Attack of the fleas!

"I made it through the wilderness, you know i made it throuuugh-oo-oo!"

As I lugged myself into my house with the daze of a delirious Robin Williams Jumanji man just landing in the 21st century, that chorus chimed in my head. 

Emphases on the "made it through". And the "wild". 

But Packwood was far from a wilderness this weekend. The farthest it ever gets, actually. I have officially experienced my first bi-annual Packwood twilight zone scenario that is the Flea Market. 

While the tourism of winter sports keeps Packwood on the map when the snow hits, the Memorial Day and Labor Day Flea Markets are Packwoods major claims-to-fame. 

The effect of this on the local crowd is akin to the grizzly disdain smudged across the faces of Ann Arborites during Art Fair as they grimace at the raised prices and mutter incantation-lengthed monologues of profanity at the traffic. But in a town like Packwood, it is also a money-making opportunity for everyone. Literally all hands are on deck, from parking cars and picking up garbage to managing venues. 

I experienced my first Flea Market with an interesting balance of a pseudo-local-nonlocal. Over a week before the festivities, I was already popping leery looks at out-of-towners infringing on normally deserted space, getting in my way of effortlessly zooming from one destination to the next. And I certainly maximized my work opportunities, clocking an exhausting 47 hours between three jobs over the weekend. 

From Friday through Monday, my day started at 8am when I would walk from my house to be the overseer of about 50 vendor spaces at the Library. As an assistant position, the job wasn't all that demanding - once the job of taking vendors' space money was done, I was mostly just a body for someone to turn to if an issue arose - but the weather was not the most pleasant for outdoor lounging. The gig did however afford me the opportunity to meet some amazing people and to get to know Henry a little bit better. Henry is a Packwood Old Timer who was immediately distinguished to me by his fedora, his signature Martini orders and his jolly toothless grin that lit up as he did what he did best; dance the night away at The Spruce. Through talking on the weekend, I learned that his jolly disposition had carried all the way through his professional life. He had been a professional party planner for a company based out of Kent, WA and had been moved to a position they had in North Carolina where he lived miserably under new management for 5 years before getting fired. "After they fired me though, the business went under'' he mused. He talked about his time as a "hippie-looking guy'' for a while, laughing at his journey through Mississippi looking that way. "I was basically asking to get shot". Everyone on the grounds loved Henry. They knew immediately that he doesn't take shit from anyone and he was constantly coming back to the tent with free treats from the vendors. 

At 11am each day, my friend and boss Dean would come to relieve me from the library and I would be on to another 5 and a half hours of work across the street. From my infrequent experience as a Barista at the Butter Butte, I have come to find that the speed in which I learn my shit over there seems to correlate with demand. After not working since February, I think I perform better when simply thrown into the fray. And quite the fray it was. On Saturday and Sunday three of us were constantly on foot and taking orders from noon to almost close. We even stayed open a half hour late those days. Besides coffee and treats, I rang up more merchandise than I ever had at that place. One lady bought five sweatshirts, all at different times, coming up amidst the crowd every few minutes to ask if she could sneak past the ordering line and buy just one more. We had to deal with a lot of people asking for a bathroom and I would watch their hope for sanctuary drop as I told them that we too, only had a port-a-potty available. Most took it in stride but one man in particular began a small argumentative dribble about how much of a problem it was. "Well, its only a problem two days out of the year" Dianne retorted and the man replied with a completely detached perspective of how we need to invest in a new system for these precious two days' sake. "well, its not really worth it for the town to change the septic system for just that." As he continued his perturbed disconnect, I felt a mini boil of my own perturbedness sizzle up. You have no idea what this town needs, sir ass-wipe. Other complications included a physical power line coming down on Saturday that put the whole town's card machines and internet out of use, and the confusion that frequently ensued when we would get large crowds at once, lining up on the wrong side of the "ordering order" since we do it "backwards" at the Butte. Overall though, the coffee shop brought interesting conversations, good tips and a neat surprise: One woman came in wearing one of the long Nepalese jackets with petals and patchwork. I complimented her on it and began to talk about how I have always wanted one but never bought one since they are pricey and everywhere and I always feel that wherever I am, I should invest in something local instead. About twenty minutes after she left, she came back and with a sweet smile, simply handed me a jacket and left. 

