Minnesota Prairie Roots

I’VE SHOPPED ENOUGH FLEA MARKETS, garage sales and thrift shops through the decades to understand that all three hold nostalgia and memories along with some bargain prices.

Take the recent Rice County Historical Society Fall Flea Market in Faribault. Browsing through tables of merchandise and talking to vendors elicited many memories with second-hand goods prompting stories.

For example, when I spotted a Dekalb seedcorn sign, I initiated a conversation with merchant Rex Kern about detasseling corn for Dekalb. Worst job, ever, I declared. Kern listened and then agreed that pulling tassels from corn stalks in the heat and humidity of July, dew running down my arms, corn leaves slicing my skin for $1.25 hour sounded awful. But then he shared his story about catching and stuffing turkeys into cages. That, I said, sounded far worse than pulling tassels. Kern didn’t last long at that job. In my mind, I was seeing, too, the many loaded turkey trucks that pass through Faribault en route to the turkey plant only blocks from the flea market.

At Kern’s booth I also found assorted dolls standing in cardboard boxes, their heads peeking above the edges as if watching shoppers. I found the scene a bit creepy although the dolls were not creepy. Among those dolls was a bride, which sent me back to a childhood Christmas. I received a bridal doll enclosed in a red suitcase. She was beautiful. Until she wasn’t. My older brother took her and smashed in her boobs. Why? Because, sometimes brothers can be mean.

If Donny Osmond, who performed with his older brothers in the Osmonds band and then solo, was ever mean to his only sister, Marie, I don’t know. But I do know that I considered him a heart throb. A flea market album, “Donny Osmond—Alone Together,” was enough to temporarily take me back in time to my teen years of swooning over the likes of Osmond, David Cassidy, Bobby Sherman and many other teen idols.

But I wasn’t exactly embracing the clown I saw sandwiched between Winnie the Pooh and a bunny. I remember, as a kid, fearing clowns in parades. Not any more. Still, I wouldn’t intentionally buy a clown to display in my home.

It’s interesting how memories that have long been tucked away can suddenly resurface when triggered by a sight, a smell, a sound, a conversation. In a brief conversation with members of A Fun Lil’ Band, playing at the flea market, I shared that I never had the opportunity to play an instrument and can’t even read a musical note. The closest I came to playing music was on a toy accordion I received for Christmas one year. And, no, none of my three brothers wrecked that.

My maternal grandfather salvaged wrecked bikes from the junkyard, repairing and repainting them for me and my siblings. So when I saw several vintage bikes for sale at the flea market, I thought of Grandpa. I only wish I had realized then what a gift of love this was to us, his grandchildren. Without Grandpa fixing up those bikes, I wouldn’t have had “Sky Blue,” (yes, I named my bike) the recycled bike he painted sky blue and gave to me. My very own bike, no sharing with siblings required.

I expect other flea market shoppers found memories among the tables and tables and tables of merchandise. I also found a 13-year-old selling her homemade bracelets and earrings via her business, DazzleberryBeads. Avery started the company because she wants to buy a dog. She’s almost there. I failed to ask her what kind of dog.

But I did see, and photograph, a dog at the flea market.

I appreciate the stories shared at flea markets, the memories recalled, the art discovered, the history displayed. A flea market is about so much more than getting rid of “junk,” which really isn’t junk at all. It’s about all of us, collectively, sharing our lives.

TELL ME: Do any of the items in the photos featured here prompt memories for you? Please share your stories.

© Copyright 2025 Audrey Kletscher Helbling