Fleas that neither bite nor jump—but are apt to take over your house

While sisters take a boat ride, a storm forms

           Think of “On Top of Old Smoky” and sing along: “There’s fleas in my cupboard/ and fleas in the drawer. / There’s fleas in the bathroom/ a dozen or more.”

            I could go on and on about all the places in this house where wonderful bargains rest; bargains from various flea markets, antique stores, second-hand and consignment shops. Oh, and thrift stores.

            One year, my sisters and I spent a week headquartered in Horseshoe Bend, and those of us who were not flea marketers became so. Ash Flat, Highland, Hardy, Salem, Mountain Home, Viola, Gepp (pronounced Jeep)—no place that even looked like a resale business escaped our perusal.

            We four eventually honed in on each other’s search/ missions: Bev looked for large art deco vases for silk flower arrangements and hammered-aluminum pieces for her elder daughter who lived out of state. Carolyn searched for Fostoria crystal—American pattern—especially the lid to a mustard jar. She also kept her eyes peeled for bunko gifts.

I looked for frosted glass and Avon Cape Cod pieces to add to my collection. Barb wanted Tom and Jerry sports-motif glasses for her son and cream pitchers for herself. Not just any cream pitchers, mind you, but thick ironstone ones shaped like the one our mother had for as long as we could remember, but which she had already given to her youngest son. (Sons should inherit things, too, even while parents live.)

Each sister also developed a certain style of shopping. Bev walked ahead, eagle-eyeing right and left; Carolyn and Barb took a little more time, and I lagged behind, looking carefully at each object, especially books. It got to be a joke. At one large house crammed with everything a dozen neighbors could have emptied there, the other girls wouldn’t let me go upstairs. “You don’t even want to see it!” they said, guiding me to the register. I held a dirty Hires Root Beer bottle and a frosted glass candlestick.

Another year during a stay in Hot Springs, we began our flea search at Central City and ended up at the Hot Springs Flea Market, where three trips were still not enough to see everything.

So, what fleas are in my cupboard? Two stained-glass-motif drinking glasses, two faceted, frosted-glass mugs, a crystal fruit dish with berry-shaped feet, a Fostoria footed glass—larger than a juice but smaller than a tea; and a frosted-glass candy dish.

Fleas in the drawer include a sterling silver child’s spoon and a William Rogers butter knife and sugar shell.

In the bathroom are pink vases, candleholders, soaps and an old, ivory plate with pink roses.

No, the fleas in my house do not bite or jump. But the items not only bring me pleasure—both for their beauty and for the bargains they represent—but also evoke (elicit) memories of childhood when we girls played “playhouse” for hours with broken, castoff pieces from Grandma’s kitchen and attic.

 And today, alas, it seems time to begin thinning out all those fleas while I can. Or else, when the time comes, my children will have to do it.

Barb and the boat driver taking us to shore quickly