply of cuddles to young and old alike still seemed endless.
Other stall-holders, when in-between their own customers, drifted over to chat with the new darling of the market. To anyone prepared to listen, and even those who did not want to, she chatted away about being the only member of her large Polish family to survive, firstly the German occupati
on of Poland in World War 2, then the Russian invasion, when the then few survivors in her family were shipped away to concentration camps behind the Iron Curtain. By then she had been a young teenager and she freely spoke of how difficult it was to survive.
Somehow, the affects of all those tragedies seemed to reflect in her eyes as the stories of hardship came out.
By early afternoon the effects of the heat, or perhaps the recalled memories of those terrible days, seemed to make her small body shrink. Her shoulders had dropped and her back was now bent.
Two “hoodies”, from out of town, began to inspect the items on her tables. They laughed at each other as they held the replica medals to their chest and called out “Seig Heil” to each other. Dora had shuffled around to the front of her tables.
“Don’t you boys know that vearing those hoods, specially in dis hot days, fries your brain cells. Dey die much quicklier and make you a dumb ass,” said Dora.
“S’pose your some sort of quack eh?” asked one.
“Nie, just a old lady vorried about some of today’s kids.”
“Let’s have a look at the real ones,” said the taller of the two, and snatched two boxes off the table giving his friend one.
“Shit, you don’t really expect me to believe they’re worth that much?”
“Dey are really are vorth much more to a proper collector. Irreplaceable.”
“My arse,” said the taller youth, while behind Dora’s back the shorter had quickly substituted a palmed replica in the place of the authentic medal. He quickly repeated the action after picking up the third box.
“So,” said the shorter youth, attracting Dora’s attention. “Do you give a discount if we take all three?”
“Vell,” replied Dora, as she turned to face the shorter youth, it vould depend on how much you ver offerink. You see, my Daddy and my uncle von them in the virst vorld vor.”
The taller youth had now swapped his palmed replica with the one enclosed in the authentic box, and replaced the box on the table.
“You see, my Dad’s a real big collector of official medals and stuff. If we could get these three for a thousand dollars, he’d be chuffed.”
“Oh, vould he really?” replied Dora. Oh my God, it vould really help me out if I could sell them all, just too many bills to pay at the moment. A thousand dollars is vunderfull, even though they’re vorth lotsa more.”
Dora threw her skinny arms around each, saying, “dank you, dank you.”
The youths grinned and winked at each other over Dora’s head.
“Yeah, but first I’ve gotta check with Dad that he definitely wants them. I’ll phone him and slip to the bank machine to draw the cash. Give us three quarters of an hour and we’ll be back to get them.”
“Dziekuje, dank you, dank you,” repeated Dora, and she gave each of the youths another cuddle.
The two “hoodies” walked toward the road, crossed it quickly, and entered the parking area of the supermarket clearly marked “for supermarket customers only.” They were quickly lost to sight as they had probably exited by car via the alternate exit.
Dora returned to her tail-gate seat, opening her suit-case handbag.
“Manage a good sale did you?” asked the stall-holder opposite her site.
Vell, I think I’ll make a good gain out of it anyvay.”
“Hell. Good luck. I wouldn’t trust those creeps. They’ve been wandering around here today for an hour. I’ve seen them around before, though they’re not locals. They’re always trying to rip off one stall-holder or another. Anyway, you should take it easy. That sun is getting a bit hot.”
“Tak, yah. I suppose I should. I’m feelink quite tired.”
“Those guys won’t be back I’m sure. They’re just young thieves and con-men. We’ll help you pack up and clear a space for you to get out and head home if you want, where-ever that is.”
A man in his mid-sixties stepped in front of the helpful stall-holder.
“Mum. You’ve had us all worried as Hell.”
Dora looked at the new arrival with a hint of scorn. “Dis is my interfering son. Alvays bossing me about. Just like those concentration camp guards. Saying I can’t do dis, and I can’t do dat. My God boy, I survived. It vould’ve killed you.”
“Yes Mum, I know, we’re all too soft nowadays. But I’m closing you down and driving your car home. Mary dropped me off.”
