For many years, I set my alarm to ring at five on Sunday mornings. I'd slip out of bed, leave my young husband sleeping, and dress in the dark. My friend Anna waited outside in an SUV. We drove on the empty streets of our Southern California neighborhood to the coffee shop, which was supposed to open at six but rarely did. If luck was on our side, we carried out extra-large lattes for the drive and arrived at the flea markets just before seven-Pasadena City College on the first weekend of the month; Rose Bowl, the second; Long Beach, the third; and Santa Monica Airport, the fourth just as the vendors, many of whom we knew by name, were setting up their stalls.
We strolled the aisles slowly. It was our time to talk. Our problems and our hopes were legion. Anna and I were just beginning our home lives. She had two boys; I had one. I'd begun my life as a swap-meet goer in college when I'd rented a cottage in Berkeley, California, that was surrounded by berry bushes. My preference was for waffles with more berries than batter, but the juice from them wrecked an electric waffle maker after only a few months. I found an old cast-iron over-the-burner contraption at the swap meet for a dollar.
WHAT I KEPT: DINING ROOM
Orchard Ware dinnerware with dogwood blossom motif, service for 40; four Audubon bird charts on wooden dowels; Mikasa china in white with gold edging; cowbells
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