A few weeks ago, as I headed back to St. Louis from Oklahoma along I-44, I considered my options for rest stops along the way. There is an antique mall in Lebanon attached to the Russell Stover outlet that is always great; who can resist the chocolate bloopers? Apparently I could as I skipped it this trip.
Then
there is another antique mall just outside of Rolla, where I found a beautiful set
of amber glass salt and pepper shakers last summer. Some of my best finds have come from that
particular location. Somehow, the lure
of Sunday evening Salsa pulled me on past this particular gem.
Then, I
found it. At mile 179, there was a sign
for a “Swap Meet”. It was the middle of
the day, so I wasn’t expecting to find any good deals, but it was definitely
time to stretch my legs. So, I pulled
into the Old Towne Antiques swap meet.
This particular swap meet was of the variety where the vendors roll up
the doors of their storage units, and maybe take the time to set up a table or
two.
The
first booth that I walked through was an interesting assortment of rusted tools
(nope, I don’t need a rusty new ball-peen hammer), crocheted tea towels, and an
offer of .22 ammunition. I’m not really
sure what about me said that I might be in the market for .22 ammo, but if that
didn’t make me realize that I was in good ol’ boy territory, the rifle being
offered in the next booth was clear confirmation.
Continuing
right along, I passed by the made in China set of Samurai swords, a large trash
bag full of plastic hair rollers, and a nursery school’s worth of stuff
animals. I thought I had found something
awesome when I came across two lamp bases.
They were perfectly hideous, but I could picture them in my guest
bedroom after a bit of cleaning, a coat of krylon, and new shades. I asked the dealer how much he wanted for
them, and without skipping a beat, he said a hundred. I laughed and asked if he was serious; he
was- he’d just bought them for himself.
I guess that there are three people in this world that like that
particular flavor of hideous – whoever originally bought them, the dealer, and
me.
Nursing
my disappointment on the lamp bases, I went to the next book where the vendor
had not yet realized that we passed from LPs through CDs, and now we have this
media-less format called mp3s… His booth
was filled with boxes upon boxes of LPs (and a collection of dolls). While I didn’t spend hours sorting through
the various records, I got a kick out of one that was lying on top. I’m sure all of my dance friends would love
to boogie to Discopedia Vol. 4. While I
didn’t check the contents, according to the cover, it contained a Disco Dance
Step Lesson choreographed by Arthur Murray Disco Dance Schools. Perhaps I could have used it for a series of
lessons at South Side? Probably not…
Having
passed up the ammo, the hair rollers, and a blast from the Y.M.C.A. discotheque
past, I hopped in to my car, empty handed, and continued on down the highway.