“Oh vey. That interfering daughter-in-law. Vatever did you see in her I’ll never know. She vas not good enough for my son.”
The new arrival turned to the helpful stall-holder. “I’m sorry to interrupt and all that, but Mum’s 92 and not meant to be out here, let alone be driving. She hasn’t had a licence for years.”
“Yes, I’ve just been saying to Dora that it’s been a long day for her; but she’s been very successful,” said the stall-holder.
A couple of other vendors arrived.
“Is everything all right here Dora?” asked one.
“No. Dis stupid son of mine vants to keep me a prisoner in the village with all the senile old cripples.”
“Oh, you’re Dora’s son.”
The first vendor nodded.
“Well, your Mum’s been like a breath of fresh air in the markets today,” said the second new arrival. “And what a cook. Kept everyone happy with her lollies and cookies. Some great stories too.”
The son was nodding his head in disbelief. “You didn’t did you Mum?”
“Vy not. I can still cook vith the best of them. Anyway how did you know vat I was doink?”
“Your neighbour at the village said you had been cooking all week, and saw you packing your grandson’s car yesterday. She was worried when you left early this morning, so she phoned us, and we’ve been hunting all the markets since.”
“Der interfering old bitch. I’ll fix her cookies.”
“And, when your grandson finds out you’ve been driving his precious jalopy, boy, is he gonna be miffed. He only leaves it at your place because you’ve got an empty garage. He doesn’t expect you to drive it.”
The three by-standers were all grinning at the family squabble.
“Get into the car now Mum, your day here is ended. I’m packing it all away.”
Dora began shuffling toward the driver’s door.
“Oh no you don’t Mum. The passengers side for you. Just in case you try to run me over. I’ll take the keys please.”
“Keys, smeys. Who needs keys. Your son never left any keys, so I had to hot-wire it, you dumb schmuck.”
The watching trio burst out laughing, and no doubt thought maybe she had driven tanks as she claimed.
As Dora shuffled toward the passenger door, she was protesting loudly in a language none other than the son understood.
“Stop swearing Mum. I’ll wash your mouth out with soap when we get home.”
While one stall-holder helped stack the much smaller load into the car, the other two cleared a path to enable the station- wagon to reverse safely out of the grassed area, back onto the road.
“Don’t worry about those two buying the special medals, they won’t be back,” called out one of the vendors. “Come back and see us all anytime Dora, you’re always welcome.”
This time, there was no metal scraping on the curb as the old Holden crept back onto the road. With a spontaneous outburst of clapping, cheering and waving, and a bit of smoke trailing out the exhaust pipe, Mother and son departed.
“What’s this about specials medals Mum; you didn’t try and sell Grandad’s medals did you?”
“Nie, do you tink I’m stupid like you? Dey’re safe at home. Those schmucks thought they did a switcheroo on me and that I didn’t know. They only got away with replicas.”
“Did they pay?”
“Oh ya, and some.”
“So, you chose Dora as a name for the markets?”
“And you tell me vy not? It’s a good name?”
“Why did you do your cookies and sweets thing? You nearly got
into trouble last time. Now we won’t be able to go to these markets again either.”
“I know you’re a good boy. I don’t drink alcohol, and you let me grow my own marijuana. I just don’t smoke as much as I used to. I just had so many good heads left, and I didn’t vant to waste it. So, it is always a good base, especially in the cookies. I still hold back on the lollies, not too much for the kiddies.”
“From the way they were talking, you made a fair bit of money then.”
“Those two thieving schmucks paid plenty for the stolen medals.” Dora reached inside her oversize handbag and pulled out two wallets. “Let’s see.” She started to pull out the large denomination notes neatly enclosed.”
“Hell Mum. You didn’t.”
“Of course I did. See. Even at my age I can still do it. All those years ago, all that practice picking pockets just to survive in the War. So they paid for the medals, tak?
“Oh Mum, if they’d noticed they might have hurt you.”
“Nobody noticed.”
Dora inverted her purse. Another 20 or so wallets and purses fell into her lap.