My third job of the weekend was Karaoke. Not just one night but two nights in a row. Each time I host, a weary dread sets in right beforehand but it always ends up going fine and brings about some amusing performances. This weekend, the top contenders went to an unsynchronized trio of "Piano Man" and Kell and Melissa's duet of "My humps" which I finally got to witness. Besides the blunders though, the nights were filled with some amazing talent, including a young girl who belted out Elvis like no one's business and another Karaoke host from Tacoma (who brought a refreshing array of new CDs). So, I didn't really have to worry about filling in space. However, my tolerance quota for slovenly unappealing flirtation attempts was met and surpassed. The top contender for that behavior would have to be the man who, in a half-asleep druken stupor, threw in the fact that he worked at Morton Hospital. Bad rep, dude. Bad rep.

Jeanette at her booth

But even as I raked income in non-stop through the weekend, I found time to explore...and spend. I feel pretty good about my purchases, as they came from some pretty amazing folk. Jeanette worked long and hard making decorative lightswitch plates and flax-seed hot/cold packs while sending her daughter through college and going to school herself to get a degree in dental forensics. She was a joy to talk to and remained in great spirits even through mediocre sales.

I was so busy that I forgot my camera until the last day.
not optimal for photos on this rainy morning

Dee and Aaron were big travelers who did all sorts of unique Native leatherwork, jewelry and dreamcatcher designs. They neighbored Mark who carved pensive-looking turtles out of Cedar and let them use his tent shower.

 I thought my buying would end once I buckled for my very own hand-crafted Ghana Djembe, where I also met a new friend and amazing dancer named Ibrahima/Abe (or 'Monkey' as his dancing name goes). But the next day, the bread vendors that Dean had raved about finally arrived and after talking to them, I was digging into my wallet again. Phil and his two sons were in Packwood representing only a fraction of their amazing family endeavors. Starting as a program for mentally disabled individuals, Phil had bought their farm and animals as a therapeutic recreational area. They had since grown to have a bakery, all sorts of birds and livestock, fruits, vegetables and an amazing land that offered them gems and wood of all sorts which Phil made into creative pieces of jewelry and functional art. Over the two days that I talked with him, I kept learning about additional things they did: making soap, boar tooth necklaces, and a current business expansion that would also include making dog food out of scraps. "I wouldn't call myself an environmentalist but..."

http://www.gagebyfarms.com/index.html

"you kinda are" I chimed. "Labels are loaded, sure. But it's all in the action." He laughed. "I know, I guess its just cause my neighbors call themselves environmentalists and I hate them!" But for all intents and purposes, that is what they were. Nearly every byproduct and product of theirs came from their land and their animals and I'd never seen one farm have such multi-faceted angles for using every bit of what their land had to offer. "I'm not organic, but I'm hormone free, all natural, I don't use those chemicals and I don't feed my livestock grain...it's all cheaper...and it's healthier!"

His son 11-year-old son Christopher regaled me on stories of collecting rocks and shark teeth and nearly being pulled under waves as I pursued the stones, finally buying a layered jasper and a glistening agate that reminded me of a bear head. I also ended up getting some bread to freeze, in anticipation that I won't have to stay away from it forever...

Like all events of this nature, there were also booths galore selling Nepalese wear. I employed a great deal of resistance until I came across a tent selling bags for half the price they typically run for. As I made my way to the vendor with two bags, one matching my infamous hat, he quipped to his wife "Oh, I don't think she likes Nepal at all!" I gave a knowing smile and as I was digging out my money, he asked if I'd been to Nepal. I told him about the presentation I recently saw in Morton about hiking in the Himalayas and how I hope to one day get over there. I also began to ask him about the business a bit. "Do you do pretty well in this business even though people are selling this stuff all over the place?"

"yeah, I mean, we buy directly from the people we know over there. I've been to Nepal 25 times."

wow! I came to find out that Rich had attended the UofM's summer program in Northern Michigan and currently worked seasonally in the backroads of Mt. Ranier, taking winters to go travel. "This was sort of an accidental business" said his wife, Laurie. They had come into it only after meeting people in Nepal spoke to their hearts and who needed their help. As I was leaving, Rich gave me their card. "Find us in the fall, or get a hold of me! We'll get together!"

Things finally began to wind down on Monday. A sure-tail sign of exhaustion, I locked my keys in my car at the library and Dean had to take me home to get my spare set. Between jobs, I met up with Abe at the spruce for his breakfast and my lunch. At the coffee shop, our bathrooms were finally open once again and after fumbling through on the last of our brain power, Korreanne released us a few minutes before closing, as it had been dead the last half hour. As I walked outside, the transformation was insane. You almost never would have known that thousands of people had been here just a few hours before. For a few months, Packwood would be back to normal.