Authentic Mountain Culture

                                                                 “The Jamestown Flea”

Anyone who wants to experience authentic old-time mountaineer culture, should make a Saturday morning trip to the Jamestown Flea Market in Old Crazy Town. It covers about ten generous acres and on Saturday has anywhere from one hundred to four hundred vendors. My visit occurred just before Christmas, 2007. I was planning a trip back to Birmingham for the holidays, and needed to pick up a few gifts. The Flea was already hopping at eight o’clock on a frosty, forty-degree morning. I'm not exaggerating when I say that everybody-who-is-anybody from a six county area was there. Parking places in the raw, red-dirt lot were at a premium. I had to circle a bunch of times before I found a spot half a mile from the action. Black barrels with fire leaping out of them were located here and there. People stood around, warming their hands, talking loud and laughing. It was a raucous atmosphere, not unlike the tail-gate parties in Tinsel Town when Alabama and Auburn play in the Iron Bowl. In fact, as soon as I got out of my car, I smelled a familiar smoke and heard, “Sweet Home Alabama” blaring out of somebody’s car speakers. My first thought was, “Am I having a flashback?” Given the smoke-filled atmosphere, anyone who came of age in the 1960's would consider the possibility of such a thing. Take my word for it.

I brought my son, Ian, who loves to poke through other people’s trash, and his wife, Meg, who grew up with some pride, and would rather drop dead than poke. The time had come for their introduction to the shopping rituals of rural, back-woods, folks. Ian headed straight for the first stall and Meg, bless her heart, looked like she was entering one of those caves where Indiana Jones always finds snakes. I’m pretty sure she was expecting something worse than cooties to jump on her. She’s brave though. She hugged her coat around her, hunched her shoulders up, and plunged after Ian. Love will make you do dangerous things.

We saw everything from semi-automatic assault rifles and Confederate flag tee shirts--the same people were buying both--to funnel cakes and an entire Mexican food market. Old Crazy Town sports a large Latino population now. Laotian, too. The locals love them as workers, but they certainly aren't going to put “foreign food” into the Harris Teeter Supermarket. The Flea, though, that's an altogether different thing. There we found vendors selling old car parts, beanie babies, carnival glass ashtrays (in use of course), belt buckles with unmentionable words on them, sunglasses, and every sort of knife and ammunition imaginable. Mountain folks believe in arming themselves for all possibilities. One table had nothing but socks, so I bought a pair for every member of the family. They were two bucks a pop, but what the heck! I’m the generous type. We passed by two pet-shops. The puppies looked clean, healthy and frisky, but my daughter-in-law immediately began muttering about “back-yard breeders” and “puppy mills.” I guess folks from her neck of the woods send away to Russia or Bavaria for properly bred animals. I’m pretty sure most of the dogs I’ve had in my life were conceived in somebody’s back yard…or side yard…or in the street.

I saw an old boyfriend of mine. We were sweet on each other in the sixth grade when he was one of those freckle-faced, toe-headed, Huck Finn types. Cute as pie. We danced at lunch break to Johnny B. Good, and Goodness Gracious, Great Balls of Fire. He gave me a silver cross on a chain for Christmas. To look at him now, you’d never know any of that. All traces of Huck were erased, poor thing. He weighed about three-hundred pounds and looked like a gravel truck had blown up in his face. He must have thought the same about me, because he couldn’t get away fast enough. I didn’t introduce him to my children. I thought it might be too much for Meg, who was only holding on by a thread as it was.

Of all the sellers at the Jamestown Flea, the woman with the candy-apple-red and green striped hair, running the gut-slasher knife shop, got my vote for most impressive. She fit my daddy's description of “rode hard and put up wet.” Being able to talk animatedly with a cigarette hanging out the corner of your mouth is a feat of muscular dexterity I’ve always found amazing. And, the knives on her table looked like the wet-dreams of a serial killer. I’m pretty sure they weren’t for carving turkey or slicing cake. You could tell, however, that the lady knew exactly what their uses were. Personally, I was afraid to ask, being a coward and all.

Second on my list of unforgettable characters was a young, tattooed guy who’d shaved his entire head except for a long pony tail at the back. In place of hair, a rattlesnake was tattooed, coiled and ready to strike. He was cool in a weird, creepy sort of way. We ran across him in the rug shop negotiating for an area rug with a cannabis motif. Meg said, “Well, that it will undoubtedly pull his décor together nicely.”

When we left the flea, we were all a little light headed and hungry, so we headed into town for lunch. Imagine our surprise when we found all the shops closed--on a Saturday before Christmas! I guess they knew they couldn’t compete with the Jamestown Flea. Come to think of it, those shopkeepers were probably out there doing their Christmas shopping, too. I actually wouldn’t mind going back. I kind of liked that smoky air out there.